Two Years After the Divorce.
“Bring me lunch,” Mason ordered, his voice cold and devoid of any humanity.
I nodded quietly from my corner- the exact spot he had designated for me. To anyone looking from the outside, it probably seemed like a twisted fairy tale. The rumors around the office claimed Mason had blown up his marriage for me, the low-class homewrecker, and that we were now enjoying our lovey-dovey lives together inside his private suite. But Mason hadn’t moved my workspace into his cabin out of love. He did it to mentally destroy me.
He had given me a small, cramped desk in the far corner, but there was a catch: no chair.
I had to stand on my feet for hours on end, forced to wear high heels every single day. Flats were strictly forbidden.
Mason didn’t have many ways to phys
