The morning light was a cruel, blinding invasion. Myra groaned, her skull feeling as though it had been split open by a dull axe. The taste of juniper and copper sat heavy on her tongue—the unmistakable calling card of a massive hangover.
As the world slowly stopped spinning, she realized she wasn't in the guest room. She was enveloped in the scent of cedarwood and cold ash. She was in his bed.
She sat up abruptly, a wave of nausea rolling through her. The sheets felt cold against her bare skin; she was wearing nothing but one of Reyansh's oversized black t-shirts. Her eyes darted to the floor, and her heart stopped.
Her white silk dress lay in a sodden, crumpled heap near the bathroom door. It was translucent, stained with water and grime, looking like a discarded skin. Memories flashed in jagged, broken shards: a car ride, the smell of rain, a biting cold, and the feeling of hands—his hands—on her.
"Finally awake."
The voice was like a whip. Myra snapped her head toward the corner of the room. Reyansh was sitting in a leather armchair, fully dressed in a pristine white shirt and vest. He looked perfectly composed, except for the dark, purplish bite mark on the side of his neck that even his collar couldn't hide. He was staring at her with a look of absolute, chilling contempt.
"What happened?" Myra's voice was a hoarse whisper. She clutched the duvet to her chest. "Why am I in your bed? Why is my dress on the floor like that?"
Reyansh stood up, his movements slow and predatory. He walked toward the bed, stopping just a few feet away. "You don't remember? The way you crawled into my lap while I was driving? The way you begged me to 'use' you because you were tired of being a stranger?"
Myra's face burned with a mixture of shame and rising irritation. "I was drunk! I wasn't in my right mind!"
"Clearly," he spat. He leaned down, his eyes boring into hers. "You made quite a scene in the shower, Myra. You were practically clawing at me. You wanted to prove a point, didn't you? That you could break me even when you can barely stand."
Myra looked at the ruined dress, then back at his face. A horrible realization dawned on her. She felt "used" in a way she couldn't explain. She assumed the worst—that he had taken advantage of her vulnerability to satisfy his own twisted ego.
"You're a monster," she breathed, her voice shaking with rage. "You saw me like that—helpless, out of my mind—and you still... you still took what you wanted? You couldn't even let me have my dignity while I was unconscious?"
Reyansh's jaw tightened so hard a muscle pulsed in his cheek. He didn't tell her he had pushed her away. He didn't tell her that he was the one who had suffered the most from her "distraction." His pride wouldn't allow it.
"I took what belonged to me, Myra," he lied, his voice a cold, flat drone. "Is that such a surprise?"
That was the breaking point. The three days of care, the "functional cushions," the chocolate—it was all a lie. He didn't care about her; he just wanted a toy that didn't talk back.
"I'm done," Myra said, her voice suddenly calm and icy. She stood up, ignoring the way the room tilted. She walked straight to the closet, grabbed her bag, and began throwing her things into it with violent energy.
"What do you think you're doing?" Reyansh's voice dropped an octave, a warning.
"I'm breaking the contract!" she screamed, spinning around to face him. "I don't care about the debt! I don't care if you put my parents on the street! I will work three jobs, I will go to jail, I will do anything—but I will not be your sex buddy for one more second! I am not a 'thing' for you to play with when you're bored of Shanaya!"
"You can't break that contract, Myra. I own you."
"You own a piece of paper, Reyansh! You don't own me!" She zipped her bag shut, her knuckles white. "Keep the penthouse. Keep the project. Keep your lies. I'd rather sleep on the pavement than stay in this house with a man who can't distinguish a woman from a doll."
She marched toward the door. For a moment, she expected him to grab her, to pin her against the wall, to roar at her. But Reyansh stayed frozen in the center of the room. He watched her go, his eyes reflecting a hollow, dark void. He had spent the whole night fighting his own desire to protect his "property," only to have her brand him as the very monster he had tried not to be.
"If you walk out that door," Reyansh said, his voice dangerously quiet, "don't ever think about coming back. I won't chase you again."
"Good," Myra snapped, her hand on the doorknob. "Because next time, I won't be drunk enough to forget how much I hate you."
The door slammed shut, the sound echoing through the empty halls of the penthouse. Myra walked out into the morning air, her head throbbing and her heart shattered, leaving the billionaire "Ice King" alone in a room that still smelled of her juniper-scented rebellion.
Author's Thought
THE GREAT ESCAPE! 😱🏃♀️ Myra finally found her spine! She thinks he took advantage of her (even though he actually showed restraint), and she used that anger to break the chains. 🚩⚖️