40. Renee

My phone shoots off a torrent of notifications the whole way home. My blood pressure skyrockets somewhere between full-blown panic and a rebellious anger over everything.

I want control of my life back.

But the scolding nun’s voice in my head says, Well, you made your bed, so now, you have to lie in it. Even though lying in bed with a certain stubborn, troublemaking hockey player was what got me into this mess to begin with.

Glad to see I can still be catty with myself even on the verge of a meltdown.

There are options here. I could drive and just keep driving. I could start over. I could take out what I have in my account?—

Earth to Dumbass: you”re pregnant. Where are you going to go?

Reality deflates my wild ambitions, a pin in the side of a balloon. With one hand on the wheel, I let the other drift down to my stomach, safely cuddling my baby. This baby is the number one reason I can”t just cut out.

Starting from zero on my own? That”d be fine for me. I”ve done it before.

My baby, though… My baby deserves better.

I”d give them the world, wouldn’t I? Of course I would. And right now, a marriage to Deacon Carrington and playing ball with my family is the thing gatekeeping the entire universe.

I’m stuck.

Whether I like it or not.

I could badly go for a drink, but I settle on a DQ run instead, mostly just to switch it up from the tacos. I might as well indulge in a cookies-and-cream Blizzard before wading into the den of wolves.

Nothing like being the sheep amongst predators in your own home—or what”s supposed to be your own home, at least. It”s not like Deacon”s put forth an ounce of effort to make me feel like I belong.

With my ice cream in hand, I park and get out. Like a teenager sneaking back into the house after a night out, I crack the door open and peer in.

All is silent.

I don”t know whether to breathe a sigh of relief or be on my guard. Most of those ignored notifications were from Deacon himself. He could be lurking around a corner like some creep?—

Without warning, I”m suddenly shoved against the wall. My half-devoured Blizzard clatters to the floor and splatters all over the Spanish tile. Deacon, however, grips my face so hard I can”t look anywhere but his infuriated, blazing eyes.

”So sorry,” he snarls. “Did I ruin the little treat from your date?”

Oh, no. God works fast—but the paparazzi work faster.

I swallow, my face aching with the effort because for a pasty, scrawny guy, Deacon has a deceptively strong grip. I can barely move my mouth to answer him.

”I—I wasn”t on—on a date?—”

”A slut and a liar. Perfect.”

He shoves me back but keeps me caged in against the wall. Next thing I know, he”s got his phone shoved into my face. The light from the screen burns my eyes, forcing them to adjust rapidly to see what he”s trying to show me.

Deacon”s phone is opened up to a trashy Twitter account. The post has a double set of pictures—me and Weston. The first is a zoomed-in shot of Weston breaking the paparazzi guy”s camera. It”s clear it was taken from pretty far away—and the second picture is a good indication as to why.

It”s another zoomed-in shot from somewhat far away.

When Weston had me pinned to the grass.

There”s no other possible way to spin a photo like this. Not with the way I”m looking up at Weston like he hung every star in the universe and then some. His eyes smolder as he looks down at me.

We”re in our own little world.

The caption is some dramatized lunacy about Weston getting heated over our interrupted rendezvous. He attempted to destroy the evidence, but the internet is forever, Mr. Scott!

Deacon’s eyes are red, furious slits. ”When this started, I was very clear with you, Renee. Do what you please in private, but if any of your extracurriculars come to light, I will handle you accordingly?—”

”I didn”t do anything! We were just out having a good time?—”

”Clearly! You damn near have his cock inside you in broad daylight.” Deacon sneers.

”You”re being dramatic.”

”And you”re not following very simple, very fucking basic rules, Renee. This is the second time you”ve decided to humiliate me over this trashy jock of yours. No more. I think a renegotiation is in order.”

”I”m not?—”

”You don”t have a say.”

Deacon gets in my face. I almost wish he were drinking, because him being drunk would make the sheer amount of hatred in his eyes bearable. What he feels for me right now, though? That”s all one hundred percent him.

And it is terrifying.

”You”ve going to move from the pool house to the main house. You’ve made it obvious that any ounce of freedom you have is too much, as you abuse it every chance you get. I want you where I can fucking see you. You will have a tracker on your phone so I know where you are at all times?—”

”You can”t do that!” I fume. ”Be mad the paparazzi did what they do—or hell, even at me for being reckless. But I”m not a pet and I”m not your property.”

Deacon smirks, something hideous and sinister. ”You”re my fiancée, which practically makes you both.”

My nostrils flare. “If this is a renegotiation, I don”t accept. We can figure this out some other time.”

I sidestep Deacon, just like I sidestepped that asshole paparazzi guy. Unlike the asshole paparazzi guy, however, Deacon is bold enough to put his hands on me.

He grips my arms, shoving me hard into the wall. I cry out as the sharp pain running up my back takes my breath away.

My thoughts immediately go to my baby. He”s going to hurt them doing this.

”I said you don”t have any choice here. Calling it a ‘negotiation’ is more a courtesy than anything else.”

His words send an incomparable chill down my spine. ”You can”t do this,” I reiterate. ”You can”t force me to do any of that. You can”t?—”

”I think I”ve made it quite clear that you are not to tell me what to do.”

Deacon jerks me from the wall. When I try to yank my arm away from him, his grip tightens until I yelp out in pain.

He laughs. ”None of that, darling. It’s about time you learned to keep your whore mouth shut for once in your life.”

Then he drags me from the pool house. He tugs me, even as I struggle and thrash, across the walkway to the main house.

”No! Stop! My father?—”

”Your father was the one who suggested I bring you under my thumb. Don”t think he”ll be your savior now when your actions embarrass him, too.”

I go full-body numb when I hear those words. Fathers are supposed to protect their daughters from men like Deacon. What does it say about mine that he”s willing to throw me to the viper’s pit and leave me there?

Nothing good.

As badly as I want to call Deacon a liar and say that my dad would never condemn me to this hellhole and the devil who lives here… I know better.

My parents put me in this place. They sure as hell won’t be the ones to take me out.