THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 10
The morning sun streaming through the penthouse windows felt like a lie. Jessica woke alone, the space beside her in the massive bed cold and empty. A hastily scribbled note lay on Scar’s pillow, the bold, slashing script stark against the linen: "Urgent business. Stay inside. William guards the door. - S." The initial felt like a wall. Sebastian. His real name, used by the ghost now haunting their home.
A knot of dread tightened in Jessica’s stomach. Stay inside. Like she was a prisoner again. But the thought of facing the day trapped in the bedroom, listening for Amanda’s footsteps, was suffocating. She needed air, even if it was just the curated atmosphere of the penthouse living room. She needed to feel normal, if only for a moment. Surely, she could go downstairs, make some tea, sit by the window overlooking the city she’d fought so hard to rise above.
She dressed carefully in simple, elegant trousers and a soft cashmere sweater – clothes Scar had chosen for her, clothes that felt like armor against the memory of rags. She took a deep breath, unlocked the bedroom door, and stepped into the hushed corridor. William stood rigidly a few feet away, his expression grim.
"Miss Jessica," he murmured, his voice low. "The Boss said—"
"I just want some tea, William," Jessica interrupted, forcing a calm she didn’t feel. "Downstairs. I won’t leave the penthouse." She met his worried gaze. "Please."
William hesitated, then gave a curt nod. "I’ll be right outside the living room door, Miss."
The walk downstairs felt endless. The usual opulent silence of the penthouse now felt charged, oppressive. As she reached the bottom step, the scent hit her – heavy, cloying perfume, expensive but overwhelming. And there she was.
Amanda sat regally on the central cream sofa, bathed in the morning light. She was breathtaking. Her skin, a deep, flawless mahogany, glowed against the stark cream fabric. Her hair, a cascade of meticulously defined blonde curls, framed a face of sculpted perfection – high cheekbones, a sharp jawline, full lips painted a dangerous, glossy crimson. She wore a designer red gown, short and daring, showcasing long, toned legs crossed elegantly. She looked like a fashion icon, a goddess casually inhabiting their space. She held a delicate porcelain cup, sipping coffee with an air of utter ownership.
Jessica’s breath hitched. She forced her feet to move, aiming for the kitchen doorway across the expansive room. "Good morning," she murmured, her voice barely audible, keeping her eyes downcast.
The sound of the cup being placed sharply on its saucer echoed like a gunshot. "Well, well," Amanda’s voice purred, smooth as velvet but laced with ice. "Aren’t you going to stop and greet me properly? Or do they not teach manners in the gutter?"
Jessica froze mid-step. Slowly, she turned. Amanda’s dark eyes, fringed with impossibly long lashes, raked over her with open contempt. A predatory smile played on her crimson lips.
"I said good morning," Jessica repeated, her voice firmer this time, though her heart hammered against her ribs.
Amanda laughed, a light, tinkling sound devoid of warmth. "Good morning? Is that all? Darling, when you encounter the lady of the house, you curtsy. Or at the very least, introduce yourself. Who *are* you? The new maid? Though you’re dressed rather presumptuously for a maid." Her gaze swept over Jessica’s outfit with disdain.
Jessica swallowed hard. "My name is Jessica."
"Jessica," Amanda drawled, tasting the name like it was something unpleasant. "How... ordinary. And what exactly are you doing here, Jessica?" She leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing. "Scrubbing floors? Warming Sebastian’s bed?"
The crudeness, delivered in that cultured, elegant tone, was a slap. Jessica felt heat flood her cheeks. "I live here," she stated, holding Amanda’s gaze, refusing to flinch.
Amanda’s perfect composure cracked. A flash of pure, unadulterated fury contorted her beautiful features. "Live here?" she spat, her voice losing its velvety smoothness, turning shrill. "In my home? With my fiancé? You insolent little SLUT!"
Jessica recoiled as if physically struck. The venom in the word was paralyzing.
