I Hate You, Mr. Black

“I. Said. Leave. Me.”

“Are you sure?”

Gripping his shirt, I hesitated. How long has it been since I was last touched? Why were the fingers of the man I hate igniting embers in my slumbering body?

He smirked victoriously, snaking a hand over my thighs, sinking his fingers before leading to where they shouldn't simultaneously biting my shoulder as I ended up releasing a moan that filled me with embarrassment.

“M-Mr. Black…!”

“Hmmm, tell me, Marianne, Are you sure you want me to stop?”

Yet I nodded, “Mhm,”

He whined, pulling away a little, causing my skin to burn with craving as I shut my legs to conceal it.

“Oh, come on, I see the way you looked at me. Marianne, you are just another whore.”

Roughly breaking the entwined hand, I shook my head in denial, losing my breaths with instant dread creeping on my face.

“No… you are wrong… I.. I…”

Curling my hand in a fist, my jaw clenched, finding a single sight of him unsavory and it all rushed in my mind.

It was never worth it. Whether love or lust. It never was.

“I would never…”

“Then what–”

The second he slid his hand inside my shirt, my body instinctively reacted, disregarding the consequences and I slapped him hard across his face

I. Slapped. My. Boss.

Fuck.

But, how did I reach such a point? How did it all begin? Let’s go back to last month where this hell began.

LAST MONTH,

Love and Commitments.

This time, I won’t let it weaken me. They couldn’t destroy me again.

They were the two things that disgusted and frightened me the most, the things I would avoid at all cost as they had no place in my life.

I had zero time for heartbreaks, to attach feelings with someone unworthy.

Not this time I would let love destroy me, to crush my personality, to kill my future. I had reached the skies with extreme efforts, it couldn't ruin me this time.

I won’t let it.

Not. This. Time.

I Am The Supermodel, the temptation itself, the highest paying model, Mariannne Morris after all.

That's right, NO ONE can steal this spotlight, this attention, this money, this moment from me.

“That’s it, perfect!”

My amber-like eyes captured hearts through the lens, smirking slyly when the shooting for my recent campaign was done.

My brown hair scattered, creating a perfect style as I stepped down, holding my hand out where a spotboy handed me a glass of water.

I knew I was meant for this workline, I was made to stare and steal one’s soul in a single eye-contact.

“Amazing work as always, Marianne,”

“I know,”

My voice came out velvety, waving my hand gracefully in the air, I went back to my vanity van where my manager, Byron, was waiting for me excitedly.

Bryon was a decade older than me, I was 28, he had been with me ever since I started my career in Cairo, Egypt.