Page 24 of Possessive Mr. Pen

My chest heaves as though I ran a hundred miles in high heels while balancing his dry cleaning in one hand and his coffee in another.

I’ve worked for him for eight miserable years.I coordinate every aspect of his life from his dry cleaning to his meetings with clients.He won’t last a day without me.He needs me.

I need him, too, but I’ll never say that out loud.The man is too proud, stubborn, and full of himself to see beyond his nose, and I’m too outspoken outside the workplace to deal with his shit in my personal business.

I cross my arms over my chest, grit my teeth as his eyes flick down to my cleavage, and end the discussion with as much dignity as I can muster.

“Thank you for the offer, Mr.Pen, but I must decline.Bring it up again and I’ll quit.”

I grab my purse, spin on my heel, and stomp down the hall.

Even as I step out onto the street, regret and fear churn in my stomach.

Connor Pen never backs down from a challenge, and I just threw the most intriguing ultimatum at his feet.

He won’t let me go no matter how hard I fight, and I can’t leave without losing everything.

I hate him.I need him.

I’m trapped.

For the first time in my life, I walk the streets of New York City without tracking my surroundings.A mugging—or even a stabbing—might be a welcome distraction from the thoughts tumbling through my mind.

I slapped my boss.My sister needs money for her clinical trial.Aisha and Momo won’t stay clean or healthy without my support.Everything I hold dear relies on my job, but I may have just fucked it all up.

I wander without a set destination as I search for a solution, even though I know on both an instinctual and a logical level there’s only one solution.

I may resist for a little while, but even my best laid plans—avoidance and professionalism—will eventually give way to his control, and I’ll give in to temptation and become Connor Pen’s plaything.

Self-reproach eats away at my insides.My mother’s words haunt me.Even when my stepfather hurt her, she made excuses for him.I swore I would never end up with a man who was controlling and manipulative, yet here I am, shackled to a boss who has no respect for me at all.

He wants to buy me like a whore.

All the late nights I worked beside him, the busy days I coordinated for him, all the stress and humiliation I suffered for him mean absolutely nothing.He’ll never see me as anything more than a dispensable side character.An employee he can stick his dick in.A slut he can buy.

I stop with my toes on a familiar crack in the sidewalk.An odd mix of shame and relief arrows through me, and I shift my gaze to my body.

I have nothing but my small purse over my shoulder.No change of clothes.No shoes.

This fancy dress and these ridiculous heels don’t belong in this section of the city, but they’re much better than what I wore the first time I found this two-story brick building.

As a high school dropout and foster care runaway, I had limited job opportunities.Staggering into the old gym to escape a group of thugs ended up being my luckiest break.

I sigh and swing open the tempered-glass front door.The little bell jingles.My heels click on the linoleum tiles.

I freeze in alarm.

The out-of-order sign is no longer on the elevator.A new clock sits above the old metal mailboxes built into the foyer wall.Fresh paint coats the walls, and the linoleum shines like new, except the gouges around the bottom of the stairs and the elevator assure me it’s the same old tiles.

I swallow my shock and continue forward to the office.True fear grips me as I take in the electronics lining the wall.The logo at the bottom of the screens is too familiar.

Worms crawl in my stomach and nausea rolls from my toes to the top of my head.

Connor Pen being part of my friend’s wedding rehearsal was bad enough.This is a million times worse.

He’s infecting the most precious parts of my life.The walls close in around me as I envision him lounging between Aisha and Momo on my apartment couch, or worse, sitting at my sister’s bedside.

Before my terror spirals out of control, the sound of gloves thudding against the punching bag filters out from the end of the hall and breaks the silence.