Chapter Twenty Nine
Wade
He called every person who would possibly know where his wife was at that moment—including Bryan The Asshole Harris—except her parents; but no one knew where she was.
The clock continued to tick by, taunting and echoing inside the empty apartment.
Wade paced across the living room, his steps heavy.
More minutes passed.
He hated what he was feeling—helpless.
The last time he felt it was when his mother was still alive. Wade would pass by his parents' bedroom. He would hear his mother sobbing silently, angry whisper-yells of questioning her self-worth, unmet standards and toxic love. He hated it then. Hated himself that he couldn't do anything. Hated himself because his mother was staying with a husband whose love wasn't good enough not to cheat.
The only reason why he was not searching Manhattan from here on out was because Megan's clothes and things were still in the almost same spot when he left a week ago. There was still hope that she was coming back no matter what his father told her.
Hold on.
Wade stopped in his tracks, shook his head and took a seat. No, no, no. He couldn't be scared that Megan would leave him and not come back. He's scared because he wanted the company his mother spent all her life to keep running, despite the scandals it endured. Yes. Yes. That's what this fear was all about.
The more the clock ticked, the angrier he got. He shouldn't care what his father told her. Shouldn't care what she thought. Megan signed a contract—contracts—that basically stated that Megan was his for a goddamn year. She would be penalized if she breached it no matter which way.
The doorknob of the main door rattled. Wade pulled his head up, elbows on his spread-out knees, jaw clicking. He was going to give her a piece of his mind.
Megan Carmichael came into view but what he felt when he saw her face brought him to his knees.
Megan
The lump of tears choked her as she struggled to keep it in.
Wade stared at her from across the room. His eyes were soft but his stance was guarded. "Megan..." he whispered her name gently, cautious.
She wanted to run to him, wanted him to tell her that everything was fine, that they were okay, that what happened this past few weeks were real. But would it change anything?
"What happened?"
He knows.
"You used me."
He wanted to say no, she could see it in his eyes. A part of her craved for that lie but a part of her knew Wade wasn't that man. His ego was the size of Manhattan but she knew he wasn't a liar.
"Yes."
"Did it make you feel good?" Because it fucking hurt.
Silence. "No—"
"Was that what's making you hard?"
"Megan—"
"You want to own me to punish me? Because my father fucked with your family almost a fucking decade ago?!"
Megan was vibrating with fury and pain. She wanted to hurt him, wanted to shout at him. But the dam broke and it stopped the words from coming out. She couldn't speak. Her heart constricted with all the emotions she felt for this man.
Wade stood. Gone were the gentle eyes. His face was red and his fists were moving. He did that when he was agitated, when he wanted to do something with his hands. What could it mean now? Did I really know him?
"Yes, Megan. That's what's fucking happening here. I'm using you to avenge my Mom and my brother. Fucking you while you're helpless and dominated makes me feel powerful. That I'm finally, fucking finally, avenging my family."
She gasped. More tears. She hugged her middle, wanting to protect herself from the words that were like knives thrown to her fragile heart. "What did father tell you? Huh? Did he show you the newspaper articles he's been collecting in his storage room? Or did he make you listen to this sordid tale? Because I can fucking tell you everything. Right. Fucking. Now.
"Your father killed my brother, Megan. He killed my mom, too. All because your mother whored herself to my father's bed—"
"That's not true!" She breathed heavily. "That's not what the article said—"
"—and because David was a fucking loser who couldn't give time to his family and put the blame to us!"
"You dragged my father's name to dirt."
"Are you even listening?" Wade began to stalk toward her. "Your father killed my family."
"Your father was a cheat."
"And so was your mom."
His brows were drawn, eyes angry, lips tight—a mirror of her face minus the tears. She marched past him, bumping his shoulder in the process.
My dad was the cheater. The walking sex machine.
Not my mom.
Not my mom.
Not my sweet, loving mom.
Wade grabbed her elbow when she finally neared the master's bedroom.
"We're not done yet."
She looked straight to his eyes.
"I own you, Megan. Your feelings are irrelevant."
"Well, fuck you, Mr. Simon."