How did he know I wasn’t done? I was lying in pieces, unable to move. He reached between us and rolled my already swollen clit between his fingers. I called out at the delicious pain. I didn’t know how much more I could take. The friction of his cock, in and out, the movement of his fingers. I couldn’t breathe as the mountain formed in the distance. Again his lips and teeth found my breasts. Kisses gave way to nips. The mountain had the highest peak I’d ever seen and the journey was long. Undaunted, Stewart pushed me upward, thrust, by thrust, until my entire body hung precariously on the ledge.

“Now!” he demanded, pinching my clit and drilling into my depth. My second orgasm hit harder than the first. My newly painted nails dug into his broad shoulders. It was the only way to keep from washing away as each new wave roared through me. Stewart screamed, “Oh, fuck!” as he slammed into me one last time. His engorged cock pulsed inside my now tender core as he collapsed on top of me.

Paralyzed and mute, I lay below my fiancé, surrounded by his warmth. When he finally moved, I was left feeling empty, until he pulled me close to his side and kissed my hair. “Go to sleep, my Tori. Tomorrow we leave for our wedding.”

IN CINDERELLA, THE handsome prince saved the poor girl from her wicked stepmother. In Snow White, the handsome prince saved the young, unwanted princess. Children’s fairytales of happily-ever-after began the process of planting the seed in young girls’ minds that princes truly existed. Many of the stories didn’t begin that way: instead, they originated from tales of brutality and violence devised by the brothers Grimm. With that in mind, perhaps the fairytales shouldn’t center on the prevailing of good, but the presence of evil. For without evil was there truly good?

The fairytale I’d been sold, the one that made the reality of my sale bearable, gave way to the true nature of my situation a little over a year after I became Mrs. Stewart Harrington. The façade of my prince shattered with my introduction to Stewart’s other apartment. With all that had happened, I’d forgotten about its existence, until that was no longer possible.

“Remember the contract, my darling,” Stewart said as he led me from the elevator in what appeared on the outside to be a warehouse in a more secluded part of town.

Though this was the first time he’d mentioned the contract since before our wedding, I wasn’t sure how he thought I could forget.

Up until the evening when I first saw the warehouse, my days were spent integrating my way into the world of the socially elite. I’d been welcomed with open arms and knives at the ready. As Stewart’s wife, no one dared publicly forbid me entrance into the clubs and organizations frequented by the upper one percent. Yet, I wasn’t naïve enough to assume that the welcome I received was the one shared behind closed doors. After all, I was younger than some of my new friends’ children, perhaps even grandchildren. There was more than what I saw on the surface. I would soon learn the depth.

I saw the looks as I was introduced. The women who invited me to play tennis and plan events were no more my friends than the girls at the academy had been. Thankfully, like most women, I’d been initiated early and I could hold my own. Being female enabled one the keen ability to smile politely and loathe internally. My mother’s influence continued to seep into my dark core. Stepping into her shoes had never been my plan, but plans change. To fulfill my new obligations, I wore the proverbial bitch boots proudly.

It didn’t take long for me to forget how Stewart and I began. I hadn’t expected love, but what I found was as close to it as I’d known. My heart leapt when Stewart praised the things that I did. I loved the gleam in his blue eyes as I walked beside him or held to his arm at the elite social events. No longer did it feel as though we were for show. I genuinely enjoyed his company and it seemed that he did mine. Whether at the apartment or at our sprawling mansion outside of the city, he was attentive and engaged.

Often, I’d accompany him on business trips, proud to be Mrs. Stewart Harrington. He’d been right when he told me not to worry about his age. I marveled at his prowess in bed and took each new introduction—each new position or toy—as an adventure. Never had I imagined the life I lived, and never did I regret my signature.

Not until that night.

Unlocking the door to his warehouse apartment, Stewart led me inside. I soon realized that we’d entered on the second level. As Stewart hit switches, the cavernous room below came into view. Standing at the banister, I saw the stark contrast to our downtown apartment near the beach. As opposed to floor to ceiling windows, this place had none; instead, the perimeter was nothing but tall brick walls void of decoration. Two stories above was the only possible source of natural light: a large skylight. Given the late hour, it appeared as dark and dense as the bricks.

In a corner of the room below was a kitchen with a granite-covered bar and three stools. In another corner were sofas, chairs, and a TV. The starkness of the furnishings reminded me of a struggling bachelor or college student. Though Stewart had only been married to me for a year, struggling hadn’t been a word that could be used to describe him, perhaps ever.

As I looked around, I couldn’t help but wonder why, with our downtown apartment and large estate outside of Miami, was this extra residence necessary? Silently, he led me down the stairs. When the staircase turned, my gaze settled on the area of the room that was not visible from the entry. My curiosity turned to horror as my heartbeat intensified and my footsteps stalled. Taking in the raised platform containing a large four-poster bed, bile rose in my throat. Near the platform was one large, overstuffed chair.