Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

C harlie

I wake up with a throbbing butt. Last night I was pretty sure he hadn't left any marks on me whatsoever, but today I can feel a certain aching whenever I move and certainly whenever I lie on my back. I don't know how he managed to spank me sore without leaving a mark, but then again, he probably knows how to do an infinite number of terrible things without leaving evidence behind.

"Fucking asshole," I mumble to myself, still half-asleep.

"Language, young lady."

The scream that escapes my lips is enough to shatter glass, or it would be if the glass in my apartment wasn't the kind that's mostly plastic.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

I sit bolt upright to discover that Marcus Waterstone is standing in my apartment, somewhere between the kitchen and the bedroom, which is the same place. My butt aches as I sit there, staring at him in shock. I truly never thought I would see this man ever again, and here he is, standing in his fancy designer bespoke attire, looking at me with a twist of his lips that denotes dark amusement.

"I wanted to see where you live," he says.

"Then you ask me. You don't just walk into the place like you own it."

"Funny thing," he says. "As of about ten minutes ago, I do own it."

That must be a hardcore billionaire flex, the ability to just go ahead and buy someone's home out from under them. But I'm not impressed, if I'm supposed to be impressed. God only knows what effect he is intending on having.

"There's still renter's rights. You can't be in here without giving me notice. Doesn't matter how much money you have, you're still a creep."

Marcus stands and listens to my little tirade without flinching. Maybe I was supposed to be impressed by his statement, but I'm not. I'm… horrified? I think I am almost certainly afraid. This man can do anything, anytime. He doesn't consider the law, because he is above it.

"What do you want?" I ask the question bluntly.

"I wanted to see you. Now, I am seeing you," he says.

This is a game. A sick, twisted game, and I am not wearing enough clothing to play properly.

The worst part of this is that even though I'm waking up hating him, and cursing at him, and wanting him to get the hell out of my apartment, there's still a part of me that can't help noticing that he is so handsome, so magnetic. It would be easy to swoon for him, but I don't want to be that predictable. And I am far too ashamed of myself to be sexy. He has me off-balance, and I can't stand it.

"Get out of my place."

To my surprise, he actually leaves. He gives me a little smirking smile, turns, and takes the three steps he needs to leave the apartment.

I am going to change those damn locks. Not that it will matter. He'll probably just buy the lock factory. He's a real piece of work, and he thinks that money means he can do whatever he wants, whenever he wants.

Marcus

It's been a long time since I was thrown out of anywhere. It's quite an interesting experience.

She has every right to be angry, of course. She thinks I invaded her home. I shocked and surprised her. I probably even frightened her. It's unfortunate that was necessary, but I want her to know whose territory she is in.

Most people who live in the world I own are unaware of it. They go about their lives knowing somewhere in the back of their minds that there's someone who owns it all, but they never really know who. Of course there are the public billionaires everybody knows about, but the real wealth and power, that never shows its face.

Except I just showed mine to Charlie. In all likelihood, she still doesn't understand. She thinks I'm an eccentric rich man with a personality disorder.

I know that, because I can see what she is typing on her laptop in real time. I stand outside her door as she starts furiously recording the incident in her little article which will of course never see the light of day. Even if she were to make a video and post it on one of the social media sites, I'd have it down in an instant. She doesn't understand how captive she is just yet—but she will.

I wait long enough for her to finish another little literary tirade and presumably get herself dressed. I want to speak to her, but I don't want to mishandle the situation.

She opens the door, and stares at me. "What the hell are you still doing here?"

My palm itches at her rudeness. I have half a mind to take her back into that poky little apartment, sit down on that messy bed that looks as though it has never been formally made at all, and remind her of her manners. Instead, I restrain myself, and she continues to throw barbed words at me.

"Are you just going to follow me around, weirdo?"

"Don't be rude, Charlie."

"Then don't be a psycho."

"I came to see if you were alright," I say. "I was worried about you after you left my office in such a state. You were highly emotional. My car, which you took, ended up in this neighborhood. I looked up the address and realized that your building is not in any way up to code. The previous owner had not maintained fire systems, heating systems, and more. So I decided to buy it, knowing I could make you more comfortable."

"That still doesn't explain how you ended up in my room."

"I knocked on your door, and it opened."

"No, it didn't, you liar," she says, not mincing her words even slightly. "I know I locked the door. I always lock the door. It wasn't just bolted either, it was chained, which means you did some really sketchy shit."

"It took me less than thirty seconds to open it. That's effectively the same thing as it being open to begin with. I liked meeting you, Charlie. I'd like the chance to see you again."

She tilts her head, looking at me with a considering expression. "And if I say no? Do I just wake up in a restaurant, halfway through a lobster bisque?"

I allow myself a little chuckle at that notion. "I know this is an unorthodox way of courting a woman, but I don't think either of us are entirely normal, are we?"

"You're weirder than I am," she says, accurately.

"Little girl… you have no idea."

Charlie

Thank god I've managed to dress myself before confronting him in the hall, which still smells like pee. He does not belong here. This is not an environment for billionaires. It's a place for average people struggling to get by.

He's messing with me. He's enjoying whatever game it is we're playing. I don't know what the rules are. There probably aren't any rules at this point.

I am angry. I am scared. But I am also secretly thrilled, because it is occurring to me that although yes, every interaction I have had with this man has been terrible for me, I am being given yet another chance to infiltrate his world. I thought for sure I'd messed it all up completely when I ran out of that bar last night, but I think I piqued his interest.

I don't think Marcus is used to anybody running from him. I think he's used to people fawning all over him and doing anything and everything they can to stay in his company. They definitely don't kick him out of their apartments. Somehow, just by being my disastrous self, I've actually managed to attract this billionaire.

I have to try not to be obviously excited. I have to go with my instincts. And right now, my instincts are to walk back inside my apartment and slam the door in his face.

So I follow them. Just to keep things organic.

"Well," I say. "You can buy whatever you want. You can buy a building. You can buy the air we breathe. But you can't buy me."

I spin on my heel, storm back into my apartment, and fling the door as hard as I can.

I'm expecting to hear a very satisfying slam that might even be hard enough to do damage to the door and maybe the frame. The landlord will have to fix that.

Instead, that big wall of a man catches the door before it can bang home and follows me into my room. He just can't leave me alone.

"The problem with you is that you're untamed," he says.

"The problem with you is you're a privileged asshole."

I might have to tone this back if I want him to keep me around, or not evict me. The sassy act probably has its limits.

"You're going to pay for every single one of these little jibes," Marcus says. "So you can say what you like now, but I am telling you that you will regret it."

There's a smirk on his face that indicates I might regret it, but he will enjoy it. I'm in trouble of a very specific kind.

"I want to see you this evening," he says.

I hesitate. "You just told me I'm going to regret spending time with you, and now you want me to spend time with you. Do I seem stupid?"

"No. You seem curious and foolhardy," he says. "My car will pick you up at eight."

With that, he turns and leaves, closing the door quietly behind him. I want to storm after him and slam it just for my own edification, but I resist the urge. The last thing Marcus Waterstone needs to know is that I am a huge brat. I've got to try a little harder to play the submissive.

But first, I have to make some progress writing my article. I reach for my laptop, but the memory of Marcus standing there, smirking at me and at it, makes me hesitate. It doesn't feel private anymore. Nothing feels private anymore. My apartment and life have been thoroughly invaded. That means if I want any kind of privacy, I'm going to have to make it for myself.

Pushing my laptop aside, I reach for the drawer underneath the counter and pull out an old fashioned yellow ruled pad, along with a ballpoint pen.

And I start writing.