Chapter 12: Grapes of Hate (And Reasons to Kill Tate)

Cady's POV

I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the ceiling, my body numb. Days have passed, or maybe it's just hours—I can't even tell anymore. The walls are closing in around me, suffocating me with their silence. Every second I spend in this godforsaken mansion chips away at whatever is left of me.

I hear a knock at the door, a soft, hesitant sound that sets my nerves on edge. Before I can answer, the door swings open and one of the housemaids steps in, her eyes downcast. She's holding a bikini. A red one, barely enough fabric to cover anything.

"Sir Tate asked me to give this to you," she mutters, not even meeting my eyes.

I look at her, then at the bikini in her hands, feeling my stomach twist with disgust. "No," I say, shaking my head. "I'm not wearing that."

The maid shifts uncomfortably, her hands trembling. "Please. He said… he said you have to."

I stand up, glaring at the bikini like it's a snake ready to bite me. "Tell him I'm not doing it. I'm not his toy."

The maid doesn't argue. She just leaves the bikini on the bed and rushes out of the room, leaving me standing there, furious. I can't take this anymore. I need to get out of here. I need to go home.

$$$

It's late afternoon when I finally work up the courage to confront him. He's lounging in the Jacuzzi in the garden, wearing a satin shirt that's half-unbuttoned, sipping from a glass of something dark and expensive. He looks so damn smug, like he owns the whole world.

And in this moment, he does. He owns me, and I hate him for it.

I clutch the bikini in my hand as I walk up to him, my heart pounding in my chest. "Tate," I say, my voice shaky but loud enough to be heard over the bubbling water. "Please, just let me go. I've done enough. I have a family to take care of. They need me."

He doesn't even look at me. He pops a grape into his mouth, chews slowly, and then, without turning his head, he speaks. "You should've thought about that before you got involved in my business."

"I didn't mean to," I whisper, fighting back tears. "I never wanted any of this."

His eyes flick toward me, cold and sharp. "No one dragged you into this, Sparky. You chose to eavesdrop. You chose to blackmail me. And now, you're paying the price."

His words hit me like a punch to the gut, and I feel the tears spill over, streaming down my face. I try to wipe them away, but it's no use. They keep coming, hot and bitter.

Tate notices, and for a second—just a split second—something changes in his eyes. It's quick, too quick to really mean anything, but I see it. It's almost like… regret. But just as fast as it appeared, it's gone, replaced by that familiar coldness.

"Don't cry," he says, his voice flat. "You're ruining my mood."

I choke on a sob, feeling like I'm about to break into pieces right in front of him. I don't care if I'm ruining his mood. I want him to feel as miserable as I do. I want him to feel something.

But instead, he stands up, brushing the water off his shirt, and walks past me without another word. I hear the door lock behind me as he leaves. He's locked me in. Again.

$$$

I pound on the door, screaming, begging for someone to let me out. My hands are raw, my voice hoarse, but no one comes. I don't know how long I keep going—minutes, hours, days?—but eventually, I collapse against the wall, too exhausted to move.

I don't even notice when the door opens.

"Get up," Tate's voice snaps at me, and I flinch, scrambling to my feet.

He doesn't look amused. In fact, there's something different about him. He's impatient, more than usual. He grabs my arm, dragging me up. "You're free to go."

I blink at him, sure that I misheard. "W-What?"

"I said you can go," he repeats, his voice sharp. "Don't make me say it again."

For a second, I think he's messing with me, playing one of his sick games. But then he shoves me toward the door where one of his drivers stands waiting. "Take out the trash," he says, his voice dripping with disdain.

I stumble forward, my heart racing. Is this it? Am I really free? Is he actually letting me go?

But just as I start to walk away, I hear him call out. "Wait."

I freeze.

"Before you go," he says, stepping closer, "since you're a janitor and all… why don't you show me your skills?"

I turn to face him, my blood running cold. "What?"

He smirks, pointing back to the room where I've been trapped. "You made a mess in there. Clean it up. And while you're at it, you might as well clean the entire mansion. I expect it to be spotless by the end of the day."

I stare at him, disbelief and rage bubbling up inside me. "You can't be serious."

"Oh, I'm serious," he says, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "And if you don't… well, let's just say you'll be more worried about your younger siblings than your parents."

I can't breathe. He knows. Of course, he knows. He knows everything.

The driver steps aside, and the maids come in, handing me cleaning supplies. One of them, an older woman with kind eyes, stays behind to supervise. Tate walks away, leaving me standing there with a mop and bucket in my hand, feeling more trapped than ever.

$$$

I start cleaning, my hands shaking, my mind racing. Every time I scrub a floor or wipe down a table, I think about him. I think about all the ways I hate Tate Mercer, all the reasons I want him dead.

Reasons I want to kill Tate Mercer:

- He trapped me in this nightmare.

- He's destroying my family.

- He thinks he owns me.

- He doesn't care about anyone but himself.

- He humiliates me, over and over again.

- He threatened my siblings.

- He ruined my life.

I move to the windows, scrubbing furiously, trying to make sense of it all. How did I end up here? How did I let him do this to me?

Ways I want to kill Tate Mercer:

- I want to poison his drink, something slow and painful.

- I want to push him off a cliff and watch him fall.

- I want to strangle him with his precious satin shirt.

- I want to stab him, over and over, until he begs for mercy.

- I want to burn down this entire mansion with him inside.

I move to the bathroom, my muscles aching, my mind clouded with anger. I'm scrubbing the toilet when I hear it.

Bang.

A gunshot. It echoes through the house, loud and sharp.

I freeze, the scrub brush slipping from my hand, clattering to the floor. My heart races, my mind going blank.

What the hell just happened?