"You think you can just waltz in here, you gutter rat?" Amanda hissed, rising from the sofa with feline grace, her red gown swirling around her. She stalked closer, her perfume now choking. "You think your cheap tricks and slum-bred desperation can replace me? ME?!" She stopped inches from Jessica, towering slightly in her heels. "I was chosen for Sebastian when we were SIX YEARS OLD! Our fathers bound empires! We are destiny! You?" She let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "You’re nothing! A temporary distraction! A prostitute he picked up off the streets! A gold-digging cockroach crawling where it doesn’t belong!"
Each word was a lash, meticulously designed to wound. Gutter rat. Prostitute. Gold digger. Home wrecker. They struck Jessica’s deepest insecurities, the ghosts of Lagos’s slums she thought she’d buried. Tears blurred her vision, hot and humiliating.
"Look at you," Amanda sneered, her voice dripping with contempt. "Crying already? Pathetic. You don’t belong here, you filthy little whore. You’re a stain on this house. On him." She leaned in, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Pack your cheap rags and crawl back to whatever filthy hole you came from. Today. Or I swear, I will make you wish you’d never laid eyes on Sebastian Scar. Do you understand me, you slum TRASH?"
The final words, delivered with such vicious certainty, shattered Jessica’s fragile composure. The revelation of the childhood engagement – the fiancée – echoed like a death knell in her mind. *Why hadn’t he told her? The betrayal, layered on top of the searing humiliation, was too much.
A choked sob escaped Jessica’s lips. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t speak. She turned and fled, her vision swimming, Amanda’s cruel laughter ringing in her ears like the shriek of harpies. She stumbled up the stairs, past William’s shocked face, fumbling with the bedroom door handle, finally bursting into the room and slamming the door behind her, locking it with trembling fingers.
She slid down the door to the floor, her body wracked with violent sobs. The luxurious rug beneath her felt like cold concrete from her past. Fiancée. Engaged since six. Destiny. Gutter rat. Prostitute. The words swirled in her head, a toxic whirlpool dragging her down. How could he? How could he hold her, love her, whisper promises, and never mention this? Was she truly just a distraction? Was everything he’d said and done a lie? The beautiful room, the sanctuary he’d built for her, now felt like a gilded cage built on deception. The weight of Amanda’s words, the terrifying history they implied, crushed her. She cried until her throat was raw, until her head throbbed, until exhaustion pulled her into a fitful, tear-stained sleep on the floor by the door. She didn’t eat. She didn’t drink. The day passed in a blur of despair.
The sound of the penthouse door opening in the evening jolted Jessica awake. Dusk had painted the room in deep blues and purples. Her body ached from the hard floor and the emotional ravages of the day. She heard muffled voices downstairs – Scar’s deep baritone, sharp and questioning, and then Amanda’s voice, artificially bright and laced with malice.
Jessica pressed her ear against the cool wood of the door, her heart pounding anew.
"Sebastian! Darling, you’re back!" Amanda’s voice was syrupy sweet. "Did you have a productive day, burying bodies or whatever it is you do?" A tinkling laugh. "Oh, but wait! I met your little… project today. Jessica, was it?"
A beat of heavy silence. Jessica could imagine Scar freezing, his senses on high alert.
"What did you do, Amanda?" His voice was dangerously low, a growl that vibrated through the floorboards.
"Me? Nothing!" Amanda feigned innocence. "We just had a little chat. Girl to girl. Or rather," her voice dropped, turning venomous and loud, deliberately carrying, "Lady to gutter trash! Hahaha! Oh, Sebastian!" Her laughter was sharp, hysterical, filled with cruel amusement. "I’ve seen the cheap little whore you replaced me with! Hahaha! Your taste has certainly… changed! From royalty to RAGS! A slum-dwelling prostitute! Is that what gets you hard now, darling? The stink of desperation?!"
Downstairs, Scar’s world tilted. It wasn’t Amanda’s insults that terrified him; it was the knowledge that Jessica had heard them. He saw the trap Amanda had laid, the poison she’d injected directly into the heart of the only thing that mattered to him. The image of Jessica’s face, hearing those vile words – his Jessica, who carried the scars of the slums like hidden wounds, who had fought so hard for dignity – it unleashed a primal fear deeper than any enemy’s threat. The fear of loss. The terror of her pain, her disillusionment… her *leaving*.
