Behind The Mask

Chapter 3: The Spark and the Flame

POV: Fiona

I walked up the grand staircase, my back straight and my head held high. I could feel Maxwell’s heavy, dark gaze burning into my back with every step I took, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of looking over my shoulder.

I reached my bedroom and quietly closed the door. The lock clicked into place.

Finally, I was alone.

I leaned my back against the heavy wooden door and slowly slid down until I was sitting on the floor. I pulled my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them.

I looked down at the expensive red silk dress I was wearing. I suddenly hated it. I hated everything in this house.

I closed my eyes, resting my forehead against my knees. My mind pulled me backward. Away from the quiet, cold mansion.

My memory dragged me back three years, straight into a wall of loud, thumping bass, flashing neon lights, and the smell of cheap tequila mixed with expensive cologne.

Three years ago.

The VIP lounge at The Velvet Room was packed, and the tips were the only thing keeping a roof over my head. My father had passed away not long ago, leaving behind nothing but grief and a mountain of unpaid medical bills. I was working double shifts, surviving on four hours of sleep and cold coffee.

I was exhausted, but I was a fighter. I had fire in my veins back then.

"Table four needs another round of scotch," my manager, named Paul, barked at me as I rushed past the bar. "And make it the good stuff. That’s Maxwell Jordan’s table. Do not mess this up, Fiona. He practically owns half this city."

I grabbed the heavy silver tray loaded with crystal glasses and an expensive bottle of scotch. I didn't care who Maxwell Jordan was.

I pushed my way through the crowded club, dodging dancing bodies until I reached the roped-off VIP section.

There he was.

Even in the dim, flashing lights of the club, Maxwell Jordan commanded the room. He was sitting in the center of a curved leather booth, surrounded by men in expensive suits and women wearing too much makeup. He had a glass of amber liquid in his hand, his dark hair slightly messy, and his tie loosened around his neck. He looked bored, dangerous, and incredibly handsome.

I stepped up to the table, keeping my face strictly professional.

"Your scotch, gentlemen," I said loudly over the music, leaning over the table to set the glasses down.

I started placing the drinks on the table, moving quickly so I could get back to the bar. But as I reached across to set down the final glass, a large, warm hand suddenly wrapped tightly around my wrist.

I gasped, my head snapping up.

It was Maxwell.

He pulled my arm, forcing me to stumble forward slightly. His dark eyes locked onto mine. Up close, I could smell the sharp scent of alcohol on his breath, mixed with mint and expensive cedarwood.

"What's the rush, sweetheart?" he asked. "Why don't you stay and pour the drinks for us? Or better yet, why don't you just sit on my lap?"

His friends burst into loud, obnoxious laughter. One of the women next to him glared at me with pure jealousy.

My blood boiled.

"Let go of me," I said firmly, trying to yank my wrist out of his grip.

But his hold only tightened. He leaned in closer, an arrogant, mocking smirk playing on his handsome lips. "I don't think you know who you're talking to. I asked you a question. How much for you to clock out right now and keep me company for the rest of the night?"

He reached his other hand out and casually tucked a stray piece of my hair behind my ear, his fingers brushing against my cheek in a slow, insulting caress.

He thought he could touch me. He thought he owned me just because he had money.

The fire inside me exploded.

Without even thinking, I raised my free hand. I swung my arm back and brought my palm across his face as hard as I possibly could.

SMACK.

The sound was sharp and incredibly loud. It was so loud that the laughter at the table died instantly. For a few seconds, it felt like the entire club had frozen in place.

I breathed heavily, my chest heaving as I glared down at him.

Maxwell's head was turned to the side from the force of my slap. Slowly, he turned his face back to look at me. A bright red handprint was already forming on his sharp jawline.

The smirk was completely gone. His look should have made me run away terrified. But I stood my ground, my chin tilted up defensively.

"Don't ever touch me again," I hissed.

Before Maxwell could even open his mouth, a terrified voice broke through the silence.

"Mr. Jordan! Oh my god, Mr. Jordan, I am so sorry!"

It was Paul, my manager. He practically threw himself over the velvet rope, his face pale with absolute panic. He looked at the red mark on Jordan's face and looked like he was about to faint.

"Are you out of your mind?!" Paul screamed at me, grabbing my shoulder and yanking me roughly away from the table. "Do you know who this is?!"

"He grabbed me!" I yelled back, pointing a trembling finger at Maxwell. "He put his hands on me!"

Maxwell didn't say a word. He just slowly lifted his hand and rubbed his jaw. He looked at me as if he were studying a fascinating new puzzle he couldn't wait to tear apart piece by piece.

He leaned back against the leather booth, pulling a thick clip of hundred-dollar bills from his jacket pocket. He tossed a stack of money carelessly onto the table.

"I don't want to see her face in this bar again," Maxwell said to the manager, his voice dangerously calm and flat. "Handle it."

Paul nodded so fast I thought his head would snap off. He grabbed my arm, his grip bruising, and dragged me away from the table.

"Let me go!" I struggled, but Paul was too strong. He dragged me all the way to the back alley behind the kitchen and shoved me out the metal door into the cold night air.

"You're fired, Fiona!" Paul shouted, his face purple with rage. "You are done! You just assaulted our biggest VIP. Don't come back for your final paycheck. Be grateful he didn't call the police and have you locked up!"

"He assaulted me!" I screamed, tears of frustration stinging my eyes.

"No one cares!" Paul spat back. "He's Maxwell Jordan. You're just a waitress. You're nothing. Now get out of here before he decides to ruin my business too."

The heavy metal door slammed shut in my face, the lock clicking loudly.

I stood alone in the dark, dirty alleyway. The cold wind bit through my thin uniform shirt. I looked down at my hands. They were shaking violently. My palm still burned from where I had slapped him.

I had just lost my job. I had rent due in two days. I had medical debt collectors calling my phone every hour. I had absolutely nothing, and now, my only source of income is gone.

A single tear slipped down my cheek. I hated that man. I hated Maxwell Jordan with every fiber of my being. I swore to myself right there in the alleyway that I would never let a man like him have power over me again.

Present Day.

I opened my eyes, the memory fading away, leaving me back in the cold reality of my bedroom floor.

I let out a dry, bitter laugh that echoed in the empty room.

I had sworn never to let him have power over me. And yet, here I was, three years later. Wearing a wedding ring bought with his money. Trapped in his house. Forced to endure his cruelty because of a legal contract I was too desperate and foolish to sign.

He had not just gotten me fired that night. He manipulated me into falling in love with him, all so he could use me to secure his inheritance.

He broke my spirit on purpose.

I slowly pushed myself up off the floor. I walked over to the mirror hanging above the dresser and looked at my reflection.

As I stared at the red dress, a tiny, unfamiliar spark suddenly ignited in the pit of my stomach. It wasn't hope. It wasn't love.

It was anger. Cold, sharp, and perfectly clear.

He wanted a wife who was nothing but a pawn? Fine. He wanted a woman who wouldn't demand his love? Fine.

I reached around to my back and unzipped the red silk dress. I let it pool onto the floor at my feet. I stepped out of it, kicking it into the corner of the room like a piece of garbage.

I was done crying over Maxwell Jordan. I was done waiting for a heart that didn't exist.

If he thought treating me like a ghost would break me, he was wrong. Because ghosts do not feel pain. Ghosts don't cry.

Ghosts just haunt you until you go.