Chapter 38


    Tyrone stooped to pick up Quintessa’s shoes and walked to the walk–in closet. He pushed open the


    ss door to his shoe cab, which was a veritable wall of footwear, all his own. Casually, he tossed


    Quintessa’s shoes into the mix.


    Til chuck it tomorrow.”


    After a shower, Tyrone stood in front of the mirror, toweling his hair. He caught sight of the angry red


    mark on his neck, the twin rows of bite marks stark against his skin, a clear sign that someone had


    meant business.


    “Girl’s got a bite,” he touched the mark. It was the first time in his years as a top dog that a woman had


    left her mark on him.


    Yet, the strange thing was, he felt thrilled by it.


    Tyrone didn’t bother with ointment. After drying off his hair, hey back on the bed and started scrolling


    through his phone.


    He suddenly felt the urge to call Quintessa, but after flicking through his contacts and not finding her,


    he remembered with a jolt that her phone had been smashed.


    Tyrone felt nothing but frustrated.


    In the wee hours, Rachel’s car came to a halt outside the York family mansion. She sat there, staring at


    the opulent mansion that seemed even more grandiose against the night sky, her eyes filled with a wild


    longing.


    She had dreamed of bing thedy of the York family, where it didn’t matter whether she liked


    Tyrone or he liked her. What she craved was the power and wealth of the York


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    name.


    Rachel gripped the steering wheel, her voice a hushed, crazed whisper, “I need to find out who that slut


    is. I’m gonna figure it out. I won’t let this go.”


    The next day, Tyrone woke up looking like a storm cloud.


    He skipped breakfast and left the house, causing Mrs. York to worry she had somehow done anything


    wrong.


    James, delivering documents to the office, saw Tyrone’s thunderous expression and dared not even


    breathe too loudly.


    Suddenly, Tyrone barked, “Phone.”


    James blinked, “What?”


    With a snap, Tyrone tossed his pen, “The phone.”


    Ah, realization dawned on James. Mr. York wanted Quintessa’s phone.


    17.06


    It got smashed.


    “Smashed?”


    Feeling a chill run down his spine, James stammered, “Didn’t you say,”


    Tyrone’s eyes were dark, “What did I say?”


    James swallowed his words, “Just one moment.”


    He hurried out of the room.


    After James left, Tyrone tried to get back to reviewing documents, but he couldn’t even finish a


    sentence before he kicked over the trash bin, his body radiating fury.


    He was ashamed to remember the morning’s incident. A wet dream, damn it! At 28, he was having wet


    dreams.


    What made Tyrone even more enraged was the face of the woman in his dream; of all people, it had to


    be Quintessa!


    Three years ago, he had slept with Quintessa for one night, a mere fleeting encounter.


    In those three years, he swore he hadn’t spared a thought for Quintessa, truly hadn’t. He felt he’d even


    forgotten what she looked like because, to him, she was just another


    woman.


    But, upon seeing her again, he felt all out of sorts! He felt like there was something he should be doing,


    but hadn’t done, yet he couldn’t figure out what it was supposed to be.


    James knocked and entered, holding a white smartphone, “Mr. York, the phone.”


    Tyrone, with a frosty demeanor, said, “I thought it was smashed?”


    James was at a loss for words. He was the one who wanted it smashed, who then asked for it, and


    now he brought it to him, and he was unhappy it was not smashed? What on earth did he want?


    Tyrone snatched the phone and threw it into the drawer, “Go buy me a new phone.”