Chapter 7

My mind ran back to Marcus.

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For six weeks, after his ‘claim’ on me, the man didn't come by, and nobody else touched me.

Hell, nobody called for me to drink with them. I lost my tips; my regulars wouldn't even look me in the eye.

After a full year, all my hard work was lost.

Then, he came, but he didn't send for me. I was livid. I stormed out of the club, screaming in the back alley, into the night air.

“You really should look into taking anger management classes,” a deep voice droned.

I spun around.

“You…you…”

“Breathe, just breathe first, then use your words,” he continued, but he wasn’t being condescending or snarky, or even rude. He was being…patient.

“What game are you playing?” I snarled. “I can't get any work because of you, I don't –”

He whipped out a credit card.

I glanced at it, then at him.

“What?” I rumbled, suspicion heavy in my tone as my brow rose.

“Money, right?”

I stared at him.

“You need money, right?” he expounded steadily, his black eyes on me like I were some unpredictable stray cat he was trying to feed with his bare hand.

“I need to work,” I growled. “I need to work to EARN money. I can't –”

“Here,” he rumbled.

“What?” I shot at him, my eyes wide, almost foaming at the mouth.

He sighed exasperatedly. He walked up to me, took my hand, and placed the card in my palm. “This is yours. For the inconveniences.”

I stared at my hand in his. His almost covered mine. Almost.

I inhaled. My eyes snapped up to his. “What's this for? You give me your credit card for what? You think you can buy –”

“I'm only –”

“Stop fucking interrupting me!” I snarled.

His partly opened mouth closed.

I stared up at him.

My body began to shake. I clutched the card in a fist and shook it under his chin. “You think you can buy me? Or what exactly is this?” I growled at him.

He gazed down calmly at me.

I hit his large, very firm chest with my fist. “Speak!” I shot at him

“You don't belong here,” he rumbled.

I blinked. My mouth fell open. He continued.

“I've had my eye on you for over six months. I've seen how you speak, how you walk, carry yourself…you’re not from this side of the tracks…you don't belong here,” he stated evenly.

“I'm going on a job soon, once I step out, that guy from last time, and his friends, will be sure to have a party with you. If they don't kill you afterward, your working here would either be over or become a waking nightmare. Take that, and get out of here,” he continued flatly.

I stared at him. My ears not believing what they were hearing.

“What…what do you mean? Why…why would you do this?” I gasped.

He stepped closer.

“I told you that day, didn't I? Or were you not listening?” the man murmured.

His eyes bore into mine, and this time, I stepped back, the card still in my hand, glancing away from those black pools that were confusing me. Confusing me, almost like how a pair of blue ones used to.

I was trembling now. Just like that day. His large frame shifted, and my eyes snapped up, my shoulders hunching, my body preparing to get slapped while my mind used my eyes to assess the situation.

He had turned, moving to head back inside.

“And that's not a credit card. It's a prepaid one. It's loaded. The code is 5679. Try to remember it,” he called over his shoulder.

My eyes widened. I glanced at the card, turned it from back to front. The number he had just called was written on it.

He was walking away. Something pulled at me. Something I had forgotten about. Something I had blocked out within myself.

“Wait!” I called after him, my voice breaking as my stomach turned from having him leave me, outside, alone. “I don't understand! Why? Why are you doing this?” I almost begged, almost showed my hidden turmoil. Something I had lost the ability to reveal.

“Don't worry, I'll come to collect your debt… Once you're able to pay,” he continued lazily, waving over his head without turning back, not stopping.

“But!” I stumbled forward, “I don't know your name,” I called out.

Don’t leave, I wanted to say.

He turned back; he smiled. “Marcus.”

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That face filled my mind's eye as I stared at the wall.

The memory of that voice warmed my soul.

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From that day, I had clawed my way back up. Won my place back at the company my family owned, a long history, generational. It was supposed to be my inheritance. The very reason I had been studying architecture in the first place.

With Marcus’ money, I had gone back to school, still in Canada; I had gotten back on that dead horse. I loved design, loved creating structure. It wasn’t just a ‘family business’ to me. I was happiest when I had my designs, my plans, in my hands.

I had even thrown in a second degree in Management for good measure.

It took another five years before I could face my father again.

By then, my mother was well, but on medication, my drug addict brother was in recovery, and Rina…it was still better not to talk about my baby sister.

Altogether, thanks to that devil Leon, I had spent seven years away from my home.

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And now, after six years of me being back, he’s trying to fuck with me? What for? Why now? Why at all? I arranged possibilities, options, and his reasons in my mind.

Martin’s update filled my head.

I picked up the phone, and sent a message to my baby sister.

Something was up, and I wasn’t going to let it slide.

Even if I didn't know Sir Sinclair was related to that son of a bitch, HE definitely knew it was me on the other end of this contract.

Bastard!

I cursed within me.

Nobody fucks around with my life, my family, or my business. Not anymore.

“Hey lovely, I’ve got something for you,” I crooned into my encrypted phone. The person on the other end giggled, my eyes danced.

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After the most distracting day I had had at the office for the first time in a long time, I walked up to the reception desk of one of the top five luxury hotels in the city and gave the desk clerk my name. The lady smiled and handed me a key.

“Your host is expecting you,” she said smartly.

I nodded at her and strode to the private elevator. The card she had given me was for Marcus’ hotel room.

I almost laughed. ‘Host’… That word rang far too many bells, and the unintentional reversal was humorous.