Head down, Lizetta reached for another makeup remover pad. As she looked up, the reflection of a man appeared behind her in the mirror.
He stood there, his handsome face etched with a cold sternness.
Lizetta knew all too well he was upset, but her own irritation matched his. She pretended not to notice, leaning closer to the mirror to continue removing her makeup. However, his grip tightened on her shoulder, and he leaned in, pinching her chin, staring down at her reflection with a frosty gaze.
"Not fond of the jewelry I got you, but you seem pretty keen on the tacky flowers and handkerchief that other guy gave you?"
The flowers Jerome had given her were crushed, and Remington had callously tossed them into the trash along with the handkerchief right before they got into the car.
Lizetta was fuming at that moment. But her anger stemmed from Remington humiliating her in front of her colleagues, showing her no respect whatsoever. It wasn't about the flowers or the handkerchief.
His gaze was menacing, and suddenly Lizetta felt a twinge of fear, her brows furrowing as she managed a strained reply, "Let go! I'm about to take a shower; am I supposed to wear a necklace in there?" "Lizetta, don't take me for a fool!"
Did he really look like he couldn't tell when she liked something or not?
Lizetta remained silent, wondering who was really being treated like a fool here. Her lips pressed tightly together, she said no more.
And her silence, like an admission that she preferred Jerome's flowers. Remington's grip tightened, forcing her to look at him as he leaned down and kissed her forcefully.
His heart was a turmoil of dark emotions, fully ignited by her today. Because Lizetta kept turning her head, refusing to cooperate, his anger and jealousy flared even more.
He bit down on her lips forcefully, his kisses raining down on her neck. Each one left a heavy mark, a branding of his possession.
Eyes red, Lizetta felt a mix of pain and fear, "Remington, what's gotten into you! Get away!"
But he grasped her waist, lifting her from the chair, turning her to face him with a cold smirk, "Finally stopped calling me Mr. Dashiell, huh?"
With a sweep of his arm, he knocked the array of cosmetics from the vanity to the floor.
The next second, Lizetta was seated on the vanity, her back forced against the mirror, her clothes torn open as his hands and feverish kisses ravaged her body. Marks appeared on her skin instantly. She had another round of performances in the next few days, and Lizetta was on the verge of madness, struggling and fighting.
"You jerk! Stop sucking, stop biting, I have to be on stage! Remington, are you a dog? You're hurting me! Remington, stop it. Let me go."
Her voice went from angry to weak, to fearfully trembling, eventually carrying a plea.
She was truly scared now, and regretting her actions. She shouldn't have let Stella's provocations drive her to continuously provoke him.
Of course, maybe because she'd secured the plan, and couldn't pretend anymore.
But Remington had never lost control like this before; he was usually restrained and patient in bed. Only when overwhelmed by passion would he leave marks on her most hidden places. But now, Lizetta felt he had no pity or care, as if he wanted to tear her apart with his fierceness.
"Please Remi, stop."
Finally, as he tore off the last piece of her clothing and lifted her legs, Lizetta, terrified, tremblingly placed her hands on his grim side profile.
Remington suddenly stopped, the malevolence in his eyes gradually fading, returning to clarity.
He saw her, marred and cornered against the narrow mirror, her expression pitiful and disheveled.
His handsome face paled, his deep eyes filled with shock and pain, and he suddenly covered Lizetta's eyes with his large hand.
Lizetta was engulfed in darkness, her body still trembling uncontrollably. She heard his hoarse voice, "Liz, I'm a mess now. Don't look."
Lizetta went numb. It was a moment eerily reminiscent of the past, where he refused to kiss her, always covering her eyes at the height of passion.
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