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Chapter 3: Fragile Lines
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2024-10-29 19:42:56Chloe’s Point of View
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the faint purple bruise that marred the skin of my arm. The imprint of Jonathan’s anger. I had been holding it together all night, keeping the tears at bay, but now that I was alone, the weight of everything pressed down on me all at once.
I gingerly trailed my fingers over the bruise, and a surge of emotion welled up inside that I couldn’t quite control-anger, sadness, frustration. How did I get here? How does one’s life spiral down to such a vain marriage replete with freezing words and unexpressed pains?
A tear rolled down my cheek and another until I couldn’t stop them. I buried my face in my hands, crying silently, ashamed that I’d let him get to me this way. I wasn’t supposed to feel anything for him. This was all supposed to be transactional, a means to an end. Yet, it was impossible to keep my walls up as the reality of our situation chipped away at them day in, day out.
The door creaked open, and I hastily wiped my face, straightening up. I hadn’t heard Jonathan come in. He was standing there, leaning against the doorframe-a glass of wine held in his hand. His usual acuteness was dulled; his gaze softer, unfocused. He was drunk.
“Chloe.” His voice came out low, rougher than what I was used to. Eyes that were once cold and distant now zeroed in on the bruise on my arm. His expression darkened, a shadow of something that seemed unfamiliar crossing over his features.
I said nothing but just watched him as he walked up to me slowly. Heavier with every step, the manner of his movements quickened my pulse; moving with the gait of a predator closing in on his prey, If that can be said.
He knelt before me, the wine glass set aside on the floor. His fingers came in contact with the bruise, and his touch was gentler than expected. A moment passed with neither of us uttering a word; the silence between us was thick.
Then, to my astonishment, he bend forward and laid his soft lips against the bruise.
I froze, my breath catching in my throat. His lips just hovered there, soft in a way I wouldn’t have believed he was capable of. When he drew back, his eyes met mine and for the first time, I saw something raw underneath the surface; vulnerability, regret, things Jonathan Wells never let himself display.
He stared at me, his face inches from mine, before, without warning, he kissed me.
It wasn’t gentle this time, but desperate and starving. I felt his hands glide around my waist, pulling me close as if he wanted to erase all that had happened tonight in a single act.
“Jonathan,” I whispered against his lips, trying to push him away, but he was hard, so heavy against me, the weight of him leaning on me made my body utter lies out of the sharp warning in my mind.
He leaned in, his warm mouth tracing a line down my neck to the hollow of my throat, and I felt my heart racing at the base of my ribcage, my mind flying out of control. I knew he was drunk, I knew this wasn’t right, yet the heat of his touch overwhelmed me, blurring boundaries between what I wanted and what I needed to resist.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his warm breath dancing across my skin. “I’m so. Sorry, Chloe.”
He kissed me again, the apology dissolving into the desperation of the moment. His hands roamed, claiming me in a way that said he wasn’t asking anymore. And for one dazzling moment, I was leaning into him, the tide of my emotions pulling me under.
But then reality snapped back into focus.
“Jonathan, let go,” I whispered again, much firmer, and I pressed harder against him.
He hesitated. His grip loosened the tiniest fraction, though his lips remained close to mine, his breathing ragged. The air between us grew heavy, a tangled mess of anger and desire and something I couldn’t quite name. And his eyes, locked on mine, searching for something. Maybe forgiveness. Maybe control.
Whatever it was, I couldn’t give it to him. Not like this.
“Jonathan. Please,” I breathed, my voice soft but steady.
For a very long moment, he didn’t move, only stared at me with the same intensity, the storm brewing behind his eyes. Then, in slow motion, he released me, pulling back. The distance between us felt like a chasm, but the weight of his presence still lingered.
He stood, running a hand through his hair, his face unreadable. “You don’t understand, Chloe,” he said, his voice thick with something so unlike him I couldn’t place it. “You think you know me, but you don’t.”
I looked up at him, still trembling slightly from the encounter. “Then show me,” I whispered. “Show me who you really are. Stop hiding behind this. This coldness.”
He didn’t say a word. He just glared at me for another long, heavy moment before turning and walking out of the room, leaving me to my thoughts, my heart still racing.
And as the door clicked shut behind him, I realized I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know the man behind the cold. Because what I had seen tonight scared me just as much as it pulled me in.
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Chloe’s Point of ViewI sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the faint purple bruise that marred the skin of my arm. The imprint of Jonathan’s anger. I had been holding it together all night, keeping the tears at bay, but now that I was alone, the weight of everything pressed down on me all at once.I gingerly trailed my fingers over the bruise, and a surge of emotion welled up inside that I couldn’t quite control-anger, sadness, frustration. How did I get here? How does one’s life spiral down to such a vain marriage replete with freezing words and unexpressed pains?A tear rolled down my cheek and another until I couldn’t stop them. I buried my face in my hands, crying silently, ashamed that I’d let him get to me this way. I wasn’t supposed to feel anything for him. This was all supposed to be transactional, a means to an end. Yet, it was impossible to keep my walls up as the reality of our situation chipped away at them day in, day out.The door creaked open, and I hastily wiped m
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Chloe’s Point of ViewI stared at my reflection in the floor-length mirror, hardly recognizing the woman staring back at me. The stylist Jonathan had hired worked her magic, transforming my usually simple, nerdy appearance into something. Glamorous. My hair, normally tied back in a practical bun, now cascaded in soft waves around my shoulders. The makeup softened my features, giving me a sophistication I never thought I’d possess. And the dress-a sleek, black gown that hugged my figure-made me feel like a stranger in my own skin.This wasn’t me. But tonight, it had to be.Jonathan wanted perfection for the charity gala, and I was supposed to play my part. It was a commercial night, nothing more. We would show up together, smile for the cameras, exchange polite conversation with the city’s élite, and then leave. Just like at every event we had attended since the marriage-a performance perfectly played out.I looked at my phone then headed downstairs. A text from Emily’s nurse was there
A Deal with Mr. Billionaire Chapter 1: Bearing the Cold
Chloe’s Point of ViewA month had passed since I signed my life away to Jonathan Wells. Days bled into the next, a continuous circle of obligation and playacting. The original shock that our agreement had created faded out, leaving a cold, grey indifference in its wake. Even the most spurious display of civility now felt akin to a laborious task. My role was more defined now, the sacrifices I made were clearer, and the thought of it weighed upon me like a heavy, crushing burden. Every day, I did the tightrope balancing act between my own discomfort and keeping up the illusion of a perfect marriage, while the true cost of my decisions did not exactly dwell in the farther reaches of my cognition.I stood in the master bedroom of our penthouse, staring out the window at the city lights extending below me. It was a spectacular view, yet I just couldn’t muster up any enthusiasm. The lavishness, the overindulgence-it was all so hollow. Cold. Just like him.Jonathan. My husband in name only.
