His Secret Muse: An Alpha Billionaire Romance (16 page)

His handwriting is unusually beautiful for a man but still hard to read. It seems like most of what is lying around are chapter outlines and dialogues. I pick up one of them and start reading what looks like an outline for a scene.

Soon after that my mood changes completely.

If there is one thing that really infuriates me, it is a woman rolling her eyes at me after I have told her to do something.

She is not my prisoner, yet.

But she will be.

It will only be harder on her if she keeps acting this way.

She sat across the table, rolling her eyes at me as if I had absolutely no power over her.

Oh, how wrong she is.

"Did you just roll your eyes at me?"

Her eyes flicker with understanding but just for a millisecond. 

Not long enough. 

Her face turns back to that condescending and disgustingly arrogant expression I loathe so much.

I cannot do anything to her right now, and she knows that.

But I will remember every little detail. I will remember every glance, every look, every single movement and every damn eye-roll she dares to cast at me.

She will pay for all of it. Later.

I frown. That sounds too familiar. Judging from the date that he scribbled in the upper right corner of the paper, it is something that he wrote down last night.

It is almost a one-on-one reproduction of what happened between us before he spanked me and tied me up.

Except that in the scene he wrote, the characters seem to be in a position in which the guy cannot act out the way he wants to. Yet.

I skim the paragraphs following the scene. They are mostly quick notes but not real sentences. I cannot read most of it.

The scene continues at the lower end of the piece of paper. It seems that the male protagonist now has the woman where he wants her. 

Somewhere else. Alone. She is his prisoner. 

The scene is very similar to Silent Daughter, too. But it seems that there is nothing sexual between the characters. It is just a sadistic asshole and his victim. 

Streaks are showing on her naked back. Bloody streaks. She howls and screams like an infant.

It is the sweetest sound I could imagine.

She begs me to stop. Cries and pleas, only suffocated by new blows that hit her flushed skin.

I am painting. She is my canvas. My objet d'art.

Every time I hear her begging for mercy, I increase the intensity of my hits.

I still remember every single act of her misbehavior.

She brought this on herself, and she will pay for it.

This is where the scene ends, followed by some quick notes about him planning to tie her up and make her wait.

Blindfolded and without her knowing what will happen next and where exactly he went off to.

Just like he did with me last night.

What the fuck. Is he using me as some kind of inspiration? Am I his laboratory rat?

I put the piece of paper back on the table and try to put it off as a coincidence. After all, I knew that there are some sort of similarities between what he writes about and what we do in bed together.

But still. This is different. This is a re-narration of last night, despite the setting being a little different.

I dig through his other notes, only finding more and more things that give cause to believe my first suspicions. 

There are plenty of quotes. Of him. And of me. They are verbatim, most of the time. With some of them, I can even remember when they were said. What we were doing, what had happened before and what would happen after.

Then there is one note that really hits me in the groin. Because it mentions me by name.

Renee's face when you asked her on her knees. That delicious mixture of freight and loyalty. Her humility. The devotion that shines through her eyes.

The face of someone who is willing to be yours and let you do to them whatever you please.

The kind of beauty only a sadist can appreciate.

I stand there with my mouth open, my eyes filling with tears. He has been using me. Everything we did together had nothing to do with affection or sincere interest in my person. He was manipulating me to gather material for his story.

No wonder he never wanted me to see any of it, or for me to even be close to him while he was writing.

"What are you doing?"

I startle at the sound of his voice and turn around with the first of many tears rolling down my cheek.

He stands in the archway that leads into the living room, still quite a few feet away due to the size of this hall like parlor. But his presence is so captivating that even from that far away I feel like he holds me in a tight grip.

"What is this?" I ask with my voice suffocated by the anguish of betrayal.

He frowns at me. "What are you doing at my desk?"

"What the hell is this, Cedric?" I repeat my question while waving the note I was reading when he appeared. 

The one that is talking about me. The notes about the face I make in moments that I thought would exclusively remain between us. The most intimate moments two people could share with each other.

