Claimed

She broke his nose.
He broke her walls.

I didn’t mean to punch him.
Okay, maybe I meant it a little. The giant meathead was mansplaining champagne at a charity gala and my fist reacted before my brain caught up.
I expected him to call security. Instead he looked at me with these cold, calculating eyes and said, “Do that again.”

Chris Morrison is everything I hate. Rich. Powerful. Accustomed to getting whatever he wants. He runs in circles where women are decorations and men are kings. He says he wants to show me something. Says he sees through my armor to the exhausted woman underneath. Says he wants to break me open and put me back together.

I told him to go to hell.
He smiled and said he’d see me there.
Now I can’t stop thinking about him. About his hands. About the way he looks at me like he’s already won. About the way my pulse races when he gets too close.

I don’t submit. I don’t surrender. I don’t let anyone control me.
But Chris isn’t after my submission.
He wants my trust.
And that’s the one thing I swore I’d never give again.