But she trusted me. For whatever reason, she trusted me. And she told me everything.

  She told me about the affair her mother had been having for years. She told me how she would see her sneak out at night, and how she would later follow her on her bike, hiding in the bushes as she watched her mother betray her family. Her heart curled to a ball of pain every time it happened, not because she felt sorry for her father, but because she felt betrayed and left out herself. She never had a good relationship with her strict father, relying on her mother’s love to make up for his austere hand at home.

  But her mother let her down. She broke free from her bleak life and a joyless marriage by seeking the company of another man, leaving her daughter behind. Petal hated her for that.

  For months and years, she watched her mother lie, leaving the house more frequently and for longer times, while her father remained oblivious, too busy with his shop and passing out from too many beers each night. Petal spent most of her time at her friend Malia’s house, playing house with a family that was less broken than hers.

  Until one day, she could no longer bear to carry her mother’s secret in silence. She wanted to confront her.

  She wanted to scare the living shit out of her mother, hoping it would bring her to her senses and return to a family that was falling apart.

  It was that desire for confrontation that got her mother killed. Petal wanted to be seen by her in a moment when she cast all thoughts about her daughter aside. She wanted her mother to see the accusing look on her face as she was on her way to the lover who appeared to mean more to her than her own family.

  All Petal did was to stand at the side of the road, taking a step forward to make sure she was seen, casting her mother a sinister look as tears of desperation streamed down her face.

  Her mother saw her. Her eyes were glued to her daughter, while her foot remained firm on the gas. She drove without slowing down, without looking ahead—and right into another car that hit her from the side as she passed a red light, rolled right onto a crossing and traffic that did not expect her.

  She died right before Petal’s eyes.

  And as the memory poured out of her, I gathered it all up, hypnotizing her deeper and deeper, almost speaking in a mantra as I held her in my arms, catching her tears and soaking up her pain. Her trauma did part of the job for me, making it almost too easy to erase the horrid images and the connected guilt from her mind.

  But more things had to vanish for her to live through this. Christopher is right when he says that she was never the same after. She didn’t only forget about her mother, but about him, too. About the friendship they shared, and the love that was about to blossom between two teenagers.

  He was pushed into the dark, just like many other people she loved back then. But others found their way back in, he never really did. His hate for me was born during that time, especially when he saw how close it had brought her to me. She never remembered our session, but she felt comfortable with me, safe and happy.

  There was a palpable connection ever since that day we sat in a close embrace, her tears drenching my shirt as she allowed me to help her.

  I stayed in contact with her as much as I could, but Christopher soon found help in her father when it came to pushing me aside. Both of them shared a deep running distrust and fear of the things I was capable of.

  Others admired me for it.

  Once word got out that I had saved ‘the girl who killed her mother’ from a lifelong trauma, more and more people showed up at my door, asking for me to do the same to them or a loved one.

  That’s how it started. All thanks to her.

  And I couldn’t even thank her for it, nor be the friend and guardian that I wanted to be for her.

  I had to watch my Petal from afar.

  Until the day she would finally become mine.

  ***

  No memory is lost forever. I know how to revive them just as much as I know how to delete them. And I have given her back everything she asked me for.

  But this memory is one I will take to the grave.

  Petal was smart enough to never probe for it, but even if she did, I wouldn’t let her go through that anguish of her mother’s tragic death again. I saw the abyss once, and I helped her to climb out of it. I didn’t do that to throw her back in just because honesty demands it.

  Does that mean our marriage will be based on a secret? A dark lie that could change everything if it ever came to light?

  Maybe.

  But I think it can be justified.

  As long as it remains to be the only one.

  Epilogue 2

  Petal

  I turn the ring around my finger, watching as the sun clashes with the flawless round diamond, sending tiny colorful sparks as it dances in the bright light. A warm breeze kisses the salty skin on my cheeks, carrying the taste of the ocean all the way up here to the balcony of our suite.

  I’m wearing nothing but a soft bathrobe, deceiving with its impeccably white color. It speaks of innocence while it covers the fresh bruises that are growing on the throbbing skin of my behind. I’m still trembling, walking on weak legs, my hands shaking as I bring the glass of water up to my lips. I still feel him inside of me, stretching my core while the vibrating plug in my ass tormented me, on the brink of coming for so long that the need for release became agonizing.

  Fiery streaks are blazing along my ass cheeks and my upper thighs, where the cane bit my skin. I deserved and welcomed every single one of them, thanking him for each blow that made me cry out in tears. They were always a blend of opposing emotions. Anguish, desperation, gratitude, appreciation. They came hand in hand, dancing in a circle, with each having its moment of fame as it passed the front of the stage.

  I still question myself in these moments. I still wonder who this person is. The girl who lets him do these things to her, who wants him to do these things to her.

  The girl who loves him for it.

  The tears that are streaming down my face right now are not born out of pain or desolation. It’s unbridled bliss that waters my face and paints my expression. A smile, so genuine and honest, that I’m sure it must look silly to the ignorant eye.