He approaches me. But instead of looked shocked, caught or raising his hands in defense, trying to explain himself, he looks at me with pure anger.

"Why are you going through my things?" He wants to know.

I writhe with disgust as I look up at him. "Are you fucking serious?"

He narrows his eyes and closes in on me. When he tries to take the piece of paper out of my hand, I step a vigorous step back.

"No!" I yell. "I am not the one who has to explain herself!"

"Yes, you are!" he objects. "I told you to leave my work alone. I trusted you. Why are you digging through my notes?"

I shake my head and stare at him with teary eyes. "You fucking asshole."

He flinches as if I had just hit him. I have never raised my voice against him, and I have certainly never used that kind of language towards him. It is the first time that I see him shaken by something I do.

But not for long. Soon, his face is back to the stern countenance that he displayed the very first moment he entered the living room.

"You dare to talk about trust?" I add. My voice is quavering a lot more than I am comfortable with. But I cannot help it. "You fucking dare to talk about trust after doing this? Is this what you use for your new book? Am I just a human test subject for you? Is that what you use me for? To play out the sadistic side you need for your characters and to observe the reactions that you need for your fictional victims?"

Tears are rolling down my face, and I hate it. I wish I wouldn't be crying right now. I am so mad at him! How could he dare to do this to me? All that talk about true affection and his plan to go public with our so-called relationship. I bet it was just another step to get me where he needs me emotionally. So he can capture the true essence of someone who is willing to submit. To give herself to him just the way he needs for his sadistic research.

Why is he just standing there? He doesn’t try to defend himself but instead tried to turn the tables by blaming me for my alleged stalking.

I cannot believe this.

"Is this what you did to your other toy-submissives, too?" I ask. "Just use them for your twisted stories, telling them lies and then dump them when the novel is done and about to be published? Just got rid of them and somehow persuaded them to keep their mouths shut?"

It all makes such perfect sense now. He needed me to finish this. He needed me to stick around for as long as he was still working on it. He was probably just about to get ready for the big finale, promising me to take our relationship to the next level just to drop me as soon as the manuscript was done and off to the editor.

Maybe he even pays the women off, and that's why no one ever heard a word from any of them. Because he uses them and then drops them, shoving money down their throats to make them shut up...

"Stop it!" he barks as if he was reading my mind. "Renee, whatever it is you are conjecturing in your head right now, you are wrong!"

"Am I? What is this then?
Renee's face? Her humility? The kind of beauty only a sadist can appreciate
?" I quote. "Why did you write these things down? Why did you not want me to find out about them?"

He looks at me. Now, finally, he looks like someone who is guilty. Someone caught in the act and trying to find a way to defend his wrongdoings. 

"Renee," he whispers. "Please let me explain-"

"No!" I interrupt. "You fucking scare me you psychotic idiot-"

"Renee!" 

He leaps forward and grabs me by the shoulders. I squirm and try to escape his grip but, of course, that endeavor is pointless because he is so much stronger than me. If he wants to keep me in place, he will always be able to. If anyone should know that, it is me. 

The most I can do is avert my eyes from his. I turn my head away from him and close my eyes, trying to ignore his existence.

"Renee," he repeats, his voice almost pleading now. "Calm down. Please calm down! Don't spiral down that dangerous path any further. Please, look at me."

And I do. I feel so lost, so betrayed, and mad but I know I have nowhere to go as long as he is holding me in his grip. It feels warm and familiar, comforting even. That makes it so much harder to be angry at him.

I look up at him with expectation, curious what he might have to say for himself.

"Now listen to me," he starts. "I am not saying that what I did wasn't morally questionable, to say the least. You knew this about me. You have read my stories. You knew that I take my inspiration from what I do and see in my own life. For me, power play is the ultimate way of looking into the human psyche. It is a source of inspiration and understanding to-"

"But not like this!" I interrupt. "You
used
me! You mention me by name."

