And he literally held his life in his hands.
And he wouldn't stop using that fact against me, to get me to heel, to keep me submissive.
There was nothing I could do about it either.
I closed my eyes tight, feeling another couple tears slip out as Byron's voice barked, "Sheets, Miss. Marlow. Then coffee." In the bathroom, I nodded a little frantically even though I knew he couldn't see me. "Understood?"
I swallowed hard, not wanting him to hear the tears in my voice. "Yes," I called back, but even to my own ears, it sounded wobbly.
There was a pause before he moved away, closing the bedroom door with a quiet click.
I straightened, wiping my cheeks, then moving over to the sink, splashing cold water on my face.
It was okay.
I could cry. I could purge it out. I was going to allow that so I didn't implode.
But I was going to keep my big-girl panties on and do that shit at night, after my shift ended, in the privacy of my own bathroom. Then, like any self-respecting woman, I was going to put a cold compress on my eyes to erase all traces of it, then move the fuck on with my life.
I was not going to break down in front of Byron St. James again.
I was not going to be a meek, shrinking violet.
I was going to put my chin up, throw my shoulders back, do my job, and not let him break me.
With that, I went into his bedroom and reached for the sheets, grabbing them at the very ends and folding them in toward the center. I knew what happened on them the night before, ya know, seeing as I heard it and all. And, well, I wasn't touching Byron's or Lyla's dried bodily fluids. Nope. No way. With that, I gathered the pile, as well as the clothes in the laundry basket in the bathroom, and the towel he had carelessly thrown on the floor, and headed down the stairs to find someone who could tell me where the laundry room was. You know, like one of the three maids he employed to do things like the laundry.
"What the fuck are you wearing?" I heard said from behind me as I rounded out of the kitchen where the cook told me to go out, take a right, and go into the next room on the left.
I turned with a sigh at being interrupted, knowing Byron was going to give me one of those looks when I showed up with his coffee. Like I was late. Even though he didn't exactly give me a set coffee-drinking schedule. The question came from, what I imagined, was one of Byron's men. He was in his late twenties or early thirties with dark hair and eyes, dressed in the requisite suit all his men seemed to wear, his in gray and it was tailored perfectly over his fit, though somewhat slim, body.
"My uniform," I snapped, turning away from him and making my way to the door the cook, Ella, had directed me to.
I had just pulled the lid open on the washing machine when I saw the same man move in beside me, head tilted, looking me up and down. "Your uniform?" he repeated, dubiously.
"Yes. If you have a problem with it, please bring it up to your employer. My objections obviously fell on deaf and very stubborn ears."
"Byron is making you dress like a high-class hooker?"
"I guess it's better than a streetwalker," I mused, reaching for the detergent and pouring it into the filling machine. I turned over my shoulder to see him still watching me, brows pulled together. "Is this really surprising? He's an asshole."
"You think he's an asshole?"
"You don't?" I asked, turning fully to him, shaking my head.
"He's one of the nicest men I know," the guy said with a shrug.
Nice?
Nice?
"Last night he made me listen to him have sex with a woman who he told directly after sex that he was a 'one and done' guy."
"Hey, at least he's honest. Have you talked to his other employees? I'm pretty sure they'd only have kind words to say."
"Then brainwashing must have been part of their training," I grumbled, closing the machine and moving toward the door. "If you'll excuse me, I have to get his coffee. Apparently his legs would fall off if he had to go get his own."
"Sweetheart," the man called and I stopped, turning with a brow raise. "I'm his meeting. Figure I'll save you the extra trip. I'll take mine with cream, no sugar."
"Right," I said, nodding and going into the kitchen. He really would save me a trip. I was sure Byron had purposely left out that he had a meeting just so he could force me to go get him coffee again.
Two minutes later, I let myself in the slightly ajar office door, handing the coffee with cream to Byron's guest and then making a big show of placing down Byron's mug carefully as not to spill a single drop. When I looked at his face, if I wasn't completely mistaken, there was a hint of humor in his eyes and around his mouth.