How dare he?
How fucking dare he stand there and hold me like he’s got any place in trying to put me back together after this? He was the one to shatter me in the first place.
I blow out of the bathroom with my newfound fury fuelling my movements.
After finding a new pair of sweats, I tie the waist tightly as I march from the bedroom, more than ready to have it out with him.
I need answers. A fucking lot of them.
But I soon realise that I’m not going to be getting them anytime soon, because the dickhead isn’t even here.
I blow through every room, finding no evidence that he’s just popped out for something quick.
“Where the fuck are you?” I bark, marching into what seems to be his office on the opposite side of the flat to his bedroom.
There’s a huge glossy black desk sitting in the centre of the room, looking out over the city beyond. The walls are lined with bookcases.
It’s dark, stark, and fucking beautiful, just like the rest of his home, but I can’t help but roll my eyes at this one.
“Who the fuck do you think you are, Theodore Cirillo? You’re the prince, not the fucking king,” I mutter as I drop into his utterly ridiculous high-backed chair and stare out at the city in the distance.
And to think, I thought the chair in his bedroom was his throne.
Clearly, I was wrong.
As to be expected, the desk is clear of anything but his computer.
I turn it on, then rummage through the annoyingly tidy drawers in the hope of finding something, but there’s nothing of any excitement.
Sitting up, I’m met with his password screen.
“Fuck,” I mutter. But I knew it was coming.
Finding that folder under the coffee table was a fluke. Theo isn’t careless in any way. Even if I did manage to guess his password correctly, I’d be naïve to assume that everything would be plain sailing from there.
I’m hardly going to find a folder with my name on it that holds all the answers I’m desperate for.
We wouldn’t be here if he wanted to make it easy.
He wants me to work for it, that much is obvious.
I realise that he’s even more sadistic and psychotic than I originally thought.
He could have told me any of this, but no. He’s hidden everything, forcing me to play his game.
He’s got me exactly where he wants me.
He’s sick.
Fucking sick.
Not even able to get past the first barrier, I launch his mouse across the room. It shatters against the floor-to-ceiling windows, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.
“Arsehole,” I hiss, continuing my search through the flat.
There’s got to be something. My fucking bag and phone, at least.
Surely, he wouldn’t leave me here without a way to contact him?