"Do you think that's what I will do once the book gets published? Do you really think anyone would relate my fictional stories to the woman at my side?"

"There is no woman at your side."

I raise my chin defiantly. 

He looks scared. My words have more impact on him than I expected. I enjoy seeing him like that. He is afraid to lose me, and it shows.

"There is," he whispers. "You, Renee, and only you. I was going to tell you about the manuscript and give you insight into the way I work. It just wasn't time yet."

"How can I possibly trust you?" I reply. "Anybody would say that now. It still doesn't change the fact that you used me as your laboratory rat-"

"Muse," he interferes. "You are my muse, Renee."

"That's just a fancy word for the same thing."

"No, it is not," he insists. "It is so much more."

He pauses and looks at me, waiting for any kind of reaction. I know him well enough to understand that he is trying to read me.

Which can only mean that he is trying to play me. To manipulate me.

"You are so much closer to my heart than you could ever understand," he adds.

Alright. That's enough. 

"I want to go," I say. Finally, my voice sounds as steady and strong as I wanted it to. "I want to go home."

His eyes flicker. "Please, Renee, I-"

"Now!" I interrupt him. "Let Craig know that I am ready to leave. Please."

He bites his lower lip. I have never seen him do that. 

And I hate the sting that his sad face causes inside my chest. I don't want to feel sorry for him. I don't want to feel close to him, and I hate that I have to fight the urge to hug him right now and tell him that everything will be alright. That he won't lose me. That I can forgive him. 

Because I am not sure I can. I feel lost and betrayed.

His eyes meet mine, silently asking for confirmation. My expression is stern and definite.

"Alright," he says. "I'll have Craig bring you home."

"Thank you."

The next couple weeks go by in a blur. I have never felt this alone in my entire life. 

It is not only his betrayal and the fact that I feel like I will never be able to trust him again, but also the fact that I cannot talk about it with anyone. No one ever knew I was seeing him, how could I even approach the topic now that it was over?

Is it over, though?

Cedric keeps contacting me on a regular basis. He tried calling at first but went on to writing texts after I refused to pick up the phone. The messages started a few days after I found his notes and haven't stopped. It makes not thinking about him anything but easy. And yet he manages to keep it to a level that keeps him from coming across as pathetic. He never begs, and he never sends more than one message a day. All he writes is that he needs me.

Well, of course, he does! He needs to finish his damn book. That is why he needs me. There are a lot of things I could say to him about it, but I don't. I haven't replied to a single message.

Three days ago, he started to add flowers to his messages, literally. One big, red rose waits for me on the doorstep every damn evening when I get home from work.

And these days, that is getting later and later.

Since I still don't want to deal with him but also cannot talk the issue to death with Lesley, I follow the only other option left to me: work. I have never done as much overtime as I have during the past two weeks. I took over two new projects that were originally not designated for me, and those kept me busy enough to let the days go by without drowning in too much sorrow and self-pity. 

I still do not particularly enjoy my job, but as long as I am working, I have very little time to brood over the tragedy that used to be the only true love I have ever experienced. The most exciting and enticing man that has ever come into my life, and as it turned out, also the least trustworthy.

It is a Friday, two weeks after that terrible incident, when Lesley asks if she could come over to see me that evening. She doesn't want to go running but specifically asks me to see her at my place.

"I'll bring something to drink!" she promises on the phone.

"Alright," I say.

I wonder if she can sense that something is up. We have had less contact than usual lately. It is hard for me to be my normal self when there is something dragging me down.

This one is huge. I have never experienced lovesickness before but am pretty sure that this is what I am going through. I sleep and eat very little but work a lot more in an attempt to keep my mind occupied. I run almost every night.

Most days I run alone, though. Lesley has been quite the couch potato lately, lounging at home with her boyfriend more than she did before. Those two do not even live together, officially, that is. He spends so much time at her place and vice versa that I am surprised none of their roommates have complained.

