She Was the Treasure All Along novel Chapter 961

"Yelena Yates is Mr. Lonsdale's biggest fan. They've been interacting a lot lately. Do you think they're finally making it official?" Gossip hummed through the office as coworkers gathered around the breakroom.

Someone placed a bet. "What do you think? Is Mr. Lonsdale taking her back to her place, or straight to his penthouse?"

Most bet on the penthouse. One of them turned to Helena. "What's your take?"

Helena stared at the small pile of cash on the table. Her mind flashed back to Morris in the lounge earlier—she had felt him, the undeniable, heavy proof of his arousal against her. But he had pushed her away. Did he even want her?

Pulling out a twenty-dollar bill, Helena tossed it onto the side betting he'd take Yelena home. "He wouldn't do that."

Her coworkers groaned. "Are you sure?"

The words were meant more to convince herself than anyone else. Faking a yawn, she grabbed her bag. "I'm pretty beat. I'm going to head out."

Swain offered to drive her, but Helena gently declined. "Stay and have fun. I have some schedule prep to finish for tomorrow anyway."

She walked out, hailed a cab, and instinctively gave the driver an address. By the time she snapped out of her daze, she was already standing in front of Morris's private estate. His car was parked in the driveway. The lights inside were on.

Helena knew the passcode. Even as her fingers hovered over the keypad, a tiny, secret thrill bloomed in her chest. Maybe he hadn't gone looking for someone else after all. Maybe he could still be hers, even if it was only within the twisted boundaries of their arrangement.

But the moment she stepped inside and headed for the stairs, the unmistakable sound of a woman's moans echoed through the house. Trailing down the second-floor hallway was a path of discarded, expensive designer clothes, leading straight to the master bedroom. Mixed with the woman's sighs were the low, heavy pants of a man.

Helena's mind went completely blank.

Biting her lip hard enough to taste blood, she backed down the stairs and practically fled the estate. The upscale neighborhood was entirely devoid of cabs at this hour. She walked for over an hour in the dark, the heels of her shoes rubbing her skin raw and bloody, until she finally found an open subway station.

When she finally unlocked her own front door, her legs gave out. She slid down the cool wood, pulling her knees to her chest and burying her face in her arms. She clamped a hand over her mouth, desperately trying to stifle the sobs tearing at her throat.

She couldn't cry. Crying made it pathetic. What right did she have to cry?

From the very beginning, their relationship had been a transaction. She had needed to be dominated, controlled, to find a fleeting moment of peace in the dark intersection of pain and pleasure—and he had provided it. He never took anything she wasn't willing to give. Earlier, he had even refused to let her touch him.

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