But before I could get in, a hand grabbed my arm and spun me around, pinning me against the car.
“What are you doing here, Rheya?” Rheymond’s voice echoed through the basement, sharp and demanding.
With an innocent face and a hint of sarcasm, I replied, “Shouldn’t I be the one asking why you’re here, Mr. Charles?”
Ignoring my question, he fired back, “What do you mean by leaving the Penthouse? And why did you take off our engagement ring?”
He must have gone back to the Penthouse that morning, found it empty, and then tracked me down.
Before I could respond, he continued, “If you don’t like the ring, just tell me. I’ll replace it with a more expensive one. And who said you could come back to your apartment?”
This was his way, always imposing his will. If I didn’t accept his gifts, he would claim they were too cheap, or not good enough, and insisted on getting something better.
But he never asked what I liked, what my preferences were, or what made me happy. Everything was filtered through his perspective.
I remembered why I had moved to his Penthouse in the first place.