She hated me. And honestly, how could she not? After what I did... there was no room left for love. Not from her. Not now. Maybe not ever.
I didn't mean to scare her. God, I never meant to hurt her. I got carried away. And now all I could do was stand here, drowning in guilt. I keep replaying that moment, thinking I could've stopped. But I didn't. She had been trembling, and all I could think was—God, what have I done?
The fear in her eyes gutted me. I hadn't planned for that. I never wanted to be the reason she flinched. She was supposed to feel safe with me. I was supposed to protect her, not be the one she needed protecting from.
I wanted her to love me. But now I'd made myself impossible to love. If I could go back, I'd do it differently. I'd hold her gently. Love wasn't meant to look like this.
I told her not to push me. But I pushed back harder. Too hard. She called me a bastard. I proved her right. My hands were around her neck—not for pleasure, but out of pure, blinding rage. What kind of man does that?
I had built companies, controlled boardrooms, but I couldn't control myself. I saw her bruises every time I closed my eyes. And I put them there. I thought I was better than this.
I had never raised a hand to a woman in anger before, and the fact that I did it to her—her—was tearing me apart. The guilt sits heavy in my chest, louder than any excuse I could come up with. I didn't know how to look at her now, let alone ask for forgiveness.
I should've said nothing. I should have kept my fucking mouth shut. My hands didn't mean harm—but harm was exactly what they caused. There was no excuse. No justification.
I felt bad about what I did, but it seemed to work. For a week, she'd been well-behaved - no tantrums, eating and sleeping on time, and even reading books. She even watched TV. But now she was being too perfect, almost too quiet. I was starting to miss her old attitude.
I wanted peace, not obedience. She was playing the role too well like she decided to just endure me instead of fight me. I should have felt relieved. Instead, I felt like I'd buried something precious. What if I didn't tame her... what if I just broke her spirit? This wasn't what I wanted. Not her silence. Not her fear.
I needed to fix this. But how do you fix something when you're the one who broke it?
I found myself transfixed on the screen, watching her. I knew it was wrong to monitor her like this, but the thought of not knowing what she was doing terrified me. I told myself it was just concern, but the truth was, I couldn't stop. It was like an addiction I couldn't shake.
She had no idea how much control she had over me, how her every action dictated my mood. The more I watched, the more I needed to watch. It was a vicious cycle I couldn't break.
This wasn't love; it was possession. And yet, I couldn't let go. I used to have boundaries, but they all blurred. Now, all that mattered was her.
I fear the day she found out, the day she saw me for what I had become because of her.
She stood in front of the vanity, fresh from the shower, lost in thought, and staring blankly at her reflection. She reached for the pendant she always wore, her automatic gesture when she was deep in thought.
She leaned in, her fingers instinctively circling her neck. I zoomed in on the screen and felt a fresh wave of guilt wash over me.
I felt like a coward watching the aftermath of my own cruelty. She didn't touch the bruise. She never does. But I saw it. Faint. Fading. Still there.
Her gaze shifted away from the mirror as she reached for the hairdryer, her movements calm like she hadn't seen the bruise circling her neck.
A part of me hoped the bruise would fade fast. Not because I didn't want to see it, but because I couldn't stand the reminder of what I'd done.
I considered asking James to get her some ointment for the bruise but then thought better of it. That would be a cowardly move, trying to fix the situation without taking responsibility for my actions.
I wanted to fix it, to undo what I'd done—but sending James would've just been hiding behind convenience. She deserved more than that. I didn't deserve the chance to make it better through someone else. If I was going to fix this, it had to come from me—not a damn assistant.
A knock at the door broke my focus. I turned away from the screen and remembered that I had called for him. "Come in," I instructed, shutting down the computer.
Lucas strutted in— like he didn't just unravel my entire week. The second his cologne hit my nose, so did the memory of her flushed face and angry words. It all started with him. I didn't know whether I wanted to punch him or fire him first. Maybe both.