His carefully controlled composure evaporated. The feared King of Lagos didn’t think. He *fled*. He took the stairs two at a time, his heart hammering against his ribs like a frantic bird, a cold sweat breaking out on his skin. He skidded to a stop outside their bedroom door, seeing it firmly shut. The silence behind it was more terrifying than any scream.
"Baby!" His voice was raw, stripped bare, cracking with panic. He pounded on the solid wood with his fist. *BAM! BAM! BAM!* "Open this door! Please, baby, open the door! Jessica!" The pleading, the raw desperation in his voice, was utterly alien to him. "Please! I need to talk to you! Let me explain! Please, open the door!"
He pressed his forehead against the cool wood, his breathing ragged. Guilt, thick and suffocating, washed over him in a sickening wave. He’d been a fool. A coward. He’d buried the Amanda chapter, hoping it would stay dead, never imagining Jessica would be confronted with that toxic history in the cruelest way possible. He’d wanted to protect her from the ugliness, but his silence had become the weapon Amanda used against her.
He slid down the door, mirroring Jessica’s position on the other side, his back against the wood. He could feel the faint vibration of her presence, the stifled sound of her breathing. He rested his head in his hands.
"Jessica," his voice was a broken whisper now, muffled against his palms. "I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry. Please… please just open the door. Let me see you. Let me…" His voice choked off. How could he explain a lifetime of obligation, violence, and a broken engagement born of madness? How could he make her understand that Amanda belonged to a past he’d thought buried, a past that meant *nothing* compared to what he felt for her? The thought of her silent tears, her shattered trust, the possibility that she believed Amanda’s lies… it was a physical agony worse than any bullet wound. He was hurt, terrified for her, and utterly confused about how to mend the devastation Amanda had wrought with just a few vicious words. The mighty Scar was brought low, not by an enemy’s bullet, but by the fear of losing the woman who had thawed his frozen heart. He sat slumped against her door, a fortress of muscle and power reduced to a supplicant, whispering pleas into the uncaring wood, waiting for a sign of life from the woman who held his soul captive on the other side.
TO BE CONTINUED...
THE DEVIL'S MISTRESS
PART 10
The morning sun streaming through the penthouse windows felt like a lie. Jessica woke alone, the space beside her in the massive bed cold and empty. A hastily scribbled note lay on Scar’s pillow, the bold, slashing script stark against the linen: "Urgent business. Stay inside. William guards the door. - S." The initial felt like a wall. Sebastian. His real name, used by the ghost now haunting their home.
A knot of dread tightened in Jessica’s stomach. Stay inside. Like she was a prisoner again. But the thought of facing the day trapped in the bedroom, listening for Amanda’s footsteps, was suffocating. She needed air, even if it was just the curated atmosphere of the penthouse living room. She needed to feel normal, if only for a moment. Surely, she could go downstairs, make some tea, sit by the window overlooking the city she’d fought so hard to rise above.
She dressed carefully in simple, elegant trousers and a soft cashmere sweater – clothes Scar had chosen for her, clothes that felt like armor against the memory of rags. She took a deep breath, unlocked the bedroom door, and stepped into the hushed corridor. William stood rigidly a few feet away, his expression grim.
"Miss Jessica," he murmured, his voice low. "The Boss said—"
"I just want some tea, William," Jessica interrupted, forcing a calm she didn’t feel. "Downstairs. I won’t leave the penthouse." She met his worried gaze. "Please."
William hesitated, then gave a curt nod. "I’ll be right outside the living room door, Miss."
The walk downstairs felt endless. The usual opulent silence of the penthouse now felt charged, oppressive. As she reached the bottom step, the scent hit her – heavy, cloying perfume, expensive but overwhelming. And there she was.
Amanda sat regally on the central cream sofa, bathed in the morning light. She was breathtaking. Her skin, a deep, flawless mahogany, glowed against the stark cream fabric. Her hair, a cascade of meticulously defined blonde curls, framed a face of sculpted perfection – high cheekbones, a sharp jawline, full lips painted a dangerous, glossy crimson. She wore a designer red gown, short and daring, showcasing long, toned legs crossed elegantly. She looked like a fashion icon, a goddess casually inhabiting their space. She held a delicate porcelain cup, sipping coffee with an air of utter ownership.
