Pamela's Point of ViewWeeks have passed since that unsettling phone call with Sinclair, and to my surprise, he hasn’t called again. Not once. Yet, his words still linger in my mind, shadowing every interaction I have with Rowan. I’ve tried to push it aside, to tell myself that maybe it was just a passing threat, a moment of malice from a man with a twisted grudge. But part of me wonders if Sinclair’s silence is only a prelude to something worse.Rowan hasn’t mentioned it either. In fact, we haven’t talked much at all since that day. It’s like an invisible wall has been built between us, a barrier that neither of us seems willing to cross. He’s busy, or at least that’s what I tell myself. Meetings, phone calls, late nights in his office. But I can’t shake the feeling that he’s deliberately avoiding me.Not that I mind. In some ways, it’s an advantage. The less we speak, the less I must put up with this confusing, awkward tension between us. It was easier, safer, when he was avoided.T
Pamela's Point of ViewThe night of the gala arrives quicker than I expect, and as I stand in front of the mirror, smoothing down the sleek black dress I chose for the occasion, I can’t shake the gnawing feeling in my stomach. I’ve been to a few events with Rowan, but none like this. The elites of the city will be there, the crème de la crème of society, all gathered under one roof. And for what? To judge, to scrutinize, and in my case, to find faults.The dress clings to me in all the right places, its elegance doing little to soothe my nerves. I force a breath, reaching for the necklace Rowan gave me for tonight—another gesture that feels more like obligation than affection. It’s a beautiful piece, diamonds glinting in the low light, but wearing it feels like wearing a chain."Ready?" Rowan's voice cuts into my thoughts.I look up to see him standing in the doorway, dressed to in a tailored fitted suit. His features are unreadable. No warmth in his eyes, only the same cold distance
Pamela’s Point of ViewI step from the cab onto rain that comes down in sheets, soaking me to the bone the instant my feet hit pavement. My hair feels plastered on my face, my clothes are soaked, and I can feel the water squeaking in my shoes. None of that matters. My sister is in the hospital, fighting for her life, and I have no one else to turn to but him-my father.I push the heavy glass doors open to my father's building. As I do, I try to suppress the shiver that threatens to run through me. The lobby is as cold and uninviting as it ever was, a perfect reflection of the man who owns it. The receptionist gives me a once-over; her eyes widen slightly at my disheveled appearance, but I don't stop. I am unable to. I need to see him.My father is in a meeting, but quite frankly, I don't give a damn. I stomp toward the conference room, not allowing all the staring and whispered conversations to be a deterrent against me. With every step that brings me closer, my heart beats more rapid
Rowan’s Point of ViewI watch as Pamela disappears into the rain, her drenched figure quickly melding into the darkened city streets. The corner of my lips curls into a smirk, the cigarette between my fingers flaring to life as I take a slow, deliberate drag. Something inside me stirs at the sight of her running away, desperate and hopeless—something cold, calculating, and satisfied.She's infinitely more beautiful when she's angry, I think, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the crisp night air. It’s almost funny how fast she can be driven to that fire-filled side, the one that makes her defiant even in the face of her own despair. And this is only just the beginning.I flick the cigarette to the ground, mash it with my heel, and stride toward my car. My driver opens the door, and as I slide into the back seat, I pull out my phone. My finger hovers over Tristan Jones's number before I press dial. The call connects in a ring or two, and I can hear the desperation in his voice before he ev
Pamela's Point of ViewThe sterile smell of disinfectant fills my nostrils, and I sit here in the dimly lit corridor of the hospital, staring off at the beige walls. Quiet beeping of medical machinery and the minimum shuffling of feet move into a rhythmic background to my tattered nerves. My sister Joana is lying unconscious in one of those rooms, her condition critical from the accident. I can't process the fear and worry wanting to strangle me.My phone vibrates in my pocket, pulling me from my reverie. I glance down at the screen to find a message from my father, Tristan Jones.[I can help with the hospital bills. I’m in the hospital.]I stare for a long time at the message.I've had a pretty complicated relationship with my father, ever since his new life with his new wife and two new daughters made it clear my sister and I were no longer priorities in his life. That sense of betrayal still burns.I see him walking down the hall toward me, his face a mask of resolution and relucta
Pamela's Point of ViewI freeze outside of this mansion; the façade is grand and imposing, a fortress that could not be breached. The man, so tall and imposing, so arrogant, draws me inside by a cool detachedness, his fingers firm on my arm yet not hurting me. The warmth and richness in the interior of the mansion did little to thaw the coldness deeply in my bones.Long corridors are passed, tapestries of the richest kind, floors shining bright, and walls adorned with expensive art catch my eye. Everything about this place screams of wealth and power, but to me, it's no different from a prison. My mind begins to juggle various thoughts. My father had sold me to this man-literally. It's a burning betrayal, but there's no time for that either. Somehow, I have to get out of this nightmare.We eventually stop before a heavy oak door. The man turns into me, his eyes gleaming with mirth in the dark and a glimmer of superiority.“You should know with whom you're dealing,” he says, his tone o
Pamela's Point of ViewThe weekend arrives faster than I expected. My nerves twist and tighten as Rowan’s sleek black car pulls into the driveway of a grand estate—larger than even his own mansion. The looming facade is more than intimidating; it’s overwhelming. It feels like I’m about to step into the lion’s den.My hands are clenched tightly in my lap, knuckles white against the soft fabric of the pale blue dress that had been laid out for me this morning. The dress is beautiful, perfectly tailored, but it feels like armor for a battle to which I am ill prepared.Sitting beside me, Rowan is impeccably attired in a fitted charcoal suit that accentuates sharp angles and exudes an aura of quiet command. He hasn't uttered a word so far during the ride; his gaze is out the window, lost in thought or perhaps he is just pointedly ignoring me. The tension between us is palpable, a silent war waged with stony glares and curt exchanges since I signed that damned contract.The car smoothes to
Pamela's Point of ViewThe dinner feels endless, a never-ending barrage of thinly veiled insults, passive-aggressive comments, and forced smiles. By the time dessert is served, the tension is so thick I’m afraid I’ll snap. The only thing remotely comforting is Rowan's hand firmly on mine beneath the table, reminding me of where I stand in this twisted arrangement. Every look Lillian gives me feels like a scalpel cutting into me, and Rebecca's smirking only makes it worse.Finally, when we rise from the table, Rowan stands and offers me his arm. I take it, feeling like a player in a play I never auditioned for. We walk in silence down the great corridors of the mansion until we reach Rowan's quarters. The door clicks shut behind us, and for the first time all evening, I allow myself to exhale.I turn to him, watching as Rowan loosens his tie with an air of nonchalance that makes my skin crawl."So," I say, bitterness seeping into my voice, "is this how it's going to be? A lifetime of p