Bargaining with the Boss (Honeybrook Love, Inc. 2)

"No, what you do with Brooks is your business. What you do with Dominic is mine."

"What I do with Dominic?" She choked on his name. It still burned in her mouth, leaving a salty, bitter after taste.

"Yes. You have to tell the police. Everything."

"We've been over this—"

"No, you've been over this. You ignored me, and now look where we are. He threatened you, and if Brooks hadn't been there, it might have been even worse."

"You're asking too much." She swallowed hard.

How many times had she imagined marching into the police station and telling them everything? Showing them her journal and her hospital records?

Probably, she guessed, as many times as she'd imagined herself on the witness stand, testifying to a courtroom full of cameramen everything that Dominic had done to her.

What would they think of her?

Weak.

They'd think she was weak for staying and cowardly for not saying a word. They'd blame her for leaving him out there—or worse, they'd blame her for the things he'd done.

But it hadn't been her fault. He was damaged, broken.

Franco had been in his life, too, and he wasn't like that. Had never raised a hand to a woman.

"Natalie." Franco broke through her thoughts again, but she shook her head slowly.

Instead of headlines about Franco or Brooks, they'd all be about her.

Billionaire Ex Testifies!

Gold digger or Vengeful Ex?

Vegas Cocktail Waitress Turned Billionaire Plaything!

She couldn't do that. Couldn't handle the spotlight or the judgment. And she couldn't do that to Brooks, either.

What would happen to him if she spoke up?

"What would happen to your mother? And to the family?"

"Who cares? What else could they possibly need? They have everything, and you're willing to give up your safety for them? I understand love, but you need to be reasonable." Franco insisted.

"I'm being reasonable. It was so long ago, nobody would believe me. They'd think I wanted money. They'd think—"

"Who cares? Who cares what they think? Think about yourself."

"I am!" The cry broke from her lips before she could suppress it, and then she was babbling, trying to explain herself through a rush of tears she didn't know she'd been holding back. "I can't talk about it. The things that happened to me...I told Brooks some, but not all, and even now I feel empty. Like someone tore a hole in the middle of my body and it burns whether air fills my lungs. I can't put myself through it again. I can't be around him for a trial. I can't--I won't—I—" She hiccupped, then fell into a puddle in the seat.

There was no explaining to him what it felt like. A man couldn't understand what it was to be a woman in that situation—frightened and alone and helpless. Not by her own making, and not with her consent.

It was like the carpet hadn't been yanked out from under her, but had been gently pulled away, and when the cement beneath it was exposed, she made herself believe there never had been carpet in the first place.

Franco drove her home, soothing her occasionally, but leaving her with her thoughts for the majority of the trip. When they pulled into her driveway, he asked, "What are you going to do about Brooks?"

A good question.

And one she now had no choice in.