Athena's POV:
Of course he was obsessed with me. Of course he had already mapped out a way to control and own me, because I was Athena, and to men like that, "Athena" was synonymous with "pawn."
But I was no one's pawn.
I pulled my car into the parking lot of a late-night convenience shop and stared at the glowing screen of my phone. It was a graveyard of missed calls and messages from Yannick. Any normal person would have been paralyzed with panic, but I felt nothing but a hollow, ringing numbness.
Just to check the level of his rage, I began to scroll through the row of threats.
You've got five minutes to get back here and make me feel good.
Exactly five minutes later, the next one had arrived.
You fucking slut, I will break your spine if you don't get here right now.
Ten missed calls followed that one.
You better not be fucking another man, Athena. Don't mess with me.
Okay, this is it. You're dead.
I let out a heavy sigh and leaned my forehead against the steering wheel, completely drained. I wanted him out of my life more than I wanted my next breath, but he was like a bloodstain on white silk—no matter how hard I scrubbed, the shadow of him remained. Yannick was my doom, and I feared he would be until the very end.
I stepped out of the car and walked into the familiar shop, a place I had visited more than a thousand times. I pushed the door open, the bell chiming overhead, and felt a surge of relief when I saw the middle-aged woman behind the counter.
She had been laughing with a young couple at the register, but the moment her gaze met mine, her smile vanished, replaced by a look of profound sadness. I wasn't bruised or drenched in blood like I had been the first time I walked in here four years ago, but she looked at me with the same pity every single time.
As per our unspoken ritual, I slid a fifty-dollar bill across the counter. It covered whatever I needed and served as a tip to ensure she wouldn't ask a single question.
She waved the young couple off, and I felt the man turn to glance at me as they passed. I looked away.
The woman, who had introduced herself as Mary years ago, disappeared behind the shelves and returned a moment later with a small white plastic bag.
She shoved it toward me, and I took it. We never exchanged a word. I loved it that way.
****
Minutes later, I was parked in front of Parcour. I could stand in the parking lot with relative comfort because I knew Yannick would never dare approach me in public. His family had a pristine reputation to uphold, and being caught on camera with a girl like me didn't fit into that reputation. I was grateful for that though.
I turned my phone off and slipped it into my bag after transferring the contents of the plastic bag into my purse. I kept one small pill in my pocket. Taking the elevator up to my penthouse, my hand hesitated over the keypad. He was going to hurt me; I knew that much. But what choice did I have? It was either me or Marsella. Me or Ortella. I knew he followed through on his threats because he had proved it to me a dozen times over.
I pushed the door open and stepped into the dark living room. The only light came from the flickering glow of the TV, illuminating the man sitting on the couch. The light glinted off his messy black hair. He must have heard the door, because he muted the TV instantly.
"A direct answer," he growled. "Where are you coming from?"
I always gave him the truth. The one time I had lied about my location, one of my sisters had paid the price. That memory still haunted me like a waking nightmare.
"I was at the gentleman's club in Red Velnon."
Silence. This wasn't a good sign. My eyes scanned the room, noting that the dining chairs had been thrown to the floor. This man was a monster; why did he always choose my home when he needed to vent his frustrations?
Yannick stood up and began to walk toward me with a slow, predatory gait. My eyes locked onto the empty whiskey bottle gripped in his fist. My heart hammered against my ribs, and I couldn't look away from his hands as he closed the distance.
"You slut..." He raised his free hand and slapped me across the cheek so hard my head snapped back. My eyes stung with tears of pure terror. Fuck.
But then, something snapped. I raised my own hand and slapped him back with everything I had. His head tilted to the side from the force of the blow, and he stayed that way for a long beat. Then, he laughed—a cold, hollow sound—and returned his gaze to me.
"Don't you fucking hit me," I hissed, my voice trembling but sharp. I wasn't eighteen anymore. I wasn't nineteen or twenty, fuck... I wasn't weak, and the only leverage he truly had left was my sisters.
He let out a loud growl and hurled the whiskey bottle. It shattered against the wall behind me, glass shards raining down onto the floor. He lunged forward, gripping my hair tightly and yanking me toward him. Before I could breathe, he smashed his lips against mine, kissing me with a fierce, disgusting harshness.
"I... I didn't mean to hit you," I lied, pushing against him just enough to break the contact. My lips quivered, and his grip on my hair only tightened. He buried his face in the crook of my neck.
"Did another man touch what's mine, Athena?" he muttered. A violent shiver ran down my spine. I shook my head as he bit at my neck, and I felt bile rise in my throat.
"You... you're upset. Was it your father?" I asked. He always became distracted when his father was mentioned; he would spend minutes pacing and cursing the man, which usually gave me enough time to fix him a drink that would put him to sleep and slowly erode his health.
He snarled and, as expected, shoved me away. He paced a few steps, a hand on his waist. "Fucking Damon Royal," he cursed.
Despite the shivering, I was desperate to know what Damon had done to provoke this level of rage. I thought only a man like his father could get him this riled up, turns out Damon is good at it too.
"Tomorrow is the press conference," he barked, as if I were his lead analyst. "I thought it would be enough to force him to release his new work, but the bastard didn't take the bait."
I wiped my eyes and walked toward the bar. "What are you going to do now?" I asked softly, picking up a glass and filling it with his favorite vintage.
Yannick turned to face me. Shit. I still hadn't managed to drop the pill into the wine.
"No need to explain it to you. You're too stupid to understand business." He threw out his favorite line—his second favorite, right after "slut."
Of course, I was "stupid." If I weren't, I wouldn't be standing here, would I?
"You're my trump card," he continued, his eyes glazing over with ambition. "I'll prove to my father that that idiot is no match for me. I am Yannick Orion, and I will bring that man to his downfall."
I didn't know about that. Yannick was nasty—vile, really—and his businesses were buried in filth, mostly illegal. If I had to bet on who would fall first, I'd put everything I owned on Damon Royal. There was something about men you couldn't read.
It was easy to read Yannick. I used to think there were only two types of men: gentlemen or dicks. Yannick Orion was a gentleman to the public and a psychopath behind closed doors.
But Damon... I couldn't categorize him. I couldn't tell if he was being a gentleman or a dick when he helped me and then demanded a private dance in the same breath. He was unpredictable. And if there was one word in the dictionary that I truly feared, it was unpredictable.