His Blackmail Bride

Chapter 7: The First Cra*k

Serena woke up and the first thing she thought was, God, why does everything hurt so much? Like, seriously—had she been in a car wreck or something?

No, wait. Right. The desk. Marcus. Last night.

Her thighs protested the second she tried to roll over, this dull, burning ache that made her hiss under her breath. Lower back was worse, throbbing exactly where that stupid sharp edge had dug in, probably already turning into a bruise she'd have to hide under clothes for days.

And her lips... swollen, tender, tasting faintly metallic because she'd bitten them bloody trying not to moan too loud. Trying not to let him hear how much she—

No. Stop.

The memories hit anyway, fast and messy, like someone had fast-forwarded through the worst parts. His hands locking around her wrists, pinning them so hard against the wood she could still feel the grain. Him driving into her deep, rough with no pause, no gentleness, just this furious rhythm that made her whole body jolt. The way he'd growled her name, low and pissed off, like he hated that it was making him lose it.

And her—f**k—her begging. Actually begging. “Please, don't stop,” cracking out of her mouth until she came apart, legs shaking, vision spotting, everything narrowing to that one overwhelming pulse.

Then he'd just... pulled out. Stepped back. Turned and walked away down the hall without looking at her once. No "you okay?" No muttering "that shouldn't have happened." Nothing. Just the stupid “This doesn't change anything” and echo of his footsteps fading, leaving her sprawled there on the desk like discarded paperwork.

She stayed in bed staring at the ceiling, the fancy crown molding blurring a little. Shame curled in her stomach—hot, ugly, familiar. Anger chased it, sharp and familiar too. But underneath both, this stubborn heat still lingered low in her belly, like her body was mocking her. Still wet, still sensitive, still remembering every inch of him.

It's just s*x, she told herself for the hundredth time. Just hate s*x. Two-f****d up people using each other, that's all it is. Except her skin kept replaying the scrape of his stubble, the way his fingers bruised her hips, the exact second the burn flipped into pleasure so intense she almost blacked out.Why does my body have to betray me like this?

She finally dragged herself up. The sheets clung to her legs like they were pissed too. She kicked them off and shuffled to the bathroom. Turned the shower on scalding. Stepped under it and just stood there, letting the water pound until her skin went from pink to stinging red. Scrubbed everywhere, hips, thighs, breasts like she could erase him. Like soap and hot water could undo the way he'd felt inside her.

It didn't. If anything, every sore spot woke up more, every touch reminding her.

The towel wrapped tight like armor. She wiped the mirror. Stared. Dark circles. Puffy lips. That bruise on her hip was already purpling where his grip had been too tight. She pressed it once, winced—then dropped her hand like it burned.

She dressed in a black trousers, navy silk blouse buttoned high. Hair in a severe bun. Makeup to cover the damage and stared back at the mirror.

Good enough.

Downstairs felt too quiet, too big, too empty. Marcus's car was gone—she'd heard it leave before dawn. The kitchen smelled like coffee and something sweet. A silver tray outside her door, a teapot with her chamomile-honey (she'd mentioned it once, ages ago, stupid PR call), two shortbread biscuits. Neat. Thoughtful. Someone remembered. Probably him

She stared at it for a long beat, stomach twisting. Then she picked up the whole tray, carried it to the kitchen, and dumped everything straight into the trash. Porcelain cracked against the metal bin. Tea splashed dark across the white liner. Biscuits crumbled into sad little pieces.

"I don't need your pity," she whispered to the empty room. "I don't need a goddamn thing from you."

She made her own coffee and sat at the island with her laptop open. She logged into the company cloud drive. Folders spilled open, quarterly reports, investor updates, random transfers.

She scrolled with eyes scanning for anything off. There were little discrepancies. Money moved offshore, looped back in. Nothing big enough to blow the lid off yet, nothing more damning than what she'd already pulled from Theo's suitcase weeks ago. But she kept digging.

Then an old board minutes PDF from two years back. One line stopped her cold: Marcus had quietly vetoed a sketchy high-risk deal Theo had been pushing hard. The minutes dryly noted: "CEO Valdermont overruled due to compliance concerns."

Serena just... stared. He'd protected the company. From his own brother. She closed the file. Shut the laptop lid with a soft click.

