Chapter 312

The sight of the bathroom filled Latisha with a familiar sense of dread.

Clifford pushed her down onto a small stool and picked up the showerhead, adjusting the temperature. "Take them off."

Latisha stared at the floor, her fingers twisting together in her lap. She didn't move.

Clifford looked down at her. "I said, take them off."

His voice was sterner this time, a command that tolerated no refusal.

Still, she remained motionless.

He put the showerhead back in its cradle, bent down, and began to undress her himself. Latisha recoiled, hugging herself and turning away in a rare act of defiance.

The next second, he grabbed her shoulders, forced her to face him, and yanked off her jacket, tossing it aside. She pushed against his chest in a futile attempt to stop him, but her struggles only made it easier for him to pull her sweater off over her head.

She hated this charade, hated his suffocating hot-and-cold behavior. She hated that he didn't love her but refused to let her go. Most of all... she hated that news article. The dam of her resentment and frustration finally broke. Latisha shot to her feet, her fists flying, raining down clumsy, ineffective blows on his chest.

Her punches were nothing to Clifford. He caught both of her wrists with ease, pushing her back a step until she stumbled against the cold tile wall. He pinned her hands high above her head.

Latisha tilted her chin up, her eyes red and blazing as she glared at him. She was never good at hiding her emotions, especially not from him. Her anger and hurt were plain to see in her wide eyes.

Clifford simply stared back, silent. For a long moment, the only sound in the bathroom was the hiss of the shower Water sprayed against the wall, splashing onto his trench coat and staining the black fabric with even darker spots.

Their eyes locked through the rising steam.

"What is it you want?" he finally asked, but it was a question she couldn't answer. Anything she wanted, he would never be willing to give.

"Things were fine before, weren't they?" he continued, using his free hand to cup

her chin. “Tell me. What do you want?”

Latisha stared at him, her gaze unwavering.

Yes, things had been “fine." Fine for him. He never had to consider her feelings as long as she was obedient and followed his every commands Unconditionally That was his version of fine. Her rebellion ow was just a childish tantrum in his eyes.

If he hadn't repeatedly given her glimmers of hope, she might have been able to live with the

disappointment. But the constant cycle of hope and despair had worn her down, eroding the love she once felt. She was tired. So incredibly tired.

Latisha took a deep breath, her lips parting to form a single word. "Leave—”

"Don't you dare say it,” he cut her off, his tone sharp, like he was scolding a disobedient child.

She clamped her mouth shut.

Clifford's thumb stroked her jaw. After a long pause, he said, “It's Nikita. She's been a bad influence on you."

The accusation reignited the fire inside Latisha. She began to struggle again, and when her hands failed, she started kicking.

Clifford's eyes narrowed. In one fluid motion, he stepped forward, planting his leg between hers. He lifted, and suddenly Latisha's feet were off the ground, her body thrown off balance until she was perched on his thigh.