Chapter 3 I want to escape, but I can't.
881 Words
"Here."
Theodore handed the panties to Clarice.
Clarice lifted her head and saw his long fingers holding the delicate lace.
She lowered her gaze and quietly took the garment from his hand, careful not to meet his eyes. She was still mortified about flirting with him back at the bar.
Apparently, Theodore didn't remember. In fact, he couldn't even recall what his young wife looked like.
He turned away, just as Clarice spoke softly.
"Thank you... Theo."
She wanted to tell him she had already drawn a bath for him.
Theodore glanced back and saw her standing there with her head bowed, looking shy.
Shy? Not really. That was just an act—one Clarice wore well. For now, silence and obedience were her best strategy.
Theodore stared at her—fresh from the shower, wrapped in nothing but a towel, beads of water trickling down her bare shoulders, carrying with them a faint scent of roses.
Heat surged through his body.
"Come here," he said in a low voice, locking eyes with her.
Clarice gave him a quick glance, then stepped forward obediently. She barely took a step when Theodore pulled her straight into his arms. The scent of tobacco and whiskey enveloped her instantly.
What was he doing? Did he seriously want her... now?
Clarice couldn't help but wonder where all those rumors about him being impotent had come from. They'd only just reunited, and Theodore already looked like he was ready to devour her.
He wrapped an arm around her waist and leaned in to kiss her.
The kiss was hot and hungry, burning away every coherent thought in Clarice's head.
In bed, Theodore was surprisingly gentle—attentive, even. He cared about her pleasure, made sure she felt good. Physically, they were perfectly in sync.
But Clarice knew that wasn't enough. No matter how satisfying the s*x, deep down, she longed for something more—something whole, something real.
When she agreed to marry Theodore in place of Lydia, she had known exactly what role she needed to play.
Whatever he was like, whatever he wanted—she would yield, gracefully and sweetly, until the day he grew tired of her.
"You taste so good," he murmured, his tongue trailing across her lips, claiming her in a way words never could.
Clarice melted into him, her fingers curling inside his shirt. The way she touched him only made him burn hotter. His gaze darkened with desire.
Without warning, he lifted her into his arms and carried her straight to the bed.
"Looks like there's no need to put those panties back on," he said with a teasing smirk.
He loosened her towel slowly, then dipped his head down—deep—and began to kiss her, lower and lower, until he reached that secret place.
Clarice knew what was coming next—a long, breathless night of unrestrained, intoxicating pleasure.
-----
By the time the sun came up, Theodore was already gone.
What woke her wasn't the light—it was a call from her father, Charles Sullivan.
The Sullivan family had a decent name in Velmont. Charles and Clarice's mother had built the Sullivan Group from the ground up. It had taken them decades to earn their status.
But truth be told, compared to families like the Grants, the Sullivans didn't really count.
In Velmont, if Theodore so much as twitched a finger, the entire city would feel it. So when he showed up with a marriage proposal, Charles didn't even hesitate—he handed his daughter over without a second thought.
The funny thing was, Clarice wasn't the original choice.
That was Lydia—two years older, the daughter of Charles's affair. He and Margaret Sullivan spoiled her to the bone. But when Lydia refused to marry into the Grant family, they immediately turned to the daughter Charles never cared for—the one left behind after her mother died: Clarice.
"Clarice!"
The moment she stepped through the front door of the Sullivan estate, Lydia's furious voice rang out.
Before Clarice could react, Lydia had already raised her hand to slap her. But Clarice saw it coming and dodged with ease.
"Did you just dodge me?!" Lydia shrieked, livid.
What, was she supposed to just stand there and get slapped?
Clarice stared at her blankly, raised an eyebrow—like she was watching a bad comedy.
She gave Lydia a cold glance and turned to go inside, but Lydia suddenly grabbed her arm.
"This is all your fault! You ruined my dress—with paint!"
Last night, Lydia had shown up to a party in a brand-new white dress, expecting to turn heads. Instead, she got laughed at.
Right above her hip was a streak of red paint. Not big—but impossible to miss.
"Yeah," Clarice said calmly, not even bothering to deny it.
But was it really her fault? Lydia loved buying white dresses and pretending to be innocent and pure.
Her calm admission nearly made Lydia explode.
She raised her hand again—but then caught a glimpse of something beneath Clarice's collar.
Red marks. From her neck down to her chest. Obvious. Unmistakable.
Theodore's handiwork.
"Clarice, you're just like your precious sister Sophia. Deep down, you're nothing but a filthy whore."
- Writer
