Bitter Heat

by Mia Knight

  His eyes moved over her face before he said, “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “I-I won’t have money for college.”

  “Drop out. Be a writer.”

  “No. I’m so close to getting my degree.” She bit her lower lip. “Maybe… maybe I can get a job and do school…”

  “I’ll pay for it.”

  “You can’t do that!”

  “And the apartment.”

  “Roth—”

  He kissed her. “Say yes.”

  “But …”

  “Say it.”

  Her face was streaming with tears as she smiled. “Yes.”

  “Your father will come around,” he said as he kissed her and backed her toward the bed. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything.”

  Chapter 18

  Jasmine opened her eyes with Roth’s assurance echoing in her ears. Even as she lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, she could feel his hands moving over her. He consummated their engagement by fucking her until she screamed. Even as she indulged in the graphic memories she couldn’t forget, her inner critic began to point out all the things she had overlooked. He hadn’t given a clear reason for wanting to marry her. He had proposed (sort of) and she had agreed. She had been so desperate for love that she took a chance on him and jumped. Stupid girl. She had uttered the L word many times over the two years they were married. He never had. Roth assumed Maximus would come around. He hadn’t, so he considered giving her up because she was bad for business.

  She rolled out of bed, walked into the bathroom, and splashed water on her face. The best thing that came from her relationship with Roth was her writing career. He had encouraged her to invest in her dream instead of going into the business world to get pummeled and constantly sabotaged by her father. Roth paid the bills while she wrote the Thalia Crane books that later helped her build a life without him. Writing helped her cope with her demons, gave her purpose, and a community of people who gave her the support she never had in real life. And she couldn’t let them down now. Her personal life might be in ruins, but she still had her writing.

  She trudged into the dark kitchen and started the coffeemaker she had requested. Once she had a steaming cup with just the right amount of creamer, she perched on the window seat with a notebook balanced on her knee. Her mind was a stress ball of anxieties. As the sun rose, she listed every fear plaguing her. It went on for pages, but once she had it on paper, the sharp tip of the imaginary knife pressed against her throat disappeared.

  Roth made her feel trapped, vulnerable, needy… He made her feel like that insecure college girl again, and she hated him for it. She owned her own business and had more money than she could spend in this lifetime, but she still couldn’t win in a fight against him.

  A seething mass of grief, fury, and lust pulsed inside her. Her father’s passing combined with Roth’s relentless siege back into her life was taking its toll. On top of that were professional worries. Everyone was waiting for book five. The brief burst of inspiration had long since lost its shine, and she was adrift again. She had to bring the story to a solid and satisfying conclusion. Everyone expected the story to be epic. What did that mean? Between both pen names, she had almost twenty books under her belt, yet she still didn’t know why some books hit, and others didn’t. Thousands of messages poured in, giving her advice on how her story should end. Before her success, it was just her and the characters. Now there were tens of thousands of people who all wanted something different. She couldn’t write for them; she had to write for herself. She watched many authors crack under pressure, and she was feeling it now. The knowledge that Sarai, Roth, and even her sisters would read the book paralyzed her. She tried to tell herself they were just words. Her job wasn’t rocket science, but still… They weren’t just words, just as music wasn’t just noise. Stories were meant to transport people to a different world and make them feel. To accomplish that feat, every word and paragraph had to be laid down with purpose, precision, and care.

  She left the window seat, refilled her cup, and booted up her laptop. She put her hands on the keys, closed her eyes, and took a deep, calming breath. There was a direct connection between her emotional state and her writing. Whatever she was feeling, whatever was going on in her real life affected the actions/decisions/thought processes of the characters. The reason the Thalia Crane books had been so successful was because there was no filter between her and the character. They were one and the same. Readers could feel her pain and related to her struggles. The readers were rooting for her. She thought she had moved on with a bang (well, many bangs), but life had thrown her a curveball and she didn’t know how to pivot and get her mind back in the game. Her past was right in her fucking face, forcing her to realize that she hadn’t overcome it, she had avoided it. How could she give her character the closure she needed when she was back at the beginning?

  She stared at the blinking cursor. She had nothing to offer the book right now but her own heartache and confusion. It would have to do. Life wasn’t an upwards trajectory. There were ups, downs, and long plateaus. There was only one way to write the book, and it was going to fucking hurt.

  People thought writing was fun. Sometimes, it was. But the books that moved a reader emotionally were the ones where a writer sewed pieces of their soul into their work and dripped their blood on the page to give the characters life. Great writers sliced open their scars, sifted through their pain, and transcribed it on paper for the world to read and judge. Her job was to blend fact and fiction so seamlessly, no one could tell one from the other. It was brutal, draining work, but if done right, it could heal others and give them hope.

  Her fingers tapped on the keys. The fucker was back. She bit her bottom lip and then shut off the judgmental voice in the back of her mind and continued. The years in between turned him into a stranger.

