Bound to the Biker King

2

TESSA

How was this possible? Why was this happening? How long had it been going on, too? Too many questions rolled through my head, each more painful than the last. My heart thumped in my chest, a frantic rhythm of disbelief and betrayal with every beat sounding like some cruel reminder of the life I thought I had—the life built on lies.

He loved me, didn't he? I replayed every moment, every whispered promise, every tender kiss that felt so real. The way he'd tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on my cheek like I was his whole world. The late-night talks, the spontaneous flowers, the soft "I love yous" that now rang hollow in my memory. But if he did, why was he with Lily? My wicked, conniving stepsister who’d always had a talent for taking what wasn’t hers.

I looked down at my ring, the one he had just had resized because he claimed he got it wrong the first time. Four years—four long years—and somehow he never got it right? I’d laughed it off, teased him about his lack of attention to detail, never once suspecting there was more beneath the surface. But now, looking down at the thin band around my finger, it hit me like a ton of bricks: it wasn't a mistake. It would have fit Lily's finger perfectly.

A lump formed in my throat, thick and suffocating, but I forced myself to stay hidden in the shadowed hallway, my back pressed against the cold wall. My heart screamed at me to confront them, to demand answers, but fear held me in place. My ears strained to catch every word from the room beyond, even as I wished I could unhear it all.

"That b***h got sick a few days ago and hasn't finished the piece yet," Garrett's voice cut through the tatters of my heart, sharp and cruel, torn of the warmth I thought was meant only for me.

I squeezed my eyes shut, biting down on my lip until I tasted blood, willing myself not to cry, not to break. But his words were daggers, carving into the softest parts of me. Was that how he spoke of me when I wasn't around? The woman he vowed to love, to cherish, to protect? A vow that now felt like a sick joke.

A cold, hollow sound, like the scattering of shattered glass across the floor, followed from Lily. "Well, you need to hurry her up. The client's been on my neck for days now, wanting to see her latest piece."

I pressed my trembling hand over my mouth to stifle a sob, my fingers digging into my skin as if the pain could anchor me. My art—my soul poured onto canvases, every brushstroke a piece of me—was nothing more than a business transaction to them. My sickness wasn't a concern, just an inconvenience. My passion, my purpose, reduced to deadlines and dollar signs.

I thought I was painting dreams, but all along, I was just coloring the bars of my own prison.

Garrett's tone was cavalier, arrogant, laced with a smugness that made my skin crawl. "Tessa will get it done. All I have to do is buy her a few more flowers, kiss her on the forehead, and she'll be energetic enough to finish it."

I felt the air leave my lungs, a silent gasp caught in my throat. Tears pricked at my eyes, blurring the edges of the dimly lit hallway I now stood in, clutching at the wall for support. Each word was like a cut, shredding the illusion I'd clung to for four years—an illusion painted with tender moments and whispered promises, all nothing more than a carefully crafted lie.

Flowers and forehead kisses. That's all I was to him. A puppet on strings he could pull with shallow gestures, a fragile doll he could wind up with hollow affection whenever he needed another masterpiece. My heart, which had been full of warmth for him, now felt like a brittle shard of glass cracked beyond repair.

"When are you going to divorce her?" Lily snapped, her voice sharp and impatient. "I'm tired of sneaking around."

The casual cruelty in her words was a slap to the face. Tired of sneaking around? She was tired? I bit down hard on my lip, tasting the metallic tang of blood as rage mixed with heartbreak. How long had this been going on right under my nose, camouflaged by fake smiles and forced sisterly affection?

Garrett let out a long sigh, the sound dripping with irritation, as if the very thought of dealing with me was a burden. "We've made a fortune from selling her paintings. If I divorce her, I'll never get another piece from her. How else do you expect to keep up with the name Moonlight when people ask about you?"

My knees must have buckled slightly under the weight of his words, crashing over me like a tidal wave. Moonlight, a name I'd built, an identity I'd poured my soul into with every brushstroke, every sleepless night spent perfecting my craft. They didn't love me; they loved what I could give them. My talent was their golden goose, and I was nothing more than the cage it lived in.

Lily’s response was cold, void of any emotion. "I’ve retired."

Retired. Like my art was a job she could clock out of whenever she pleased. How my existence, my passion, my very essence had been reduced to a business arrangement between the man I loved and the sister I trusted. I mashed my fist against my mouth, muffling the sob that threatened to break free as my heart splintered into pieces too small to ever put back together.

Garrett's laughter was low and twisted, filled with an almost dark satisfaction that made my skin crawl. "No. The truth will out. But I can lock Tessa up and make her work for me even if she is my ex-wife. She'll be my prisoner instead."

The words hit me like a physical blow, knocking the breath from my lungs. A sharp gasp escaped before I could stop it, the sound betraying my presence. My hands flew to my mouth, trying to shove the horror back down, but it was too late—I'd heard it. Every vile word. My heart pounded like a war drum in my chest, each beat screaming run.

Thankfully, I was barefoot. There were no shoes to betray me with echoes on the hardwood floor. My steps were silent as I stumbled back, my body trembling, my mind screaming in disbelief. That's what I was to him: a prisoner. Not a wife. Not a partner. A possession, a tool he could lock away and use at his leisure.

I didn't stop to think.

I turned and ran.

Out of the house and into the stifling darkness, the cold rain slamming down like the sky itself was grieving for me. It soaked through my thin pajamas within seconds, chilling me to the bone, but I didn't care. The tempest outside was nothing compared to the one within. My tears mingled with the rain, indistinguishable from one another as sobs ripped from my chest in ragged, gasping bursts.

Four years.

Four years of lies, of manipulation, of love that was nothing more than a mask. They had deceived me, stolen from me—not just my art, but my trust, my heart, my life. I’d been nothing more than a prisoner in a gilded cage, too blind to see the bars crafted from sweet words and tender gestures.

My feet hit the pavement, slick and cold beneath me. I didn't know where I was going, only away from the house, from them, from the truth that was too unbearable to be faced.

I stumbled onto the road, blinded by tears and rain, my mind reeling in a storm of betrayal and heartbreak. The world around me was a haze of darkness and headlights; the distant noises were drowned out by the deafening roar in my ears.

Then—a blinding flash.

A headlight too close, too fast.

The screech of tires ripping through the rain-soaked silence.

The roar of an engine, strain-ing to swerve.

I froze, my body refusing to move, rooted in place by fear and heartbreak. The bike missed me by mere inches; the rush of air in its wake knocked me backward. I fell on the wet pavement, scraping my knees against the rough asphalt; the cold seeped into my bones.

I lay there, shaking, soaked, and shattered.

The echoes of their betrayal still rang in my ears, louder than the storm around me.