Jessica’s breath hitched. She forced her feet to move, aiming for the kitchen doorway across the expansive room. "Good morning," she murmured, her voice barely audible, keeping her eyes downcast.
The sound of the cup being placed sharply on its saucer echoed like a gunshot. "Well, well," Amanda’s voice purred, smooth as velvet but laced with ice. "Aren’t you going to stop and greet me properly? Or do they not teach manners in the gutter?"
Jessica froze mid-step. Slowly, she turned. Amanda’s dark eyes, fringed with impossibly long lashes, raked over her with open contempt. A predatory smile played on her crimson lips.
"I said good morning," Jessica repeated, her voice firmer this time, though her heart hammered against her ribs.
Amanda laughed, a light, tinkling sound devoid of warmth. "Good morning? Is that all? Darling, when you encounter the lady of the house, you curtsy. Or at the very least, introduce yourself. Who *are* you? The new maid? Though you’re dressed rather presumptuously for a maid." Her gaze swept over Jessica’s outfit with disdain.
Jessica swallowed hard. "My name is Jessica."
"Jessica," Amanda drawled, tasting the name like it was something unpleasant. "How... ordinary. And what exactly are you doing here, Jessica?" She leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing. "Scrubbing floors? Warming Sebastian’s bed?"
The crudeness, delivered in that cultured, elegant tone, was a slap. Jessica felt heat flood her cheeks. "I live here," she stated, holding Amanda’s gaze, refusing to flinch.
Amanda’s perfect composure cracked. A flash of pure, unadulterated fury contorted her beautiful features. "Live here?" she spat, her voice losing its velvety smoothness, turning shrill. "In my home? With my fiancé? You insolent little SLUT!"
Jessica recoiled as if physically struck. The venom in the word was paralyzing.
"You think you can just waltz in here, you gutter rat?" Amanda hissed, rising from the sofa with feline grace, her red gown swirling around her. She stalked closer, her perfume now choking. "You think your cheap tricks and slum-bred desperation can replace me? ME?!" She stopped inches from Jessica, towering slightly in her heels. "I was chosen for Sebastian when we were SIX YEARS OLD! Our fathers bound empires! We are destiny! You?" She let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "You’re nothing! A temporary distraction! A prostitute he picked up off the streets! A gold-digging cockroach crawling where it doesn’t belong!"
Each word was a lash, meticulously designed to wound. Gutter rat. Prostitute. Gold digger. Home wrecker. They struck Jessica’s deepest insecurities, the ghosts of Lagos’s slums she thought she’d buried. Tears blurred her vision, hot and humiliating.
"Look at you," Amanda sneered, her voice dripping with contempt. "Crying already? Pathetic. You don’t belong here, you filthy little whore. You’re a stain on this house. On him." She leaned in, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Pack your cheap rags and crawl back to whatever filthy hole you came from. Today. Or I swear, I will make you wish you’d never laid eyes on Sebastian Scar. Do you understand me, you slum TRASH?"
The final words, delivered with such vicious certainty, shattered Jessica’s fragile composure. The revelation of the childhood engagement – the fiancée – echoed like a death knell in her mind. *Why hadn’t he told her? The betrayal, layered on top of the searing humiliation, was too much.
A choked sob escaped Jessica’s lips. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t speak. She turned and fled, her vision swimming, Amanda’s cruel laughter ringing in her ears like the shriek of harpies. She stumbled up the stairs, past William’s shocked face, fumbling with the bedroom door handle, finally bursting into the room and slamming the door behind her, locking it with trembling fingers.
She slid down the door to the floor, her body wracked with violent sobs. The luxurious rug beneath her felt like cold concrete from her past. Fiancée. Engaged since six. Destiny. Gutter rat. Prostitute. The words swirled in her head, a toxic whirlpool dragging her down. How could he? How could he hold her, love her, whisper promises, and never mention this? Was she truly just a distraction? Was everything he’d said and done a lie? The beautiful room, the sanctuary he’d built for her, now felt like a gilded cage built on deception. The weight of Amanda’s words, the terrifying history they implied, crushed her. She cried until her throat was raw, until her head throbbed, until exhaustion pulled her into a fitful, tear-stained sleep on the floor by the door. She didn’t eat. She didn’t drink. The day passed in a blur of despair.
