“He said he would let me f*ck his wife for one night if I keep his affair with Lesley a secret.”
I stared at him, unable to speak, unable to move.
Julian’s sudden insistence on this dinner. His overly cheerful mood. Lesley’s smug, knowing glance as they walked out the door. The liquor, unusually strong, pushed on me relentlessly. It had all been orchestrated. A meticulous, cruel set-up.
Deccan misinterpreted my paralysis for submission. His hand, which had been entangled in my hair, tugged me closer, bringing our faces mere inches apart. I could smell the expensive cologne and the repulsive scent of his lust.
"Now you know, Sweetheart... Julian won't mind. He expects it." He whispered.
The mention of Julian and Lesley together, coupled with the terrifc reality of my situation, snapped something inside me. The fear was instantly replaced by a volcanic eruption of sheer, blinding fury.
This wasn't just about a broken marriage; it was about survival, about my very dignty being crushed.
I didn't scream. I didn't beg. The tremor in my body ceased, replaced by a terrifying, cold calm. He loosened his grip, confident in his victory. That fraction of a second was my salvation.
My hand shot out, not to strike his face, but to seize the fruit knife lying on the floor beside the couch.
Adrenaline-fueled, I swung the small blade, a desperate, clumsy movement. Deccan gasped, his expression melting into vicious shock as the knife nicked his cheek. A thin line of blood immediately beaded and trickled down.
"You bitch!" he roared, stumbling back and freeing my hair.
Scrambling backward, I pushed myself off the couch, clutching the knife like a talisman.
"Stay away from me, Deccan," I spat, my voice low and steady."Julian may have sold me, but I am not bought. You will not touch me."
He watched the blood on his fingers, his eyes narrowing to slits of murderous intent. He was formidable, half-dressed, a terrifying blend of raw power and bruised ego. He took a slow, menacing step. "You actually think that tiny thing can stop me?"
"I won’t stop you from hurting me," I countered, locking my gaze on his. "But if you come one step closer, I swear on my mother’s grave, I will cut something off you, and you will spend the rest of your life regretting it."
The sheer, venomous intensity of my threat gave him pause. He was used to cowering victims, not defiant executioners.