  My father would never approve of this. Any of this.

  He will never approve of him.

  And I have to be okay with that.

  When the dust had settled after my alleged rescue and the detention of Christopher, whose trial is still ongoing to this day, the first person who was called to be informed of my return was my father. I had no image of him in my mind when I was told that he’d be coming to pick me up, realizing that he had been erased, just like everything and everyone else.

  I sat at the station, wrapped in a redundant blanket, confused and scared as I waited for my father. They were still interrogating both Christopher and Jayson in different rooms, while I was placed in the waiting room, replaying the last few hours, days, and weeks before my eyes. I lived through every moment, every breath I took since I woke up in that dark basement room, connecting images and hints, producing memories and matching them to the things I’d learned about myself and my past ever since.

  When I saw the man walking down the hallway, approaching me with wide and hurried steps, a strained expression masking his middle-aged face when he saw me, I realized two things at once.

  I knew that man was my father. And I knew that he was the tall one among the three men I saw in my vision, the one who towered above all others and who made me slouch with unease as I felt his stern gaze on me. That intimidating effect is still there, even as I don’t recall the incidents that have formed my attitude toward him over the years.

  It was stiff and awkward between us, and even now—almost a year later—it still is. I don’t know if much would change if I choose to gain access to more of the memories that have made me the person who decided to turn her mind into a blank canvas. I was careful to decide which parts of myself I wanted to remember.

  The video Malia had shown me was only a small sequence of a longer monologue that we recorded before I underwent the procedure that would turn me into his Petal. I don’t remember anything about the procedure itself, but I remember the days leading up to it. I remember the conversations we had, Jayson and I, Malia and I, and the three of us together. I can’t recall the details of it, the specific concerns each of us addressed respectively, but I see us sitting together, I see the worry on Malia’s face and I hear her pleading as she begged me to reconsider.

  But I didn’t.

  Yet she was the first memory I asked to regain. Her pain was too much to bear and I hated the thought of her being bereft of her best friend. Jayson proved to be a master at his art. He held my hand, keeping my sorrows at bay as we slowly uncovered the friendship that Malia and I share piece by piece. She was there with me, smiling in a way I’d never seen her smile inside the mansion.

  And she’s here with us now, too. She was the only I told about our little plan, and the only one who came here with us, because I wanted her to be our witness. I haven’t seen her since the ceremony last night, and when I called her room this morning, it seemed that she was still sleeping, most likely still knocked out from the champagne we shared last night. She’s a lightweight and probably suffering from a hangover much stronger than mine. I hope it isn’t too bad. I plan to call her again in a few minutes. Just to make sure.

  My smile widens when Jayson joins me on the balcony, wearing a robe just like mine, and wraps his arms around me as he plants a loving kiss on my cheek.

  “Good morning, wife.”

  “Good morning, husband.”

  He steps next to me, keeping his arm around my shoulders as he squeezes me, pulling me closer.

  “We did it,” I say in a low voice, still in disbelief. “We got married. We eloped!”

  He chuckles. “Eloping in Atlantic City. Crazy enough for you?”

  “Just right,” I reply, full of confidence that this was the perfect choice. For myself, for us.

  All I ever wanted was to break out from the things that were expected from me, especially from my father. He holds a claim over me that is beyond any healthy father-daughter relationship, and the only man he ever wanted to share me with turned out to be a killer. Possibly. The jury is still out on that verdict. I don’t know what to believe, but the simple truth is, that there has been no new victim associated with the Bridgewater murderer for a year now, ever since Christopher was locked away and tied to the latest victim. Jayson had a legal contract that—supported by my statement—got him out of a tight spot when my father accused him of kidnapping me.

  “You don’t regret not telling him?” Jayson asks, still holding me in a warm and secure embrace.

  I shake my head. “I will tell him eventually, but I didn’t want him to be a part of this. He still feels like a stranger to me, and not the good kind.”

  “You know those memories aren’t lost,” Jayson argues. “I could always—”

  “I know,” I cut him off. “Thank you. But I don’t lack those memories. I wanted them gone for a reason.”

  I look up at him, meeting his loving gaze, the sun forcing him to squint as he smiles at me.

  “We’ll make new ones,” I tell him. “You and me.”

  “We will,” he promises. “And so will you and your father.”

  I sigh. “Why do you insist on that? Weren’t you the one who made sure I got away from him?”

  “Yes, but he’s still your father; he deserves a second chance,” Jayson responds. “And he was good to you once.”

  I know he’s referring to something that must have been lost in the black void of my forgotten memories. Something that is related closely to another that I need to keep hidden, so that it can’t be isolated and restored.

  I know, and I choose to stay ignorant. But I trust Jayson when he says that my father deserves a second chance. And I love him for insisting that I grant him this chance, no matter how much I wanted to discard him at some point.

  There’s still time—and so much ahead of me.

