The slap echoed through the room like a gunshot.
Alexander’s head snapped to the side.
He sat there, frozen, his cheek reddening where Kelvin’s palm had struck him.
His eyes were wide, his mouth slightly open—for the first time since Kelvin had met him, Alexander Morrowgate looked completely and utterly speechless.
“Don’t you ‘ever’ call me a gold digger again,” Kelvin snarled, his voice shaking with rage.
He scrambled off Alexander’s lap, putting distance between them.
“I didn’t sign up for this because I wanted to leech off your money.
I signed up because the job advertisement was sent to my email as a ‘genuine job offer.’ I didn’t come crawling to you begging for a handout.
I applied for a position, and you hired me.” He was breathing hard, his chest heaving, his hands trembling.
“I am ‘working’ for this money, Alexander.
I’m not leaching off you.
I’m ‘earning’ every single penny.
So don’t you dare reduce me to some desperate little gold digger who’s just here for a free ride.” He turned on his heel and stormed toward the door, his bare feet slapping against the cold floor.
He didn’t look back.
He couldn’t.
If he looked back and saw Alexander’s expression, he might break down completely.
He yanked the door open and marched out into the hallway, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might explode.
****** Alexander sat on the edge of the bed, frozen, his hand slowly rising to touch his stinging cheek.
He had been slapped.
He, Alexander Morrowgate, CEO of Morrowgate Industries, one of the most powerful men in the city, had been slapped by his own Fiancée.
Fake or not.
He had been slapped.
He should be furious.
He should be calling security, having Kelly arrested, tearing up the contract and throwing her out on the street.
But instead…
Instead, he found himself smiling.
It was a small smile at first, barely a twitch of his lips.
But it grew, spreading across his face until he was actually chuckling to himself in the empty room.
“Well, well,” he murmured, shaking his head.
“There’s fire in you after all.” He had expected Kelly to be meek.
Submissive.
A puppet he could dress up and parade around whenever the occasion demanded.
That was what he had wanted—what he had paid for.
A pretty, silent ornament who would smile, wave, and keep her mouth shut.
But this?
This was something else entirely.
Alexander touched his cheek again, the skin still tingling from the impact.
No one had dared to raise a hand to him in years.
Decades, perhaps.
His father had tried once, when Alexander was seventeen and had talked back at a family dinner.
Alexander had caught his wrist mid-swing and held it until his father’s face turned purple.
But this girl—this strange, bruised, defiant girl—had just slapped him across the face and stormed out of his room like she owned the place.
And he wasn’t angry.
He was ‘intrigued.’ “Interesting,” Alexander said to the empty room, his smile widening.
“Very interesting.” He stood up, walking toward the window, his hands clasped behind his back.
The city sprawled below him, a sea of lights and shadows, but he barely saw it.
His mind was elsewhere, replaying the fire in Kelly’s eyes, the tremor in her voice, the way she had stood her ground even though she must have known he could destroy her with a single phone call.
“A gold digger,” he repeated to himself, tasting the words.
“She slapped me for calling her a gold digger.” He chuckled again, shaking his head.
“You’re going to be fun, Kelly.
I’m going to enjoy teaching you how to be the perfect, obedient fiancée.” ***** Meanwhile, in the west wing, Kelvin was having a complete meltdown.
He had somehow managed to find his way back to his assigned room—a miracle, considering the mansion was a labyrinth of identical hallways and doors.
He had stumbled inside, slammed the door shut, and locked it with trembling fingers.
Then he had pressed his back against the door, slid down to the floor, and buried his face in his hands.
“What have I done?
What have I done?
What have I done?” He had slapped Alexander Morrowgate.
‘Alexander…
Fucken…
Morrowgate!’ The man who could crush him like a bug.
The man who had already threatened to have him arrested for ’embarrassing him.’ And Kelvin had responded by physically assaulting him.
“I’m dead,” Kelvin whispered, his voice hollow.