The date with Lesley gives me a good reason to finish work a little earlier than usual. I feel like even the head of our department and my coworkers are worried about my new found work ethic by now. They all send me off to the weekend with the biggest and most sympathetic smiles I have ever seen on their faces.

There is another red rose waiting for me on my doorstep. Of course. I wonder how long he plans to keep this up. I pick it up and open the door. It has become my homecoming routine to exchange the old rose from the day before with the newest one in a small glass vase on my kitchen table.

There is just enough time for me to freshen up and change into different clothes when Lesley rings at my door.

I am surprised to see her with two bottles of champagne when I open the door. She beams at me with her bright eyes and the broadest smile that I have ever seen on her face. "I am engaged!" she exclaims.

I stare at her for a moment, completely thunderstruck as she hands me one of the champagne bottles so she can show me her ring.

"Oh my god," I breathe as I stare at the beautiful piece of jewelry that graces her delicate finger. The ring is perfect. Silver and subtle, with a light blue stone that matches her eyes. Her boyfriend may be a little dull, but he sure has good taste when it comes to jewelry.

I look back at her and then do what girls have done for decades in situations like this. We scream, hug, laugh, and burst into tears. 

Well, Lesley does. I am not one to weep easily, despite my frequent outbursts with Cedric.

We get ready to open the first bottle of champagne. I love Lesley for being so well prepared. Both of us are good drinkers, and she anticipated that one bottle wouldn't do the trick.

She follows me into the kitchen. Of course, she notices the red rose on the table.

"Ooh, what have we here?" She beams.

I am busy placing the second bottle in the fridge and fetching glasses for us, so there is a good excuse for me to avoid eye contact.

"A new lover?" she guesses.

"Nah," I lie. "Just a treat to myself. A little something to lighten up the kitchen."

"Mhm," she makes. 

I am sure she doesn't believe me. But my terrible lies are enough for her to know that this is something I don't want to talk about. Luckily, we have a silent understanding when it comes to these things.

We retreat to the living room and lounge on my couch, clinking glasses and sipping our champagne while Lesley retells the story of the proposal.

It was sweet. He took a day off today and surprised her at work, all arranged with her boss and her coworkers. He kidnapped her from her desk to take her to the little park where they have had one of their first official dates years ago. There, he had prepared a little picnic for her. And - dull or not, but very classic- he went down on his knees and proposed.

Of course, there are more details to the story, and Lesley is very good at remembering them. Every little hint, every little smile, and gesture.

I am so happy for her. But at the same time, I feel my own heart get heavier and heavier with every sentence I hear about her perfectly romantic proposal.

I hate jealousy and envy. I hate that these emotions are forcing themselves on me while my best friend is sharing this happy news with me.

We finished the first bottle of champagne by the time she finished her story. But Lesley wouldn't be Lesley if she didn't ask to open the second one right away.

Both of us are already beyond the point of tipsy, but while Lesley is understandably a cheerful drunk tonight, I am having more and more trouble keeping my emotions in check.

I haven't cried once since that dreadful day in Cedric's penthouse. Not once. There has been sorrow and a heart so heavy that I felt like it was literally dragging me down to the floor. But not a single tear.

Until tonight.

After I got back from the kitchen and refilled our glasses with help of the second bottle, we clink glasses anew.

Lesley turns around to look at me and asks, "Okay. Enough about me for now. How have you been? I feel like it has been
forever
since we really talked!"

Instead of coming up with a new round of bad lies and evasiveness, I stare back at her for a moment with a dumbfounded face - and then I start bawling.

I try to stop myself, but the urge is too strong. That damn alcohol!

Now Lesley is the one staring at me with surprised eyes.

"Oh my god, Renee," she gasps, leaning forward to pet me. "What is wrong?"

We have been friends for a long time, but in all those years, she has never seen me cry like this. Witnessing this sudden, teary outburst on my part must come as a shock to her. I cannot blame her.

I cannot keep this all bottled up inside any longer.

Just like the tears, the words start pouring out of me. 

