Chapter 0045

Yet as every day passed, Kent felt his control over himself slipping, bit by bit. If he loses control of

himself, he knows that he will lose everything. And yet…

It doesn’t help, sometimes, when she looks at him that way. When she half-lids her eyes and pulls her

lower lip into her mouth. Like she’s holding back too.

Kent slams his fist against the table again, forcing his mind away from the thought.

What the fuck was he going to do.

At that moment, the door to the dining room swings open and Fiona breezes in. “Hey baby,” she says

with a big smile, settling into her seat across from him. “What, you couldn’t wait for me?”

She looks up at him, then, and her smile falters. She can see, clearly, that he’s in a foul mood and she

has to tread very, very carefully if she wants to get out of this in one piece.

“Wait for you?” Kent says, narrowing his eyes at her. “Why should I wait for you, when you are late?”

Fiona glances at the grandfather clock on the far wall and notes that, yes – shit – she was five minutes

late. Still, she tries to keep it light as the chef comes through the door again, putting her own entrée

and bread in front of her.

“I didn’t know we were on such formal terms in this house,” she says casually, trying a small smile. “I’m

sorry, I won’t be late again.”

His eyes narrow further, and Fiona realizes she miscalculated. Shit. The right choice would have been

all apology – no joke. She screws her mouth shut, looking down at her plate and taking a piece of

bread out of its little basket, fiddling with it between her long-nailed fingers.

“Do you think,” Kent asks slowly, dangerously, “that I should wait for you? That as the man of this

house, I should be at your beck and call?”

Slowly, Fiona shakes her head. “No,” she says. “You’re right, I should have been on time.”

“Damn right you should have been,” Kent says. He knows, deep down, that he’s being unfair to her. He

doesn’t care, really, if she’s been late. But he’s so worked up – feels so powerless – and Fiona is there

to take it out on.

“After all,” he continues, pushing his plate away from him. “You are not my wife,” he says, cruel. “You

are here, eating my food, wearing the clothes I buy you, spending my money, in my house, just so you

can give me pleasure. When I desire it.”

Fiona blinks at him then. Never, ever, has he stated their relationship in such stark terms. He never

called her his girlfriend – she knew it wasn’t really like that – but really? He had basically just called her

his whore.

Kent sneers at her, watching the realization of his insult break out onto her face.

“Is that…” Fiona starts, unable to stop herself. “Is that really how you see me?” Slowly, she puts down

her piece of bread.

“Yes,” he says, leaning back in his chair, enjoying the feeling of power that comes when he sees her

balk. “And right now, I want you to go upstairs. To my chamber. I want you to wait for me there.”

“Kent –“ she says, going pale.

“You are not my wife,” Kent says, banging his hand on the table. “You are here at my leisure. And if you

decide that you no longer wish to be, no longer wish to receive my generosity and my gifts,” he says,

“you are free to leave at any time.”

Her chin begins to shake a little, in fear and frustration. What had she done wrong? Still, she knows her

place in this relationship. In reality, she always has. Kent lets her get away with a lot – treats her, spoils

her, rarely contradicts her.

But really, deep down? She’s here for one thing.

Slowly, she stands and – giving him a proud look she can’t help – walks from the room, heading up the

stairs. To the third floor, the attic. The room that he keeps there. The room she absolutely hates.

Kent calls to the chef for his next course. When it’s delivered, he quickly slices the steak into pieces,

biting it down without tasting it. When he’s finished, he tosses his napkin onto the table and follows

Fiona up the stairs.