The Contract That Put Me in His Father's Bed

Emily's POV "Are you insane?" His voice hissed against my ear, hot and irritated at the same time.Marcus's fingers dug into my waist forcefully, pulling me into the dark corner of the service hallway. The smell of the whiskey I had been drinking mixed with his expensive cologne, the one I had chosen myself on the last trip to Paris."I'm not insane, Marcus. I know what I saw."I tried to push him away, but he pressed me against the cold wall, one hand moving up to my chin, forcing me to look into his eyes."Shut up." He ordered, and before I could respond, his lips sealed mine.It was a hard kiss, possessive. The kind of kiss that used to make me melt. Now? Now it only made me disgusted with myself for still trembling when he touched me.When he pulled back and fixed my glasses, his gaze remained cold."Don't throw a tantrum, Emily. Not here. Not today.""Tantrum?" My voice came out shakier than I wanted. "You disappeared for two hours last night. Came back with that on your neck an

Emily's POVHis hand remained firm on my waist, preventing me from sinking completely into the mud.The rain streamed down my face, my hair, the dress that now felt as heavy as lead on my body. But I couldn't look away from his eyes. Dark. Intense. As if he could read inside me just by staring.Another thunderclap burst in the sky, and for a second a flash of lightning illuminated his face.I saw.He wasn't young. He didn't have the smooth skin and delicate features of the boys who appeared at high society parties. He looked to be in his mid-forties, maybe fifty.His dark hair had silver threads at the temples, his face was marked, handsome in a way that wasn't trying to be handsome. It was the kind of face that came from years of life, of decisions, perhaps of regrets.He seemed to be about my father's age.But he wasn't my father. My father would never have held a stranger in the rain with that strength, that certainty."Girl." His voice came out deep, rough, almost lost in the nois

Emily's POV The open suitcase on the bed seemed like a reflection of the state of my mind. Crumpled clothes, shoes thrown in haphazardly, the camera case tossed in a corner.I shoved everything in without looking, without folding, without thinking. I just needed to leave that country. That place. That room."Emily?"Nathalie's voice came from the door. I didn't turn around."You disappeared all night." She entered slowly, her steps muffled on the carpet. "I called. I sent messages. Where were you?""Nowhere."Nathalie approached, her eyes scanning the chaos of the suitcase, the dress I had hung on the chair, the same dress from the previous night, now clean, dry, as if nothing had happened."Emily." Her voice grew softer. "What happened? You seem different.""I don't want to talk about it."I kept throwing clothes into the suitcase. A blouse. A pair of pants. The toiletry bag. Order didn't matter. Nothing mattered."You can't leave now." Nathalie said."Yes, I can.""Emily." She gra

Emily's POVThe silence after Arthur's "no" was more deafening than any scream.Vivienne dropped her glass. The red wine spread across the white tablecloth like blood. Claire sat with her mouth half-open, her fork suspended in the air. Marcus turned red, a color that rose from his neck to the roots of his blond hair.I wasn't breathing.Arthur didn't move. He remained seated, his fingers still resting on the table where they had stopped tapping. His expression was calm. Controlled. But his eyes... his eyes were on me.And that said everything."What do you mean 'no,' father?"Marcus stood up violently. The chair scraped against the wooden floor. He was trembling with rage, his hands clenched into fists."Since when do you care who I marry?"Arthur didn't rush to answer. He picked up his napkin, slowly wiped his lips, folded it carefully, and placed it beside his plate. Every movement was a demonstration of control. As if he were showing his son what it meant to have cold blood."Since

Emily's POVHe waited.One second. Two. Three.Marcus's chest rose and fell as if he'd run a marathon. His blue eyes were glazed, red, desperate, fixed on mine.Waiting for an answer that wouldn't come."Emily," he whispered. His voice broke in the middle of my name. "Please. Just tell me. Just tell me the truth."If only he knew.The truth was less than two meters away, inside my bag, inside a white envelope. A photo. Proof. A bomb.I could grab it. Throw it in his face. Say: *"This. Your father. I slept with your father."*But I didn't.I just looked away.The movement was small. Almost imperceptible. But Marcus saw. He saw everything.His hands fell from my shoulders. His arms hung uselessly at his sides. The anger vanished from his face, leaving only an empty hole in its place."Sorry," he said.It wasn't an apology. It was an abandonment. He wasn't asking for forgiveness. He was giving up."Marcus...""No." He raised a hand. The gesture was tired, heavy. "You don't have to say an