He was wearing a grey suit and carrying a folder. I hated how he looked annoyingly put together. If he wasn't so damn good at his job, I'd fire him in a heartbeat.
Maybe if he hadn't appeared like a magic trick in front of Ariana, she wouldn't have pushed my buttons, and I wouldn't be dealing with the aftermath.
"Mr. Fisher. Good morning," he greeted smoothly, dipping his head in a slight bow.
I could end him in three seconds flat.
He was completely unaware of the homicidal thoughts running through my mind. I nodded curtly in response, deliberately pushing aside the fleeting fantasy of rearranging his facial structure.
Ariana would want me to be patient. She wouldn't appreciate it if he suddenly vanished without a trace. As much as I wanted to make him disappear, I had to remind myself—I was doing this for her. For us.
"Take a seat, Brooks," I motioned to the sleek conference table and chairs at the far end of my office. He complied, walking over to take a seat. "Coffee?" I offered.
I could poison him with caffeine. A large dose, in theory. But the problem was, it would be hard to get him to ingest enough for it to be fatal. It was bitter, unmistakable. And worse, it tended to induce vomiting. So even if he somehow swallowed a lethal amount—purely by accident, of course—it would probably come right back up before doing any real damage.
He declined with a polite, "I'm good, thank you."
I nodded to myself, then got up to sit across from him, settling into the chair and taking a sip of my coffee. I could slam his head into the glass table until his skull fractured. Make him choke on the broken pieces. But that was not the way I wanted to handle things. For now.
The silence between us was brief, but it was long enough for Lucas to understand the purpose of our meeting. He knew I wanted an update on our financials, and I hoped he was prepared to deliver it.
He pulled out the folder and began to brief me on the latest financials. "Our Q2 results are looking good," he announced, his tone professional. "We're seeing a 10% increase compared to last six months."
I allowed myself a small nod of approval. More money in the bank was always a good thing, even if it was only the surface level of the equation. But it wasn't just about profits.
What was draining it all away?
I leaned in slightly, keeping my face neutral, but my mind was already running through the numbers. "What about expenses?" I asked, needing to know if this was actually a win or just a temporary high before the inevitable downfall.
His expression shifted, growing more cautious as he continued. "We're on track, but we did encounter some unexpected costs in the marketing department."
Unexpected costs in marketing?
That didn't sit right with me. Marketing was supposed to be controlled—predictable. If there were surprises in that department, it meant something was off. Maybe a misstep in strategy, or worse, someone wasn't paying attention.
I kept my face neutral, not wanting to tip my hand just yet. "What kind of costs?" I leaned in, my tone calm, but inside, my mind was already analyzing the potential fallout. If there was a problem here, I needed to know exactly how deep it ran.
He hesitated for a moment before responding. "It seems they overspent on their advertising campaign." I frowned immediately pissed by the oversight. But he quickly added, "But overall, our financials are strong," aiming to reassure me that the issue was minor and not a cause for alarm.
But I could feel my frustration rising as I sat there, keeping my expression neutral. A simple advertising budget, and they managed to blow it. I leaned back slightly, pushing my anger down. It wasn't the first slip-up, and it wouldn't be the last if I didn't keep a closer eye on things.
"How many more mistakes like this can I tolerate?" I gritted my teeth, forcing myself to stay calm. This should've been handled. Overspending on a campaign? "This is basic stuff. It's your job. I pay you to manage this. And now you're telling me they overspent? Isn't it your fucking responsibility to catch that?"
"I'm sorry—"
I didn't let him finish. "You think you can brush this off with 'overall strong financials'? I'm not stupid. This wasn't just a small mistake—it's a red flag. If you can't manage a simple marketing budget, how the hell are they supposed to handle bigger projects?"
"I understand your frustration and get where you're coming from. This was a one-time issue. The campaign took off faster than we anticipated, and we had to scale up quickly to meet the demand. I thought it was worth the risk, but we've addressed it. It won't happen again. The team is on track, and we're still in the green. It was an oversight, but I'll personally review the budget and ensure it's strictly adhered to moving forward. I'll also set up a meeting with the marketing team to make sure this doesn't happen again."
