TWO

When I wake up it's already shiny and bright, the early October sun adamantly piercing through the window drapes. My skin shudders as cold air blankets my skin, and that damn eerie feeling of being watched returns.

I rise up abruptly, panting. Lately I've become overly sensitive to everything and I feel like someone's right here in my room, ready to grab me and do whatever evil intentions they have toward me.

I cast my glance aside and my nose crinkle in disgust.

"Morning, butterfly." It's a very familiar voice.

Relief washes over me.

"What the hell?" I murmur, waving away the smoke of cigar wafting in my nose. "I hate that, Patrick. At least do your shit outside."

"Oh. My bad," he replies nonchalantly while straightening himself at the corner of the bed, eyes on my upper body that's covered with nothing but a lacy bra.

Instinctively, I pull the duvet up to my neck so as to distract his lustful stare.

"What are you doing here?" I croak while sitting up.

Wrong question. He lives here.

Instead of answering me, he plainly stares at me, a creepy gleam in his salient silver-gray eyes that search for aunty visible nakedness in my body.

"I'm talking to you? Aren't you supposed to be in Russia or whatever? Caring so little that I could be dead by now?" I yell at him, very frustrated inside.

Unknown people have been tracking me down like a bounty worthy millions. The gunshot memories from last night makes my breath heavy, and the sight of one fearless man fighting against a group of gangsters replays in my mind.

What if he wasn't there to protect me? My chest heaves as fear engulf me all over again. But I'm safe now. He saved me once again.

Patrick stands up, still dressed in his neat white suit with a black unbuttoned shirt, his hairy chest half-exposed in a senseless yet eye-catching design, and perhaps the twenty-years-old me would be enthralled to just jump on him and rip his shirt off.

Not anymore.

"I never get tired watching my beautiful wife," Patrick says, his smile filled with burning desire that I can read like a large billboard on the way home. "As stubborn as she may be, because I clearly told her to wait until I sort everything," he adds, his tone angered in milliseconds as he snobbishly takes another puff of his large, Cuban cigar.

I roll my eyes at him, exhausted. Sort everything? Just how exactly?

"I'm not in the mood, Patrick. Feed that nonsense to anyone interested to hear." I start moving from the bed, grabbing the duvet with me.

"What? You don't think I can find those bastards? You don't trust me?" he quizzes.

"Just leave me alone," I snap, even though I know he can do it as long as it has everything to do with him in the first place.

My husband is very rich. Being his wife has been an attraction for good and evil, but I still can't tell if these current attempts on my life have anything to do with him, or if it's just the enemies I've personally made. It's one blow after another, and now I'm even afraid of my own shadow.

I flounce away from the bed and he does the same, eyes fixed on me sternly. He's got a fit body for his age of forty eight, and saying he's the man who stole my heart in a single glance is an understatement. He was simply everything I never felt before. I just wonder what has gone wrong between us now.

"I heard what happened," he says. His thick southern accent makes him more priggish than he actually is. "Didn't I fucking tell you to stay at home? Do you realize what I had to postpone just so I can get back here?" he lashes, his face arctic.

Can't he just shut up!

"I didn't ask you to come back, did I?" I groan in pain as something strikes through my head.

Patrick glares disgustedly at my hangover face. He hates it when I drink, and I do it to spite him. I mean, where was he when I needed him the most? As always he's busy making more money and closing big deals, only to come home whining that I'm not the good little wife he expects me to miraculously be.

"Patrick, I don't wanna argue with you." I throw the heavy duvet aside and pull my bunny slippers using my feet. "I seriously don't."

Grunting, Patrick pitches his cigar on the ashtray lying on the table and seizes me briskly into his arms, hugging my body from behind. I shriek, for his touch feels like a punishment nowadays.

Breathing into my hair, he says, "I also don't wanna fight you, Mia. I missed you."

A bile rises in my throat. I wanna throw up.

"I need to shower and brush my teeth," I whisper, trying to free myself from this horny bastard I have for a husband.

He was probably banging some cheap model the whole night and now he's here trying to play his amorous card? Damn him! Not that I care whom he fucks everyday, I just demand my respect.

"I don't have time, Mia. I'm flying to Geneva in two hours," he says, his voice intoxicated, and I feel his dick throbbing already.

I glower mentally, my libido deeply asleep. I no longer desire fucking him as I used to before, ever since I caught him banging his ex-wife. I'm disgusted by him.

And he's leaving again? I pull out of his arms immediately, glaring at his silvery, sultry eyes.

"Again to Geneva? Why?" My face crunches.

"A big transaction needs to be settled. I'm tired of incompetent assholes so I'm gonna see through it myself." His phone buzzes and he's quick to answer it. He frowns as he snaps, "What?" to the person on the call.

What kind of business is he dealing with that he always uses the Swiss bank? I ponder as I watch him casting an impatient glare on his gold and diamond Rolex, snapping at whoever is on the phone. He's pissed already.

