Rosa

Chapter 21

For several agonizing beats, time stood still.

Because he had said her name aloud.

Inés.

After going without it for so long, hearing it now, her old name, her real name, the name her mother and father had given her, the name Mesrine had used to control her, torment her, abuse her, being uttered in front of her new self felt surreal.

She was Inés Nadir.

She was also Rosa Lenoir.

It felt like an out of body experience.

Then, time began to flow again, shock gave way to reality, and Rosa's mood plummeted with dismay, mortification, and the strained acknowledgment that he knew, he knew, he knew—how much? something? everything?—about her past.

Did Mr. Massera think less of her now?

Probably.

Rosa stole a pained glance at him. He was watching her very closely, but his expression wasn't easy to read. As usual.

"Miss Lenoir?"

Rosa didn't reply. She looked away and shut her eyes to block him out.

Come to think of it, he had probably viewed her as a whore from their very first meeting. She had certainly played and dressed the part that night in Marseille.

God.

Rosa felt even more unsettled. She could feel herself unraveling like a wayward thread on a spinning spool.

Most men loved to fuck whores, but they didn't see them as living, breathing, thinking, feeling human beings. To many of her clients, Rosa knew she had simply been—a fun time, a sexy romp, a means to forget about their woes for a few short hours. To them, she had been nothing more than three tight holes attached to a nice body and a pretty face.

Mr. Massera was simply better at hiding his bias than other men.

Another sad, embarrassing realization emerged in Rosa: Mr. Massera's awareness of her tainted body was probably why he kept rejecting her, why he didn't want to fuck her.

She kept her eyes closed, still unable to look at him.

It was suddenly clear to Rosa. This bastard was no unicorn. Her cunt had simply been too overused, too unclean, to tempt his pristine cock. Her heart ached even while shame coiled inside her chest.

Well, then.

She knew better now. She wouldn't throw herself at him ever again.

Little by little, the harshness of these understandings snatched Rosa back to her once suffocating mindset as Inès, and, through this return to her old self, an unbelievably wretched chord strummed through her. Complex, unresolved emotions burst forth. Uncontrollable tears pricked her eyes. Rosa struggled to hold them at bay. She didn't want to break down in front of Mr. Massera. She failed miserably. Soon, wetness streamed down her face.

Rosa felt Mr. Massera's thumb brush across her cheek, wiping away her tears, as though he wished to comfort her.

His touch made her flinch.

Her eyes shot open. His dark gaze was still upon her. Rosa hated the pity she saw on his face. She glared at him. With a look of alarm, Mr. Massera quickly removed his hand from her face. Then, she turned her head away from him once more.

Fuck him.

Fuck him for knowing everything about her.

Fuck her for knowing next to nothing about him.