“Why the hell did you resign from your post?” he demanded, his voice echoing off the walls. “You’re supposed to be my head secretary! I just learned you haven’t been working for days!”
I didn't even flinch. I carefully dipped my brush into the water glass. “You locked me in this house, Brandon. Have you forgotten?”
“Stop making excuses!” he snapped, crossing the room in three long strides. “The clients are a massive mess because you didn’t do what you had to do!”
Before I could answer, he lashed out. His hand caught the edge of my easel, violently shoving it. The wet canvas crashed onto the hardwood floor.
He stepped right on it, his expensive leather shoe smearing hours of my work into an ugly, ruined streak of paint.
I stared at the ruined canvas, my chest tight.
“I told you,” Brandon growled, leaning down so his face was inches from mine. “You are mine. So go to the office right now and arrange everything. Including the charity ball on the 17th of next week.”
The 17th. The night before my scheduled flight. The night before I was supposed to marry Vaughn.
I looked up at his furious, entitled face. Fighting him would only draw attention to my escape.