“I’m so dead.
He’s going to fire me.
He’s going to have me arrested.
Gabriella is going to die because I couldn’t keep my stupid temper in check.” He bit his knuckles, hard enough to leave teeth marks, as if the pain could ground him.
His whole body was shaking—from adrenaline, from fear, from the lingering effects of the whiskey still swimming in his veins.
He waited.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Every creak of the house, every distant footstep, made him flinch, expecting the door to explode inward and security guards to drag him out in handcuffs.
But nothing happened.
No footsteps approached his door.
No one knocked.
No one shouted.
The house was silent.
Kelvin slowly, cautiously, pushed himself to his feet.
He crept to the door and pressed his ear against it, listening.
Nothing.
He peered through the keyhole.
Empty hallway.
He let out a shaky breath.
‘Maybe he’s not coming.
Maybe he’s waiting until tomorrow to destroy me.’ Then his phone buzzed.
Kelvin nearly jumped out of his skin.
He fumbled for his phone, his heart racing, and looked at the screen.
‘Unknown Number.’ His blood ran cold.
He opened the message with trembling fingers.
[Unknown: You were careless today.
Very careless.
You almost got caught by both Alexander and King Morrowgate.
Do not let your guard down again, or you won’t be so lucky next time.] Kelvin’s breath caught in his throat.
He stared at the message, his mind reeling.
‘Who is this?
How do they always know what’s happening?
Were they watching my every move?’ He typed back frantically: [Kelvin: Who are you?
How do you know about today?] He waited.
Seconds ticked by.
A minute.
Two.
No reply.
[Kelvin: Please.
Tell me who you are.
Why are you helping me?] Still nothing.
Kelvin typed one last message, his fingers shaking.
[Kelvin: At least tell me what you want from me.] The message was delivered.
Read.
But no reply came.
Kelvin cursed under his breath, throwing his phone onto the bed in frustration.
‘Who the hell is this person?
Why are they watching me?
Are they really a friend like they claimed or an enemy in waiting?’ He didn’t have answers.
He only had more questions, piling up like stones on his chest.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus on the present, on the things he could control.
He couldn’t solve the mystery of the unknown number tonight.
But he could take care of himself.
Slowly, painfully, Kelvin reached behind his back and fumbled with the zipper of his dress.
The fabric fell away, pooling around his feet.
He stepped out of it, kicking it aside, and stood in the middle of the room in nothing but his chest bindings that made him appear like he had boobs and then his underwear.
He walked to the mirror, his bare feet cold against the polished floor, and forced himself to look.
The reflection that stared back at him was a wreck.
His face was a patchwork of purple and blue bruises, the skin around his left eye swollen and discolored.
A cut ran along his eyebrow, crusted with dried blood.
His lip was split, the corner of his mouth stained red.
The bindings around his chest were tight, compressing his ribs, but he could still see the mottled bruises spreading across his torso where Marcus’s boots had connected with his ribs.
He looked like he had been hit by a car.
“I look like death warmed over,” Kelvin muttered, turning to examine the bruises on his back.
They were worse—angry purple welts from where Marcus had shoved him against the wall.
He cursed under his breath, the words venomous.
“Marcus, you absolute bastard.
I hope you get hit by a truck.
I hope a piano falls on your head.
I hope you step on a Lego every single day for the rest of your miserable life.” He prodded his ribs gently, wincing.
Nothing felt broken, but everything hurt.
He needed a warm bath.
Something to soothe his aching muscles and hopefully reduce some of the swelling.
He was turning toward the bathroom when his phone rang.
The sound rippled through the room making Kelvin jump.
He grabbed the phone, his heart hammering, and looked at the screen.
‘Marcus.’ The name made his stomach twist in fear.
‘No.
No, no, no.
He promised.
He promised he wouldn’t come after Gabriella if I paid him in four days.
Did he change his mind?
Is he going after her tonight?’ To be continued…