Chapter 8

The morning sun hit the dining room table, but it offered no warmth.

Jocelyn walked into the dining room like a ghost. Her eyes were swollen red. Her face was devoid of color. The memory of the dark storage room chewed on her sanity.

She avoided looking at the grand staircase. She sat at the absolute furthest end of the long mahogany table.

Earlean Medina walked in with a plate of bacon and eggs. She took one look at Jocelyn and frowned. "Miss Jocelyn, are you coming down with a fever?"

Jocelyn shook her head slightly. She picked up a silver fork.

Her phone lit up next to her plate. A notification banner from Chase Bank popped up on the screen.

Jocelyn tapped it. Her eyes widened in shock.

A wire transfer had just cleared into her personal checking account.

$500,000.00 USD.

The sender's name was printed clearly: Elam Turner.

Jocelyn's hand began to shake. The fork clattered onto the porcelain plate.

Earlean glanced at the screen. She smiled gently. "Mr. Turner is a hard man, but he takes care of you. He flew back overnight just to see you, and now this. He really does care, in his own way."

The maid's words felt like physical slaps to Jocelyn's face.

She stared at the massive number on the screen. The taste of blood and dust from last night rushed back into her mouth. Her stomach churned with violent nausea.

This wasn't care. This was payment.

He had assaulted her, humiliated her, and now he was buying her silence. He was pricing her dignity.

Jocelyn shot up from her chair. The wooden legs scraped harshly against the floor.

"I'm not hungry," Jocelyn choked out.

She grabbed her canvas bag and bolted from the dining room. She didn't grab a coat. She ran out the front doors and down the long driveway.

She ran until her lungs burned and her legs gave out. She collapsed against the trunk of a large oak tree near the estate gates.

She slid down into the dirt. She stared at the bank app on her phone. The tears she had sworn not to cry spilled over her cheeks.

She was a commodity. A toy he could break and pay for.

Jocelyn took a ragged breath. Her fingers flew across the screen, initiating a new transfer. She typed in Elam's account details from memory and sent every single cent back.

The moment the confirmation screen popped up, a tiny, desperate spark of vengeance flared in her chest. She wasn't entirely broken yet.

She wiped her face, stood up, and walked to the subway station.

Meanwhile, in the second-floor study of the Turner Mansion, Elam stared at his dual monitors.

A bank alert popped up. Transfer Reversed.

Elam's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. He had sent the money to buy her a new necklace. To apologize for losing his mind.

And she threw it back in his face.

He swept his arm across his mahogany desk. Folders, pens, and a crystal paperweight crashed to the floor. His absolute control was useless against her.

Jocelyn arrived at the Ivy League campus. The autumn wind bit through her thin sweater. She shivered and walked into the fine arts building.

She entered the life drawing studio. The room smelled strongly of turpentine and oil paint. The other students were already setting up their easels.

Jocelyn tied an apron around her waist. She picked up a stick of charcoal. She stared at the blank canvas, desperate to pour her trauma into the art and forget the man who caused it.

But as her hand moved across the rough paper, her mind betrayed her.

The charcoal scratched against the canvas. Instead of drawing the plaster bust at the center of the room, dark, heavy lines began to form.

She was in a trance. The trauma guided her hand.

Slowly, a pair of deep, oppressive, and violently intense male eyes emerged on the canvas.

Jocelyn was so lost in the nightmare that she didn't hear the clicking of heels approaching her easel.

Deirdre Phelan, the academic advisor and art instructor, stood directly behind Jocelyn.

Deirdre looked at the canvas. Her eyes narrowed into sharp slits. She recognized those eyes instantly.