What Grows Dies Here

“Okay, I can be a little later,” I conceded, moving my hand down with the intention of undoing his pants.

His hand caught my wrist. “No, you can’t. This entire event is honoring you and your charity’s work in the East Sudan.”

I blinked up at him. The tuxedo made sense.

I hadn’t told anyone about this event. I purposefully hadn’t told anyone about this event. The only reason I was even going was because I couldn’t stop them from holding it, and I would seem like a rude asshole if I didn’t turn up. Especially since the event in question was five thousand dollars a plate, and all of the proceeds were going to the charity.

Karson knew about this because he was Karson.

“Having me surveilled is a gross invasion of my privacy, and it’s pissing me off. You need to stop,” I snarled.

“I’m not having you surveilled,” Karson countered. “I’m merely making it my business to know everything about your life.”

I scowled at him. “You’re not coming.”

“Want to fight me on that?” he challenged.

I did want to fight him on that. But the steely determination in his eyes told me I would likely lose.

“Why do you want to come?” I demanded instead.

“Because you’re my woman,” he said simply.

“I’m not your woman,” I argued.

“Your name is on my chest.”

I tilted my head upward, scrambling for the anger that I’d felt when I saw that script. But now, with distance, I could understand it wasn’t anger I’d felt, it was fear. “Against my will,” I pointed out.

“Why aren’t your girls coming?” he asked instead of launching into another fight about the tattoo that would last hours. It would only last hours because at some point, we would start having sex. Then I would see my name inked on his chest, and despite everything I’d said, I would get turned on and proceed to act like a wild animal.

So it was good he was changing the subject, but not so good considering the new subject.

“Those women are your soulmates. Don’t think I don’t see that,” he murmured. “Don’t understand that. You’re there for them through every moment. But you haven’t told them about this. A big fuckin’ moment in your life.”

He wasn’t going to let this go. That was not Karson’s style.

I let out a long sigh, stepping from his gaze to find the purse I needed for this outfit, and because I needed some distance.

“This is not a big moment in my life,” I contended, finding the white clutch and shoving lip gloss and my phone into it. “This is me getting an award for being born rich. Everything I did for that charity was done with money I did not earn.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, taking a long breath.

“There was no talent involved,” I explained on my exhale. “I’ve got friends who dress first ladies. Who fight human traffickers. Who started their own million dollar PR firm. Those are big things. Me getting an award for doing something every rich person should do is not a moment.” I was pacing now, my voice getting louder as I heard how it all sounded.

Karson stopped me from pacing by stalking forward and grabbing my hips with a grip that bordered on pain. His eyes were stormy.

“Rich assholes give money for the tax break,” he informed me in a clipped tone. “Without a second fucking thought. They do not travel to a war-torn country in the middle of a violent clash for power in order to help build a facility for young women.”

His eyes burned into me, and his grip didn’t loosen.

“They do not stay there, without any fucking personal security, for three months, working quietly with those young women and local governments to give them access to birth control. Medications,” he listed all of the details with certainty of the facts.

“They hire mercenaries, but not to protect themselves, to escort girls to and from school to ensure their safety.” I suppressed a whimper as he gripped me tighter. “They do not then travel to Lao Cai in Vietnam, where their grandparents came from, where women have the highest rates of illiteracy and human rights violations, and do the same thing there.”

I stared at him. “How do you know all of that?” I asked, my voice barely audible.

No one knew any of that. There were no photos. No virtue signaling social media posts. No one did anything because it was the right thing to do anymore, they did it for the social clout. It was all too sickening. If anyone knew what I was doing, they’d think I was just another rich girl trying to get attention.