But I know he deals with everything. He's into agriculture, technology, export and imports, real estate, and many other stuff that makes his bank accounts read so many zeroes after a decent digit. He's super loaded.

"That's what I'm paying you for!" he barks while tugging me back to his dominion. His hand crosses my chest so I stay put, squeezing my right breast. "Get the asshole and lock him up until he says who sent him!" He hangs up and throws his phone on the bed.

Am I even surprised? Not really. I've seen the weirder, and I've heard worse. Patrick is the type of a man who doesn't allow snitches, and much less traitors. I wonder if he's never killed someone.

"Are you going with your secretary?" I ask, for I'm sure he wouldn't miss the chance of taking his mistress with him.

I know he is fucking his secretary, but I've got no proof. A woman's instinct is hardly wrong—at least mine isn't—especially with all the cheating scandals involving him in my log.

"She's my Personal Assistant, Mia. So yes she's coming with me," he breathes, tugging the lace fabric of my bra cup lower, releasing my breast. "And don't start that boring old song please!"

My eyes clam as he kisses me roughly, his mouth demanding. The sadistic touch in his sexual advances are one of the reasons why I fell in love with him upon our first night together back in Paris. It was outlandish and I was a naïve little girl from the suburbs of New Orleans, attracted to danger.

I was just a nineteen years old model and designer wanna-be. And one eventful evening I met the thirty-nine years old hunk: very shiny copper hair, bright silver eyes that stared transfixed at my young body on the catwalk as though I was something he'd never seen before.

He drew me in like a tornado, strong and powerful. At my age I should have had a boyfriend, a young one, but I strangely was attracted to older, intimidating men. I couldn't think of anything when he went on his knees and asked me to marry him some many months later.

He was my first.

I loved him insanely.

But now… Only God knows what we have.

"Why aren't you screaming yet, huh?" he rasps, cupping my sex. I hold my breath tightly, the nicotine breath from his lips so revolting. "I want you to scream my name, Mia! Fuck, I don't wanna imagine someone else touching what's mine!" He clasps my panties and eases his finger into my pussy.

"Patrick!" I toss my head onto his shoulder.

"Yes. Like that. I love you screaming like that. And you're so wet for me, baby. So wet." He strokes me mercilessly.

Maybe I am. But it must've been a dream I had.

"No!" I whimper as his fingers thrust inside me. I want him to stop. "Patrick, no!" I yank out of his grip and turn around swiftly, no fun in my eyes.

"What did you say?" he asks.

"I said NO! I don't want this anymore!" I reply and his eyes glow.

He's startled. I've never said no to his sexual advancement toward me. I always fall easily into his ploy no matter how much we fight and argue over several unresolved issues.

"What the fuck, Mia!" he growls, shooting me the how-dare-you glare. I fix my bra, panting. He strides over and grabs my throat. He's menacing, his eyes dark and bemused, but he never hurts me physically. "You don't want me to fuck you, do you?" he demands, purely angered.

No, I don't. I don't even want him to kiss me. I simply want him away from my body.

I catch my breath. "Let's not pretend like everything is fine with us, Patrick. Putting on the public appearance that we're a great couple is enough! I don't have to put up with it, even in private!" I snap and pull out of his grip.

"Mia…" He stammers, fear replacing his recent anger.

Whenever I bring up the subject that lingers about my possibility of leaving him he cowers. I'm his little trophy, his most precious possession as he shamelessly declares, and he won't let me go easily.

But I want my divorce.

"I'm going to the country house for a few days." I pick my discarded shoes and dress from last night as I say this. He's still up to his feet, watching me. "I need a break, Patrick. Far from the media, I want to be alone." I gaze up at him.

"We're gonna settle this when I come back! I'll write you a cheque so you can solve your mess with the investors. Your bodyguard will be with you in the country house." He gets his phone from the bed.

"Don't bother. I'll solve my own mess," I retort.

He snorts.

"You're fucked!" He scurries toward the dressing room. And into the phone he snaps, "We're leaving. Tell Red to call me later. I've got no time to wait." He's out of my sight.

Red.

At the mention of the name my breath slides away. My life's a mess and I can't recognize who I am anymore. Everything is chaotic. A good shower and heavy breakfast is all I need.

Patrick is already gone when I return from the bathroom. No surprise here; coming and going like the wind is his style lately. I change and head straight downstairs, hoping that Butler Lucas has had the cook prepare something decent to cure this damn hangover.

Reaching the kitchen door, I suddenly hold my steps at the sight of my bodyguard standing near the fridge, uncapping the bottle of drinking water after a seemingly intense workout he's just finished.

The sweat smears his skin, his curly hair drenched, the muscles of his strong biceps rippling tensely, and that sexy Adam's apple tips as the water slides in his throat. My breath quickens.