Burning in Madness Chapter 06
I stared coldly down at the man whose single signature could send shockwaves through Wall Street.
Right now, he was on his knees between my legs.
The skin around the freshly inked “C” on his taut chest was still an angry red. He raised his hands, offering up the midnight–blue silk tie–the ultimate symbol of his rigid boundaries–like a penitent at an altar.
I took the silk from his palms, still warm from his touch. He didn‘
t even flinch as the fabric brushed the vicious scratches on his skin.
He just kept those bloodshot, feral eyes locked on mine, waiting for his sentence.
“Remember how you look right now, Arthur.”
Without hesitation, I looped the obscenely expensive silk around
his wrists and yanked. Tying that knot bone–tight wasn’t just a
physical restraint–it was the fracture that shattered his iron
control.
A ragged, guttural sound tore from Arthur’s throat. He didn’t fight the bindings. Instead, he used the momentum to crash into
me, pinning me against the heavy mattress.
No holding back. His bound hands braced hard on either side of my head, completely oblivious to the tight silk biting mercilessly into his wrists. His hammering heart and scalding
tattoo pressed flush against my chest.
His mouth crashed over mine like a dying man finding water.
It was absolute plunder. Tasting of whiskey and copper, he
invaded my mouth, his grip on my jaw tight enough to swallow
my gasps.
“Chloe… MINE…”
With a savage tug, the delicate black lace bodysuit shredded beneath his grip. The hard line of his jaw scraped my skin.
The restraint only seemed to fuel his frantic obsession; completely dead to his own pain, he gripped my waist like a vice, the strain tearing at his bound flesh as he nailed me flush
against the bed.
“slow down, Arthur…” I gasped, my nails digging half–moons
into his corded back.
He was deaf to it. A full year of his icy facade, three hundred
days of repressed, dark obsessions–all of it shattered.
I was a frail boat in a hurricane, swept entirely into the violent
crests of his rhythm. In the dim light, his scarlet eyes pinned me
down, drinking in every trace of the ruin he was wreaking on
me.
Right at the absolute peak, when my sanity was about to snap, this tyrant suddenly buried his face in the crook of my neck.
He locked his arms around me tight enough to crack ribs, as if
trying to fuse me into his very bones.
“Don’t leave me.”
His voice was utterly wrecked, raw with a choking sob that
shook me to the core. “I’m yours… Please, don’t cast me aside.”
Here, at the height of his absolute domination, he laid bare his
most desperate plea.
My logic short–circuited. I locked my arms around his sweat- slicked back and followed him down into the madness.
The next day, the blistering sun sliced through the morning like a blade.
I woke up with a deep, full–body ache, as if my skeleton had been dismantled overnight.
Memories hit me like a freight train: the blood–stained tie, the shredded lace, his maddening demands. I pushed myself up on trembling arms.
The massive bed was empty. The sheets beside me were ice–cold.
The suite was immaculately clean–even the splintered mahogany door had been replaced. If it weren’t for the shocking canvas of red and purple marks bruising my skin, I’d have thought the whole absurd night was a fever dream.
“Bastard,” I muttered, pulling on his dark gray bathrobe and padding barefoot into the living room.
My eyes flicked to the glass coffee table. The divorce papers I had left there to provoke him were gone.
My stomach dropped. Given his rabid, territorial display last night, he should have shredded those papers with his bare teeth.
Marching back to the bedroom, I reached for the glass of water on the nightstand. Beneath it lay a heavy, textured piece of stationery embossed with the Rothwell crest.
The handwriting was jagged, pressing hard enough to nearly tear the paper. His hand must have been shaking:
[I couldn’t hold back. I ruined you with the filthiest part of myself.]
[Seeing the marks I left on your skin… I feel like a monster just breathing the same air as you. This is an unforgivable sin.]
[Meet me at noon in my top–floor office at the Manhattan headquarters. The legal department has prepared a massive settlement package alongside the finalized divorce agreement.]
[I’m sorry. I signed it. I’m setting you free.]
My eyes locked onto those last four words. “I’m setting you free.
The lingering warmth in my chest instantly iced over. A surge of absolute, blinding rage exploded from my bones.
Arthur Rothwell. You miserable, self–flagellating, pathologically oblivious idiot.
What gave him the right to force himself on me, beg me in tears not to leave, only to wake up, play the hypocritical savior, and unilaterally dictate this divorce?
Did he think he was some beast who tainted something pure, so he could just drop half his net worth and ride off as a martyr?
“In your dreams, coward,” I sneered, shredding his pathetic note into the trash.
I yanked open the walk–in closet, kicked the useless soft slippers aside, and reached straight for the top shelf. I pulled down my most aggressive, five–inch red–bottomed stilettos.
Fuck his dignity. Fuck his old–money propriety.
See you at noon?
Fine.
I was going to march into his Wall Street citadel, strut right past his board of directors, and slap the martyr right out of him.
This time, I was going to break that goddamn savior complex of his with my bare hands.