"Why do you have to be good at anything?" she muttered to the empty kitchen. It came out half-angry, half-exasperated. She hated that tiny flicker of respect it sparked in her. Hated how it made her wonder, just for a second—if he really was the monster she'd built him up to be in her head. If maybe the lines weren't as clean as she needed them to be.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. Nora.

She picked up on the second ring."Sis?" Nora's voice came through soft, worried right away. "You missed our check-in yesterday. You okay over there?"

Serena leaned her elbows on the cool marble, rubbing her forehead. "I'm fine. Just... busy."

"You don't sound fine. You sound wiped out. What's going on?"

Serena closed her eyes. "It's hard. The house. The pretending. All of it."

A pause. Then Nora, quieter: "Is it him? Marcus?"

Serena let out a small, tired laugh that didn't have any humor in it. “Theo ruined me. Job, name, everything. Left me at the altar. Now I'm married to his brother, living in this ridiculous place, trying to destroy them both.”

“I know,” Nora said softly. “I saw it. You crying for days. No one hiring you. Selling your apartment. He tried to erase you. You deserve to take it back. Burn it down.”

Serena's throat closed up tight. "I'm trying."

"But Serena... don't lose yourself, okay? Revenge doesn't fix anything. It just makes you colder. And you're sounding colder”

Serena swallowed hard. "I'm not cold. I'm close. One more solid piece and I can end this."

Another quiet beat. "And then what? When it's all ashes? When Marcus is ruined too? Do you think you'll feel free? Or just... empty?"

Serena didn't have an answer.

Nora kept going, gentle but steady. "Theo took your reputation. Your career. Your dignity. You deserve to take his empire. But don't let him take your heart while you're at it. Call me when you're ready to come home. Door's open. Love you."

"Love you too." The call ended.

Serena sat there with the phone still in her hand, coffee going cold besides her. Nora's words circlling in her head. Theo had taken so much. She had every right. She wasn't destroying herself. She was destroying them.

Evening rolled in quicker than she expected. The PR staged dinner again. Small, fancy spot in Manhattan. Mandatory photo-op couple stuff.

Marcus was waiting when she came down the stairs: black suit, open collar, hair still damp like he'd just showered. He didn't say a word about how she looked. Didn't say much of anything. Just held out his arm. She took it, her fingers barely resting on his sleeve.

The car ride was dead silent. New York traffic buzzed and honked around them, life happening outside while they sat locked in their own tension.

Photographers were camped outside the restaurant. Marcus slid his hand down her back, firm and claimingfor the flashes. Heat shot through her instantly. She hated how her body reacted, how it remembered last night and wanted to press closer.

Inside they sat across from each other. Made small talk for the room, business trends, the weather, nothing that mattered.

Once the waiter cleared the appetizers, Marcus leaned in a little. "You threw the tea away."

She met his eyes straight on. "Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because I don't need your little gestures. I don't need you pretending you give a shit."

He didn't flinch. "I'm not pretending. I actually don't give a s**t and I'm only doing what's necessary."

"Necessary?" She echoed it back, voice low. "To keep me in line? Keep the photos looking good?"

"To keep you safe."

She let out a short, bitter laugh. "Safe? In a house where your brother can break in whenever he wants, where your father calls me a distraction, where you f**k me against a desk and then walk out like it was nothing?"

His jaw clenched visibly. "Last night—"

"Was a mistake," she cut in. "You made that clear. Rules. No exceptions."

He didn't argue.

The rest of the meal dragged in strained quietness. When they finally stood to leave, his hand went back to her back. She shrugged it off the second they hit the car door.

In the backseat she stared out at the city lights blurring past. He didn't try to talk.

Back at the mansion she went straight upstairs and paused at her door. A plain white envelope had been slid underneath again.

She picked it up. Opened it with fingers that weren't quite steady. Inside was one printed screenshot from some trash gossip forum. Thread calling her a "gold-digger upgrade," "classless replacement," every ugly comment circled in angry red marker. At the bottom, in sharp black handwriting: They're only getting started.

Her fingers crushed the paper until it creased. She glanced down the dark hallway toward Marcus's wing, his lights were off.

She stepped into her room and locked the door behind her. The envelope felt heavy in her hand, like it was burning.

Someone was watching her. Closely. And they wanted her rattled. But she wasn't rattled. She was pissed.

Because if they thought a few cruel words on a paper would break her...They had no f*****g clue what she was really capable of.