  I lean into Jayson’s embrace, a deep sigh leaving my lips as I relish the warmth of him, his protective arm still holding me, keeping me safe and reassuring me, once again, that everything will be fine. That I will go where I need to go. That I will do what I need to do. And that he will give me what I need to do all these things, to finally wander through life on my own terms.

  I meant what I said.

  It’s time for me to close this book and write a new one.

  With him at my side.

  Thank you for reading!

  Petal is very close to my heart and I hope you enjoyed reading her story as much as I enjoyed writing it!

  I also have to admit that I fell in love with Malia. I think we need to see more of her, don’t you agree? I feel like something happened to her in Atlantic City… I’m a little worried—and intrigued!

  Sign up for my newsletter and join my reader’s group on Facebook if you want to be among the first to hear news about Malia’s story!

  Need something to bridge the time until then? Just turn the page for a free sneak peak for one of my lighter Dark Billionaire Romances: Black Velvet.

  Also by Linnea May

  FREEBIES

  A hot & steamy Billionaire Romance about a mysterious thriller and suspense writer and his muse.

  His Secret Muse

  Prequel to The Velvet Rooms Series

  The Velvet Rooms (Prequel)

  Dark Billionaire Romances

  Stories of dark seduction, twisted desires and fateful encounters.

  The VIOLENT Series

  Silent Daughter

  Black Velvet

  Blue Velvet

  Red Velvet

  New Adult Billionaires

  New Adult Billionaire Romances with a college twist.

  MASTER CLASS

  For my Master

  Billionaires & Bohemians

  Bad Boy Billionaires and their artistic counterparts.

  TAMED: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance

  BARRED: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance

  Romantic Suspense

  Fast-paced & action filled stories that will keep you at the edge of your seat.

  Cards of Love: The Tower

  Connect with Linnea

  Linnea on Amazon

  Linnea on Facebook

  Linnea on Goodreads

  Linnea’s little Mayhem – Reader’s Group

  Linnea’s Newsletter

  BLURB

  A dark billionaire. A disillusioned beauty.

  ...and the twisted game of seduction she can't resist.

  She is paid to lie and seduce – but I don’t want her insincere moans and fake smiles.

  My investment in the elusive Velvet Rooms holds a promise for more.

  And I always get what I want. Always.

  No man ever made her scream and beg for release. A release that remained unattainable for her.

  She claims I’m asking for the impossible. I will prove her wrong.

  Because I know it’s not her body that needs to be conquered – it’s her mind.

  But our relationship rests on unsound footing, a contract and nothing more.

  And when my actions turn reckless, the vulnerable agreement may be our undoing...

  “Only fools rush in.”

  - Elvis Presley, “Can’t Help Falling In Love”

  Chapter 1

  Elene

  "Are you nervous?"

  Sandi regards me wide-eyed and grimacing, her thick false lashes fluttering in a state of distress while she hoists her bustier. Even as she tries to contain her boosted-up breasts in the form-fitting lingerie, her tits spill over the top of the cups. Her face twists when her long, manicured nails pinch the fleshy curves of her escaping cleavage and I can't suppress a small giggle.

  "Are you sure this is going to be okay?" I ask, jutting my chin forward. "It looks uncomfortable."

  Sandi replies with a dismissive wave.

  "Madam suggested it," she says. "Besides, beauty knows no pain."

  I nod in hesitant agreement and gauge my own ensemble in the full-length body mirror on the wall next to us. Unlike Sandi, I never invested in a boob job, so it's much easier for me to wrap mine in tight-fitting clothing. Still, my outfit is anything but comfortable. A corset is laced tightly around my mid-section, transforming my outline into the perfect hourglass shape, but barely allowing me to breathe. I don't plan on eating or drinking much tonight, but even if I wanted to, this getup wouldn't allow it. I'm not as endowed as Sandi, but the corset disguises my small chest by forcing what cleavage I do have up until it's nearly to my chin, and forcing my stomach to become completely flat.

  The bright, virginal white-laced corset, stockings, wrist cuffs, and four-inch heels all match. My rose-gold earrings match the little hooks lining the back of the corset and the somewhat tacky details on my heels.

  I skeptically survey my appearance in the mirror. White is not my color. With my pale complexion and platinum-blonde locks framing my face, it makes me look like a ghost. Black suits me better.

  Madam made the final decision about clothing colors; it wasn't my choice. White was for the innocent angels, black for the naughty devils.

  Sandi is sporting the latter.

  "So, you're not nervous?" she repeats her earlier question.

  Our eyes meet in the mirror, and I see her lips curve into a smile when I offer a tight nod. "Oh, yes, I am."

  She sighs with relief. "It's not just me then. Thank God."

  "I have never done this," I say, now turning to her. "I don't even know what to expect out there."

  Sandi huffs. "Well, at least you only have to talk to them, share a few drinks, listen to their boring stories. That should be easy enough, right?"