Defiant Queen by Meghan March

Defiant Queen by Meghan March

Author:Meghan March [March, Meghan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Romance, Contemporary
ISBN: 9781943796038
Publisher: Red Dress Press
Published: 2017-11-14T08:00:00+00:00

Keira

I still have exactly one outfit from which to choose, but the only difference this time? It’s in Mount’s closet. I suppose I could attempt to turn one of his custom-tailored shirts into some kind of fashion statement, using a fancy tie for a belt.

The thought crosses my mind for all of two seconds before I take the black-and-white striped dress from the hanger and slip into it. Once again, it’s designer, expensive as hell, and fits like a dream. Oh, and the accompanying lingerie actually includes a thong and a beautiful lace bra this time, so that’s a plus.

When I open the door to Mount’s suite, V is waiting outside. He silently delivers me to work—sans hood—and I keep the plug in for the prescribed hour before sneaking into my bathroom to remove it. Then I bury myself in work and deal with one thing after another until I can almost forget this morning.

Almost.

I’m a widow.

It shouldn’t be a startling realization considering I’ve believed that for months, but knowing that it’s only now true is a completely different situation.

I should feel sorrow, or something, for the fact that Mount “took care of” Brett sometime after he left last night and before I woke up this morning. But, truthfully, all I feel is relief.

How terrible of a person does that make me?

I can’t even blame it on Mount’s influence, because after my first encounter with him in this office, I remember thinking that if Brett were still alive, I’d kill him myself for putting me in this situation. And last night, when he was describing how he’d kill my family, I wanted to rip the gun from his hand and unload every bullet into his chest, except for maybe saving a single shot to put right between his eyes.

I brace my elbows on my desk and drop my head into the cradle of my hands.

Who am I?

I suck in a wild breath and lift my gaze to the ceiling. I don’t recognize myself anymore. I’m sitting in my office, the one I’ve dreamed about having since I was a little girl, wearing clothes selected for me by a man who murdered my husband or had him murdered, and instead of going to the police to tell them what happened, I’m thinking about how badly I wanted him to fuck me on his desk this morning.

What is wrong with me?

It’s a question I can’t answer, so I go back to my pile of work, pretending I’m not being torn apart by a moral crisis I’m pretty sure is going to land me in hell because I can’t drum up a single bit of remorse.

I lose track of time, probably because my last conference call drones on for an hour longer than necessary as I negotiate the preliminaries of a supply contract before turning over the details to the lawyers to draft.

“So, we’ll see you in Dublin in a couple days to celebrate the deal in person at GWSC?” Roy asks. He’s a premium organic-grain supplier I need as a backup to my primary so I’m not sole-sourced.



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