  As the sun rose and filled the kitchen with light, silver flecks in the quartz countertops shimmered around her laptop. She chose to believe they were magical sparkles, and she was being anointed for a great writing day. Words filled the screen, not in a steady stream, but in choppy spurts as she grappled with the story. Things she didn’t allow herself to dwell on in real life filtered into the heroine. She gave herself up to the characters to let them mold her as they would. Hours passed. She took a break and decided to order food. She took some notes, checked social media, and then lost two hours talking to fans and thanking them for their well wishes. She reassured them she was working as she munched on a salad and side of fries. Having her heroine kick Roth’s ass on the page was therapeutic and raised her dragging spirits. In the story, the heroine gave him the middle finger as she drove away, leaving him stranded. God, if she could have done that in Colorado, that would have been the best thing ever. It didn’t matter that he fucked like a god or that she liked his craggy face or even his facade of calm that vanished if she provoked him. He was such a bully.

  Now what?

  She tried a few scenarios, none of which panned out. Her fingers fell on an empty plate. She had finished all the fries, so she picked up the fork and stabbed a crouton. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her phone light up. She didn’t get up to see who was calling. She returned her attention back to the screen and read over what she wrote. She changed some things and jumped around, prodding ideas to see if they had any life. More hours passed. She paced, checked her email, and delved once more onto social media, reposting hilarious memes before she hopped off again. She tugged on a story thread, following the path before she slammed into a wall. Her fingers stopped their tap dance over the keys.

  A man stood by the lake. As she approached, he turned. Her father didn’t smile. He couldn’t anymore, but he held his hand out to her in invitation.

  “Come, daughter, tell me a story.”

  She retracted her hands. They dropped like lead weights onto her lap. The fantasy world fell away, leaving her with no protection from the pain. Maximus hadn’t been a perfect father or even an admirable o
ne, but he was hers. She fanned her face as the tears came and when that did nothing, she went to the large double sink and splashed her face with cold water. She braced her hands on the counter as she tried to control her roiling emotions, but writing had opened the floodgates, allowing grief to take over.

  She sagged to the floor and put her hands over her face as she sobbed. She could still hear the heart machine, smell the sterile scent of his hospital room, and feel his hand growing cold in hers. She rocked, trying to soothe herself, but knew it would do no good. Guilt savaged her insides. His voice whispered in her ears, which made her cry harder. She had her ups and downs with her father, but he was the only parent she’d ever known, and in the end, he was there when she needed him most. Their time together was a gift, but it had been too brief.

  When the storm had passed, she forced herself up and hobbled out of the kitchen. She stole a duvet from one of the bedrooms and dragged it into the living room. She lay on the couch facing the windows and let out a shaky sigh. At this height, no buildings obstructed her view. She was a part of the endless blue. She could be anywhere in the world. No one would believe she was in the heart of the city. She buried her face in the pillow as another wave of sorrow crept up on her. She cried until her eyes were swollen shut and she was limp.

  When she was disowned, it hurt, but it was nothing compared to this. Not talking to her sisters and father wasn’t an impossible feat because they didn’t have a relationship, but now… Now, she knew what she was missing—support, guidance, love… It was all gone, just like that. Losing Maximus was a cruel blow that knocked her to her knees. The Thalia Crane series was intrinsically intertwined with her life, which meant she would have to relive her father’s death on the page. The readers would think it was a cruel plot twist, but it was just life. Her father was a fan favorite with all of his flaws proudly on display. The readers would mourn him with her. Maximus had been an extreme father, but what did one expect from a man who had been raised to excel at everything he did? He wanted what was best for her and assumed that he knew what that was. Maybe he did. Maybe marrying Ford would have led her down a much more contented path. She wouldn’t be a writer, but maybe she would have found joy in her children or some other hobby. Who knew?

  The sky turned to gold as the sun began to set. Drawn to the beauty, she left her position on the couch and curled up on the window seat and watched the clouds creep in, concealing the city below. If she could get through this window, she would fall right into heaven… She splayed her hand on the glass, wanting to be a part of something stunning and tranquil instead of being herself. She preferred to be in an alternate universe because she didn’t fit in the one she had been born into. Roth was the one person who made living in the now worth it, and he had damaged her so badly that a part of her was still trying to piece herself back together. For a short time, she’d had her father, and now she was back to being alone.

  Her hand dropped from the window. A tear slipped out of the corner of her eye as she rested her head on her arm and tucked herself as close to the glass as possible. She closed her eyes and imagined the soft brush of central air were clouds caressing her face.

  The ding of the elevator interrupted her snooze. It was dark now, and as the lights came on, the window reflection showed a large figure entering the penthouse. Roth was back. She willed him to go to his office or the bedroom, but he came straight toward her. She closed her eyes and tried to even out her breathing. He brushed the duvet down.

  “Jasmine.”

  The sound of his soft murmur nearly broke her. To cover the fresh burn of tears, she made a grunting noise and pressed herself against the glass to hide her face. He wasn’t having it. He gripped her shoulder and pulled, so she rolled into his arms. She kept her eyes closed as he picked her up with the duvet still wrapped around her. Leave me alone, she chanted in her head. She had turned to him in Colorado, but she would never do so again. She wouldn’t give him the opportunity to fling her pain back in her face when he felt like it. No matter how considerate he appeared at times, it was only skin deep. He didn’t really feel anything for her. It was a painful lesson she had finally learned.

