Chapter 4: White Clover

Clover's POV:

The knocking escalated suddenly, pounding against the door like an accusation.

"Calhoun, darling, open up! It's so unfair...I came all the way here to spend my holiday with you, and you're ignoring me?" Patricia ranted, her voice rising with petulant anger as she banged harder.

Finally, mercifully, Calhoun thrust one last time and released into the condom, his body tensing against mine before he pulled out abruptly.

I collapsed onto the bed in exhaustion, panting desperately to catch my stolen breath, every muscle screaming in protest.

 My core throbbed with deep, persistent ache, a constant reminder of his brutal possession.

Guilt crashed over me in waves, heavy and suffocating.

 I wished I hadn't betrayed my stepsister like this, it wasn't fair to her, no matter how much I despised her perfection or envied her place in his life.

But the deed was done, irreversible, etched into my body and soul. 

There was no undoing it now; I was tainted, claimed in the shadows.

The sound of running water from the bathroom assured me he had no intention of opening that door, not yet, perhaps not ever while I was here.

Eventually, the knocking and rambling ceased, replaced by the faint echo of retreating footsteps fading down the corridor.

And then her words replayed in my mind: she was spending her holiday here.

 With him.

I heaved a weary sigh. 

At that moment, Calhoun emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a luxurious black robe, casually drying his damp hair with a small towel.

He looked devastatingly hot like this, relaxed yet commanding, the robe clinging to his still-heated skin. 

A secret satisfaction warmed me; finally, I could ogle him openly without fear of reprimand.

His abs were perfectly chiseled, his muscles strong and defined from years of disciplined power. 

He was a god among men, and I'd just been ravaged by him.

"You can quit staring," he teased coolly, catching my drooling gaze in the reflection.

He stood before the massive floor-to-ceiling mirror wall that dominated one side of the room, a spacious walk-in closet hidden seamlessly within it. 

I'd always wondered why anyone would choose such an extravagant, vulnerable design, breakable-proof glass or not.

It felt exposing, narcissistic.

The bed faced it directly; that's how he'd spotted my shameless admiration.

 Imagine waking every morning to your own reflection staring back..

Perhaps he was the narcissistic type, reveling in his own perfection.

"Go freshen up. It's almost time for dinner," he mentioned casually, as if he hadn't just shattered me body and soul.

I dashed from the bed with surprising speed despite my soreness, fleeing into the bathroom.

 Opting against his lavish bathtub, I stepped into the expansive shower, tapping a button to activate the rainfall setting.

Leaning my forehead against the cool, smooth tile, I let the hot water cascade over me, washing away sweat and evidence but not the marks, not the memories.

Hugging my belly tenderly, I smiled foolishly, like a child gifted her deepest wish. 

The intimate moments replayed vividly: his dominance, the pain-laced pleasure, the dark thrill of being utterly his, even if briefly.

Minutes later, I turned off the shower, grabbing a plush towel from the hanger. 

I dried gently, wincing at tender spots before wrapping it around myself and stepping out.

The bedroom was empty; assuming he'd left, I noticed the patio door ajar. Peeking out, I saw him standing there in his robe, smoking lazily, 

the evening breeze tousling his hair.

I dressed quickly in my discarded uniform, haste born of lingering vulnerability.

 Staring at my reflection in that imposing mirror wall, my expression stiffened.

This maid's gown, tea-length with a square neckline and mini sleeves, reminded me harshly of my place, an ordinary maid who was a nobody. 

Nothing special, nothing worthy of him beyond warming his bed.

I frowned deeper, tracing the vivid hickeys blooming across my neck, ears, collarbone, and arms. The outfit exposed them shamelessly, purple and red brands screaming my secret shame.

"Mr. Hanson, you've put me in a tight situation," I said softly, stepping to the patio doorway.

"These love bites-"

"-Love bites?" he interjected coldly, his tone slicing through the air like ice, taking me aback.

Was the fleeting gentleness I'd imagined all in my delusional head?

 A fabrication of my obsessed heart?

"Yes..."

"Call them whatever you see fit. I don't care," he deadpanned, puffing out an elegant cloud of smoke without turning. "You may leave my room now."

Those dry, dismissive words stabbed deeper than any thrust, twisting in my chest. I gritted my teeth, glaring at his broad, indifferent back.

Fine. If he only wanted me to warm his bed, nothing more then I could do that.

 Just that. 

I'd bury the aching love threatening to spill from my lips.

My jaw clenched, chest tightening painfully. 

Part of me yearned to confess how deeply, madly in love I was with him but I swallowed it down, mustering the courage to leave quietly, slipping from his room like the secret I now was.

Sauntering through the dimly lit corridor, my ears caught a familiar, grating voice echoing from an adjoining hallway.

Patricia.

"I asked for black coffee. Are you deaf?" she berated, her words dripping with venom.

From her sharp tone, I could tell she was in a foul mood, likely still fuming from being ignored.

As her footsteps drew nearer, turning toward my corridor, panic surged. I scanned desperately for a hiding spot.

The last thing I needed was her seeing these marks and spreading vicious rumors, destroying what little reputation I had left.

"Oh, there you are, Clover!"

A cheerful voice called from behind.

 Spinning around, I met Simon, the young butler in his thirties or twenties, always playful and kind. 

 We weren't close, but he was the only person in this cold mansion who felt like a friend.

With Patricia's heels clicking louder, I acted on pure instinct, Cupping Simon's surprised face, I pulled him close and kissed him deeply, catching him completely off guard.

My heart hammered nervously, this impulsive lie born of desperation.

"What is the meaning of this?!" Patricia sneered, her footsteps halting abruptly as she rounded the corner.

"Please play along," I whispered urgently into Simon's ear. He blinked once, subtly nodding in confused agreement.

"Pattie! You're just arriving? Welcome back," I forced a bright smile, pulling away from Simon as if caught in a lover's moment.

"Why were you two kissing...?" she demanded, eyes squinting suspiciously, scanning us both.

I stayed silent, lowering my gaze demurely, letting her imagination run wild.

If there was one thing I knew about Patricia, it was her crippling trust issues, paranoia that made her see threats everywhere.

She'd never seen me with a man, never heard of a boyfriend. 

Random hickeys would alarm her instantly, having her speculate that I was sleeping around, or worse, seducing her fiancé.

Kissing Simon was a dangerous stunt, a calculated diversion to avert catastrophe.

Her expression shifted from flabbergasted shock to scornful disdain, lips curling.

"This is new... 'White Clover' has finally been tinted."