I took a sip of my coffee, buying myself a moment to breathe before responding. I was still pissed at him, but not just because of the overspending. Like he said, we were still in the green, but God, he was getting under my skin. I knew it was because of Ariana. But I couldn't fire him. As much as I hated to admit it, he was valuable.
I had to admit that he was exceptionally competent in his job – a.k.a. the guy who made sure I didn't bankrupt myself. He had a knack for numbers and a keen understanding of the company's financials, which was great. I couldn't just fire him.
My eyes locked onto him. "What about our investment strategy?" I asked, keeping my tone even.
He smiled, too confident for my liking. "Yes, our investments are performing well. We're seeing strong returns in the tech sector."
Impressive.
This was the part of the meeting I enjoyed. Unlike our usual sessions filled with issues and setbacks, he'd been handling things well lately, making these meetings far less painful.
"Excellent work, Brooks," I flashed him a genuine grin and extended my hand. Lucas took it, his handshake firm but brief.
"It's my job," he replied, his expression as dry as the Sahara. No smile, no nod of appreciation, just a straightforward acknowledgement. "I'll keep you updated," he added, standing up to leave as if he was worried that lingering too long might prompt me to assign him another task.
"Keep up the good work—I mean it," I said. "But do me a favour, and don't try anything like you did last week with my fiancée again." I kept my voice steady, but inside, I was seething. He needed to know there were lines you don't cross. She was not just my fiancée. She was mine, in every sense of the word, and anyone who thought otherwise was going to learn the hard way.
He froze. Good. Let that sink in. Let him feel the weight of my gaze. I let him squirm. A little fear might keep him in line. He was valuable, but not irreplaceable.
The air thickened. It took him a beat to collect himself. "I don't—"
"Don't act dumb," I cut in, my tone sharp. "You were hitting on her. Right in front of me. I noticed. I let it slide because you're valuable. That's the only reason you still have a job." I leaned back. "Have a nice day."
Without a word—either too embarrassed or quietly seething—he grabbed the folder and turned to leave. But just as he reached the door, I spoke, stopping him in his tracks.
"Oh and Lucas?" I called casually. My words were like a pause button, freezing him in place as he turned back to face me.
"Yes?" He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
"I'll make sure to send you the money to get a new suit, My fiancée was keen on getting you a new one. She's very stubborn." I took a sip from the coffee mug in my hand, my eyes never leaving his as I tried to suppress a smile.
I knew he saw right through me, knew he understood the unspoken message. I wasn't sharing, and I think I just made that crystal clear to him.
His expression remained neutral, His gaze lingering on mine, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of disappointment wash over his face.
Aww.
Did he really believe I would let her slip through my fingers like that? Over my dead body. Her being around him for even a second was too much. I'd be damned if I let it happen again. The idea of him touching her, even accidentally, makes my blood boil. I was not sharing her with anyone. Not even him. Especially not him. I'd shut that little fantasy of his down before it even gets started.
He should focus on doing his job, not wasting his time pining after my fiancée. She wasn't going to be visiting him anytime soon, and he needed to get that through his head. The sooner he forgot about Aria, the better off we'd be.
For a moment, it seemed like Lucas was going to say something. But all that came out was a curt "Thank you,". The sound was like a crack in the facade, revealing the longing that lay beneath.
He turned, and walked out of my office, with the door closing silently behind him. I strolled over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, to stare at the city skyline. With one hand tucked into my pocket and the other cradling my mug.
What did she ever see in him, anyway? He was competent, sure, but I was convinced that he was too boring. What was it with women and their infatuation with nice, boring guys?
If she only knew how much she deserved, she'd never look at him again. She deserved someone who understood her, not... Lucas. I don't care how charming Lucas thought he was. She didn't need him—she needed me.
Ariana had terrible taste in men.