Biting my lip, I gave him my most seductive smile, praying it was worthy of someone like him. “Then what’s stopping you?”
The answer, we both found, was nothing. From that moment on, I was his and he never let me forget it. For the first time in my life, I felt wanted, desired, and as he promised to take care of me, I knew I was a goner. He swept me off my feet in just one night, and never set me back on the ground. Our romance was a passionate whirlwind as we were caught up in each other, both addicted and barely able to spend time apart.
Since my parents had died, I’d been on my own, struggling to make ends meet as my student loans and seemingly never-ending bills began to pile up. I’d still been unable to find a job in my career field, and I was barely scraping by, living paycheck to measly paycheck thanks to my receptionist job. Much to Adrian’s chagrin, I insisted on keeping my apartment, mostly out of pride. I wanted to make my own way, not allow a man to pay the way for me. I balked the first few times he showed up with gifts. First, a Coach purse. Little presents here and there as a reminder that he was thinking of me. Once he even showed up with a Tiffany necklace—absolutely flooring me. Each time, I downright refused, knowing I didn’t deserve them, but then he’d give me that sexy pout until I gave in. He liked spoiling me. He wanted to do it, he insisted.
So, eventually, I let him. Besides, I needed a new wardrobe, and he could afford to buy me one. I couldn’t exactly go out with him to business dinners and cocktail parties in my Levi jeans and a tank top from Target while he was dressed to the nines in Armani. He enjoyed pampering me, and I, in all honestly, loved being pampered. Especially by Adrian.
Three months from the first night we met, he whisked me away to Paris for New Year’s Eve, and under the shining stars and fireworks, he professed his love just as the clock struck midnight, taking us into a new year, a new chapter of our lives. And I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I loved him, too. The rest of the trip was spent in the hotel room as he consumed me, mind, body, soul, and heart. I was no longer simply Gabriella Latham. I was Adrian Morningstar’s whole world, and I never wanted to be anything else.
Not long after we got home, late one night, following a passionate round of sex, he pulled me into his arms and told me that he’d had enough.
“Gabriella,” he began as his fingers entwined in my hair, tugging just enough to sting. “A woman as beautiful as you should not be worrying about silly things like paying the bills.”
I raised an eyebrow, sighing because this wasn’t the first time we’d had this argument. “Silly things? You mean things like living? Making ends meet? Sorry, Mr. Ivy League, but not all of us were born with a silver spoon in our mouths.”
“Move in with me,” he said, changing tactics.
“What?” I asked, my heart fluttering.
“Baby, you’re here almost every night anyway. If you move in, you’ll want for nothing. You won’t need to work that idiotic job, and you can pursue anything your heart desires.”
“It’s not idiotic, Adrian. And I have my student loans to think about,” I protested, causing him to grip my hair even tighter.
“Paid off,” he said nonchalantly, waving the notion away.
My eyes widened, and I tried to move, but he wasn’t allowing it as he tightened his hold. “What?!”
“Let me take care of you. You are mine, Gabriella, and if I have my way, you always will be. I’m a Morningstar. We always take care of what’s ours.” His tone was gruff, commanding even.
Even though I wanted to protest, I knew not to fight with him. If anything, I should be grateful. Still, I was confused about his Morningstar claim. As far as I knew, his father hadn’t taken care of him in a very long time.
Maybe it should have been a warning, but at the time, I found it romantic. Sexy, even. My very own American Prince Charming. He wanted to take care of me, and I wanted to let him.
What a fool I was.
I packed my apartment up and did as he wished, and for a while, I was in heaven. Here I was, a lonely girl with practically nothing, living like a queen, and I loved serving my king. However, over time, his possessive side increased tenfold. Being his was no longer enough. He wanted all of me. I wore what he wanted, when he wanted, and he used the excuse that he didn’t want other men looking at me when I was at work, which I didn’t do for much longer.
Under his advisement, I quit my job and took over his personal affairs. At first, I’d refused, wanting to maintain some sort of independence, but then he’d switched tactics. He’d pulled me into his arms and lovingly kissed my forehead as he reminded me who he was. The ever-important Adrian Morningstar, to whom appearances meant everything. Especially around potential clients.
What kind of man would they think he was if he wasn’t taking care of his woman? A man of his caliber wouldn’t have a receptionist for a girlfriend, so for appearances’ sake, I’d be doing him a favor if I’d quit. In turn, I’d be helping him, he argued. He’d let me be his right hand of sorts, an offer I couldn’t refuse. I didn’t know much about what he did, so the idea of getting to see it all firsthand was exciting. Then he put the cherry on the sundae when he offered to give me free rein in collecting artwork for his home. It would be my prerogative, he said—no expenses spared. I put my two weeks’ notice in the very next day.