The sound of the penthouse door opening in the evening jolted Jessica awake. Dusk had painted the room in deep blues and purples. Her body ached from the hard floor and the emotional ravages of the day. She heard muffled voices downstairs – Scar’s deep baritone, sharp and questioning, and then Amanda’s voice, artificially bright and laced with malice.
Jessica pressed her ear against the cool wood of the door, her heart pounding anew.
"Sebastian! Darling, you’re back!" Amanda’s voice was syrupy sweet. "Did you have a productive day, burying bodies or whatever it is you do?" A tinkling laugh. "Oh, but wait! I met your little… project today. Jessica, was it?"
A beat of heavy silence. Jessica could imagine Scar freezing, his senses on high alert.
"What did you do, Amanda?" His voice was dangerously low, a growl that vibrated through the floorboards.
"Me? Nothing!" Amanda feigned innocence. "We just had a little chat. Girl to girl. Or rather," her voice dropped, turning venomous and loud, deliberately carrying, "Lady to gutter trash! Hahaha! Oh, Sebastian!" Her laughter was sharp, hysterical, filled with cruel amusement. "I’ve seen the cheap little whore you replaced me with! Hahaha! Your taste has certainly… changed! From royalty to RAGS! A slum-dwelling prostitute! Is that what gets you hard now, darling? The stink of desperation?!"
Downstairs, Scar’s world tilted. It wasn’t Amanda’s insults that terrified him; it was the knowledge that Jessica had heard them. He saw the trap Amanda had laid, the poison she’d injected directly into the heart of the only thing that mattered to him. The image of Jessica’s face, hearing those vile words – his Jessica, who carried the scars of the slums like hidden wounds, who had fought so hard for dignity – it unleashed a primal fear deeper than any enemy’s threat. The fear of loss. The terror of her pain, her disillusionment… her *leaving*.
His carefully controlled composure evaporated. The feared King of Lagos didn’t think. He *fled*. He took the stairs two at a time, his heart hammering against his ribs like a frantic bird, a cold sweat breaking out on his skin. He skidded to a stop outside their bedroom door, seeing it firmly shut. The silence behind it was more terrifying than any scream.
"Baby!" His voice was raw, stripped bare, cracking with panic. He pounded on the solid wood with his fist. *BAM! BAM! BAM!* "Open this door! Please, baby, open the door! Jessica!" The pleading, the raw desperation in his voice, was utterly alien to him. "Please! I need to talk to you! Let me explain! Please, open the door!"
He pressed his forehead against the cool wood, his breathing ragged. Guilt, thick and suffocating, washed over him in a sickening wave. He’d been a fool. A coward. He’d buried the Amanda chapter, hoping it would stay dead, never imagining Jessica would be confronted with that toxic history in the cruelest way possible. He’d wanted to protect her from the ugliness, but his silence had become the weapon Amanda used against her.
He slid down the door, mirroring Jessica’s position on the other side, his back against the wood. He could feel the faint vibration of her presence, the stifled sound of her breathing. He rested his head in his hands.
"Jessica," his voice was a broken whisper now, muffled against his palms. "I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry. Please… please just open the door. Let me see you. Let me…" His voice choked off. How could he explain a lifetime of obligation, violence, and a broken engagement born of madness? How could he make her understand that Amanda belonged to a past he’d thought buried, a past that meant *nothing* compared to what he felt for her? The thought of her silent tears, her shattered trust, the possibility that she believed Amanda’s lies… it was a physical agony worse than any bullet wound. He was hurt, terrified for her, and utterly confused about how to mend the devastation Amanda had wrought with just a few vicious words. The mighty Scar was brought low, not by an enemy’s bullet, but by the fear of losing the woman who had thawed his frozen heart. He sat slumped against her door, a fortress of muscle and power reduced to a supplicant, whispering pleas into the uncaring wood, waiting for a sign of life from the woman who held his soul captive on the other side.
TO BE CONTINUED...
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