  He settled her on the couch and hovered over her. What the hell was he looking for? Her breath stuttered when he brushed his finger against her damp eyelash. What the fuck? She felt a whoosh of air as he walked away. She relaxed and tried to think of what to do when she heard his footsteps coming back. She jostled when he sat beside her. She heard a familiar whirring sound as his laptop booted.

  “Yeah?”

  When she jerked, his hand rested on her hair.

  “Yeah,” he said again.

  Oh, he was on the phone. The person on the other end sounded like Mickey Mouse. His hand disappeared as he typed and then returned to play with her tangled hair.

  “Mm. Get back to me.”

  She heard a thump as he set the phone on the table. That was how he ended his calls? She played dead as she felt his eyes skim over her. Ten seconds later, she heard him tapping keys.

  His presence diluted the pain, and thoughts of her father began to dissipate as her mind focused on the rhythm of his typing. She didn’t know how to get out of this. If she opened her eyes, he’d see how swollen and bloodshot they were. There would be no hiding the fact that she had a crying fest. Her thoughts drifted as he worked, taking two more phone calls and giving one-word answers. She wasn’t sure if that was how he normally talked or if he was trying to be considerate. Between phone calls, he worked on his laptop and occasionally stroked her hair.

  When she calculated that thirty minutes had passed, she fake-stirred. Instantly, the typing stopped.

  “Jasmine?”

  She shifted the duvet to cover her face. “You’re back.”

  Once more, his hand landed on her hair. “A little while ago.”

  She pulled away and sat up with her face turned away from him. “I’m going to shower.”

  Before she could stand, she was dragged onto his lap.

  “Let me go, Roth,” she said and kept her eyes closed.

  He clasped her face. “Look at me.”

  She ducked her head as her eyes burned. “Why?”

  He forced her face around. She reached out blindly to push him away.

  “You had a hard day,” he murmured.

  With all the attention he had paid her, she had begun to suspect he knew, but the confirmation made her swallow hard.

  “How?” she whispered.

  “Security cameras.”

  “Johan and Mo watch me?”

  “No.”

  Her eyes opened. She stared at him as a tear trickled down her cheek. “You watch me?”

  He regarded her for a moment before he brushed away her tear. “It’s the only way I can find out what’s going on with you. You won’t take my calls.”

  She tried to slip off his lap, but his hands gripped her hips, keeping her in place. She looked away from those probing eyes and saw his laptop on the side table.

  “You really loved him, didn’t you?”

  Another tear slipped down her cheek. “Yes.”

  “He hurt you.”

  “I forgave him for that.”

  “And he acknowledged you as his own by giving you your inheritance,” he said quietly.

  Her mouth trembled, and she looked down as more tears cascaded down her cheeks. “I’d give it all up for one more day—no, I need at least a month. I needed more time…” She shook her head and swiped at her eyes. “He left letters for Colette and Ariana. I would rather have a goodbye than the money he left. I don’t understand.”

  “No one understood that man.”

  She stiffened and dropped her hand to glare at him. “He changed, unlike you! You’re still an ass. You buy a controlling share in Hennessy & Co and then blackmail me—”

  His hand slid into her hair and gripped a moment before his mouth landed on hers. She tried to pull away, but he held her still as he ravished her. She wrapped her hand in
his suit and twisted it as more tears leaked from her eyes. He gentled the kiss and ran his hand up and down her back before he pulled away. She buried her face on his shoulder as her breath hitched.

  “I’m not sorry for blackmailing you because I have you where I want you.”

  “I can’t do this,” she said hoarsely.

  “You can,” he said as he lifted her.

  He walked somewhere, but she didn’t care where. When he set her down, she opened her eyes and found they were in the shower. When he reached for her top, she gave his hand a weak smack, which he ignored. He undressed her and then himself and pushed her under the spray. She hung her head as the warm water washed away her tears. Roth squeezed shampoo into his palm and massaged her aching scalp. She braced her hand on his stomach and felt the muscles bunch beneath her fingers. He was aroused but not acting on it. She watched him from beneath lowered lashes as he lathered up a cloth and began to wipe her down like a car. She pursed her lips to stop them from curving. He was such a guy. He cleaned her the way he did everything—thoroughly. He lifted her breasts to slide the cloth beneath and grabbed her hand and cleaned each finger individually. He continued down her body but paused when he reached her pussy.

  “Here,” she said and held out her hand for the washcloth.

  “I got it,” he growled. “Spread.”

  More out of curiosity than anything else, she did as she was told. He had never bathed her, not even in the honeymoon phase of their relationship. Watching her breakdown today must have made an impact on him.

  She expected him to seduce her, but he remained all business even though his jaw was locked. He seemed almost relieved to move onto the rest of her body. She had to brace a hand on his back as he bent over and cleaned the bottom of her feet like horse hooves. She was sad, incredulous, and amused. When he straightened, he pushed her beneath the water again and ran his hands over her to make sure she rinsed off well, even spreading her ass and thighs.