POV: Jasmine
Day three. Two more to go.
I'd started counting in hours instead of days because days felt impossible, but hours—hours I could survive. Twenty-four hours times two equals forty-eight hours. I could endure anything for forty-eight hours. Even this. Even him.
Each morning followed the same ritual. Arrive at seven thirty. Prepare coffee with mathematical precision—black, two sugars, temperature between 175 and 180 degrees. Dress in clothes that made my skin crawl—skirts that barely covered my ass, blouses unbuttoned low enough that I felt naked. Armor that was actually exposure. Protection that was actually vulnerability.
Jackson would arrive at eight. Survey my work with that calculating gaze. Find me acceptable or not based on criteria that shifted daily, keeping me off-balance, ensuring I could never quite get it right.
Then the touches would start.
A hand on my thigh during the morning briefing, his fingers pressing into my flesh while he discussed quarterly projections like he wasn't violating me in plain sight. His palm, brushing my breast when I handed him documents, the contact lasting just long enough to be deliberate but short enough to be deniable. His breath, hot on my neck when he leaned close to review something on my screen, lips grazing my ear as he murmured corrections I couldn't process through the roar of disgust in my head.
Each touch was calculated. Possessive. Designed to remind me exactly what I'd traded and who held the deed to my dignity for these five days.
But something else was happening, something I hadn't anticipated.
Jackson was actually fixing the company.
Contracts were being signed—major deals with distributors who'd been hesitant after the scandal. Names I recognized from industry publications, companies that had publicly distanced themselves from Cadence Records, were suddenly returning calls and scheduling meetings. The legal team won a massive libel lawsuit against the tabloid that had run the most vicious coverage—seven figures in damages, a public retraction, the editor who'd greenlit the story quietly fired. Settlements were reached with artists who'd threatened to break their agreements, their lawyers backing down once Jackson's team got involved.
The plan was working. Jackson was delivering on his promise.
Which made everything so much worse. Because I couldn't hate him cleanly, couldn't reduce him to a simple villain when he was actually saving what the brothers had built. Every contract signed, every lawsuit won, every positive headline—they were proof that my degradation had purpose. That I wasn't suffering for nothing.
I didn't know if that made it better or infinitely more fucked up.
At lunch, Nora found me in the café three blocks from the office—our safe space, far enough from Cadence that I could pretend to be human for forty-five minutes.
"You look like death warmed over," she said bluntly, sliding into the booth across from me. "And not the sexy kind. When's the last time you ate something that wasn't coffee?"
I pushed salad around my plate without enthusiasm. "The definition of eating has become flexible."
"Girl, I'm serious." She leaned forward, dark eyes sharp with concern. "You're losing weight you don't have to lose, you've got circles under your eyes dark enough to qualify as bruises, and you flinch every time your phone buzzes. What the hell is that man doing to you?"
"Nothing I didn't agree to."
"Agreeing to something doesn't make it okay. You know that, right?"
As if on cue, nausea rolled through me—sudden and violent. The café tilted sideways, my stomach clenching with a force that left no room for debate. Three days of swallowing disgust had finally caught up with me.
"Excuse me," I managed, already pushing out of the booth.
I barely made it to the bathroom before my body rebelled, heaving into the toilet with embarrassing force. Everything I'd tried to eat came back up, leaving me shaking and weak, gripping the porcelain like a lifeline.
The door opened behind me. Nora's hands gathered my hair, holding it back from my face while I retched.
"That sucks, Jas," she said quietly, rubbing circles on my back. "That really fucking sucks."
When the worst passed, I slumped against the stall wall, breathing hard. Nora wet some paper towels and handed them to me without comment.
"How long has this been happening?"
"Few days." I pressed the cool towels against my face. "It's just stress. My body's rejecting the situation even when my brain won't let me."
"Your body's smarter than you're giving it credit for." She crouched beside me, voice dropping. "This isn't sustainable. You're going to collapse before the week's out."
"Two more days. I can survive two more days."
"And then what? You think the damage just disappears when he leaves?"
I didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Because the truth was, I had no idea what would be left of me when this was over.
"We should get back," I said instead, pushing myself to standing on legs that felt like water. "Jackson will notice if I'm late."
Nora's expression hardened at his name. "That man needs to fall into a volcano."
"Soon. Two more days."
"Two more days of him treating you like his personal property?" She crossed her arms. "I don't like this, Jas. I don't like any of this."
"Neither do I. But it's almost over."
Back at the office, I threw myself into work—reviewing contracts, coordinating schedules, doing everything Jackson demanded with mechanical precision. The afternoon crawled by in a haze of nausea and exhaustion, each hour feeling like a small victory.
Then his voice crackled through the intercom. "Jasmine. My office."
I stood, smoothing my too-short skirt, and walked toward his door on legs that wanted to tremble. Knocked once. Waited.
"Come in."
He was standing by the window when I entered, backlit by the afternoon sun, his silhouette somehow both distinguished and predatory. He didn't turn immediately, just stood there looking out at the city like he owned it.
"Close the door."
I obeyed, the soft click sealing us in together.
"You've been sick." He turned finally, studying me with those cold eyes that missed nothing. "I've noticed. The way you've been running to the bathroom. The way you can barely keep food down. The trembling when you think no one's watching."
My heart hammered against my ribs. "It's nothing. Just stress."
"Is it?" He moved closer, slow and deliberate, until he'd cornered me near the window. Close enough that I could feel his heat, smell his expensive cologne mixed with something darker underneath.
"You're breaking, Jasmine. I can see it." His gaze traveled over my face, cataloging every sign of weakness. "And broken things are so much easier to use."
His smile turned predatory.