Beauty in the Broken

Despite the emotional coldness with which he takes me, heat unfurls in my belly. My orgasm builds quickly. I ache to wrap my arms around his neck, to hold onto something, but my arms remained plastered at my sides, my hands gripping the edge of the desk as he lets go of my thigh to rub his fingers over my clit. The other times I paid with my body, I never came. I do now, and as the orgasm rips through me and tightens my inner muscles around his cock, I feel lonelier than all the times I didn’t come.

He follows not long after with a grunt, emptying himself inside me without kisses or caresses. The only place where our bodies are touching is where we’re joined. It’s not for long, though. The minute his release is spent, he pulls out. His shaft is pink from his semen and my blood. The mixture gushes from me, and all I can do to salvage the little that’s left of my pride is to close my legs.

Grabbing a napkin from the liquor tray, he cleans himself before tucking his cock away and adjusting his pants. A moment of silence follows as we look at each other. I wait for him to say something, but he only picks up the envelope and places it in my lap.

“Next time,” he says, “if you offer what’s mine to another man, you’ll have his death on your conscience.”

With that he walks out, leaving me in a wet puddle on his desk.

It’s only when he’s gone that I let my shoulders sag. A band of tension snaps in my chest as I allow myself to let down my guard. It takes more than a moment to pull myself together and gather enough strength to slide off his desk. My legs wobble. I swallow back tears that get stuck in an aching knot in my throat.

Following his example, I use a few napkins to clean myself. I leave them in the trashcan, too wrought out to worry about the cleaning staff’s thoughts or reactions. Forcing myself to ignore the hurt in my heart and between my legs, I face the only thing that can make it better. I face the envelope. I look at it like I couldn’t earlier. I look at it without blinking until my eyes burn. My fingers tremble when I finally reach for it. My palm is a scale of justice. I feel the weight of freedom in my hand and the price of it between my thighs. My heart throbs painfully for both ends of the scale, because there’s misery in having sold my soul, and, surprisingly, in walking away. A part of me already misses Damian, but I’m guessing it’s the girl who fell in love with the boy. I’m thankful to him in a warped way for fucking me like a man, for making it easier for me to hate him, for making it easier to leave.

My stomach flutters as I tear open the seal. Elation pumps through me as I extract the folded papers. Finally, I’ll know where my baby is. I’ll know what they did with his little body. Harold will have to tell me, but what prevents him from killing me once he has Damian’s evidence? He no longer has a motive for keeping me alive. Jack’s money is now Damian’s to manage. Before, at the event of my death, the money would’ve gone into a state trust, as Harold isn’t my next of kin in blood. Only we know the secret. Only we know I’m the product of my mother’s affair, and only she knew who my father is. She never told. Knowing Harold would kill him, she protected his identity. Harold never adopted me, but he raised me in his house. He told me the truth on my eighteenth birthday. By then, it didn’t come as a surprise. He hated me too much, never cared for me like a father, so much so he refused to put his name on my birth certificate. If I’m to die, the secret contained on my birth certificate will be known, and Harold would’ve lost control of Jack’s money. Now that there’s no money as motivation, I need a different bargaining chip. I’ll keep the originals and offer Harold a copy. That will be my ticket to safety. I know too many of Harold’s crimes. I’m too big a risk.

Holding my breath, I carefully unfold the two sheets of paper that hold my future. I scan over the text, taking in the shadow in the bottom left corner. It can’t be.

No!

Furiously, I rub my finger over the ink, willing it to smudge, but I already know it won’t.

It’s fake.

The papers I hold in my hands are copies.

Chapter 14

Damian

Lina storms into the room, her eyelashes matted with tears.