I tell her everything. 

From the beginning. Starting from the very first day Cedric crossed my path. I tell her about the things he said in that office before she was asked to join us. I tell her about our incredible first weekend together, about his home, about our secret dates and his - and my - reluctance to go public with whatever it was that we were doing. I even tell her about Craig.

I tell her about my guilty conscience with regards to her. How much I hated lying to her and not being able to share any of it with her, my best and closest friend.

I tell her about the notes, about his secretive behavior, his lies, and odd ways of dealing with my discovery by trying to blame me for spying on him.

I don't tell her every little detail, especially about the things we did in bed together, but everything that I am willing to share and everything she needs to know to understand what exactly is going on with me.

It has been a very long time I talked this much about myself. I certainly never cried as much while giving a heartbroken monolog in which I talk about feelings that until recently I couldn't even relate to.

Lesley gasps with disbelief and reassures herself plenty of times that I am not kidding. That I have been dating her favorite author behind her back. 

As soon as she is willing to accept that all of it is true, she tries her best to comfort me and just listens to what I need to share.

"Wow," she breathes as I close my narration. "I... I'm... I mean, just wow. You and
Cedric Crow
?"

I look at her through teary eyes, unsure what to reply. Of course, to me he is just Cedric. Cedric, the man who freed me from that bubble of indifference that I had been living in before we met. Who introduced me to a world of delicious pain, pleasure, and passion. The man who finally made me feel at home while still keeping me on my toes.

The man I fell in love with.

To her, he is still Cedric Crow. The aloof and mysterious thriller and suspense writer, a star with millions of fans and billions in his bank account. A person that she would have never dreamed of to come this close to. Or to even be in the same room with him.

"So, basically what you're saying is that...," she concludes reflectively. "That you were his muse?"

I furl my eyebrows.

"That is what he calls it, yes," I reply. "But I would call it test subject. Or laboratory rat."

"That's a bit harsh, don't you think?" she interjects.

"It was invasive and inconsiderate of my privacy," I insist. "And he lied. He never told me about his notes and the way he was using me. He betrayed me. Who knows where this would have ended-"

"Yes, exactly," Lesley interrupts. "Who knows! Now that you broke off things with him, you will never know if his intentions really were as bad as you think they were."

I frown at her. Is she seriously defending him?

"What are you trying to say?"

"Well," Lesley utters. "I think you are overreacting a little. Especially this whole ignoring him and not replying to his messages. I bet the rose is from him, too?"

I nod silently.

"That's so typical," she says. "You're afraid. You feel vulnerable and are scared of him because he makes you feel weak and exposed. It's your silly way of protecting yourself."

"It's not silly," I defend myself. "It's smart. How can you be so sure that he is not playing some sick little game with me? That he lures me back in just to drop me as soon as his book is finished?"

"I cannot be sure," Lesley admits. "But how can you be sure that he does not have real feelings for you? You didn't even give him a chance to explain or to prove himself, did you?"

I snort.

"You said he always locked himself away when he worked," she adds. "And he never had has notes lying around like that. You would have had to enter his office if you wanted to stalk him, right?"

"Yes, so?"

"Well, maybe he is just as gauche as you are," she says, raising her hand in defense when I make a move to object.

"Maybe he wanted you to find them," she continues. "Why would he suddenly be so careless to let his stuff lie around like that? Open for you to see? I highly doubt that he actually forgot about it."

I don't know what to reply to that. For some reason, that thought never occurred to me. If that has been his plan, I most likely failed the test that came along with it.

"It could have been his weird way of opening the conversation," Lesley goes on. "In any case, I really think you should talk to him again. I agree with you. He has some explaining to do. But how can he do that if you don't even want to listen?"

"You just want me to date him because he is Cedric Crow!" I accuse her.

Lesley shakes her head.

"No, I want you to date him because I have never seen you like this before."

"Like what?"

She looks at me, cautiously raising her eyebrows.

"In love," she says.