chapter 9

In the pitch-black washroom stall, Jasmine's feet left the floor as Quinton lifted her effortlessly.

The space was narrow and suffocating. Before she could even cry out, he had already filled her, burying himself deep inside her in one swift, damp thrust.

With every forceful motion, his harsh voice growled in her ear.

"Why? Why are you still going through with the engagement?

"Even now, you're still going to marry him?

"What is it you really want? What does Ethan have that I don't?"

Jasmine didn't have the strength to answer. Her body felt like a fragile boat adrift at sea, rising and falling with each crashing wave, on the brink of capsizing.

She forced herself to stay upright, arching her back to match his movements, even though none of this was her choice.

Quinton seemed to revel in the quiet war she waged inside. From behind, he yanked down her neckline and pressed both palms to her chest, as if claiming her body piece by piece. His rhythm grew more erratic, more fevered.

Suddenly, the bathroom lights flickered back on. Startled, Jasmine's body tensed instinctively, and behind her, Quinton grunted low in his throat.

"Huh? That's weird," came a woman's voice from outside. "The lights were fine all along. Why did they say there was a power outage?"

It was the cleaning lady.

Inside the stall, Quinton murmured wickedly in her ear, "Clenching this tight, what, trying to kill me?"

The sudden brightness changed everything. Jasmine looked down and saw his large hands still kneading her, her body exposed and trembling under his touch. Shame and heat flooded her face.

A squelch echoed through the quiet room.

Quinton chuckled.

Flustered, Jasmine turned away. She didn't want to see her own reflection—didn't want to face what she'd become in this moment.

"Hurry up," she whispered urgently.

His fox-like eyes curved into a smile rimmed with red and heavy with lust. "Then help me out."

Someone pushed on the stall door. "Is someone in there?" the cleaning lady asked.

Jasmin remained silent, willing herself to vanish—but Quinton drove deeper, tearing an involuntary sound from her throat.

"Miss? Do you need any help?" the woman asked again, knocking on the door.

Jasmine glared back at Quinton, forcing her voice to remain steady. "I ... I just got my period. Could you get me a tampon?"

"Of course, hang on!" The footsteps retreated.

Jasmine turned back to Quinton and hissed through clenched teeth, "Hurry up already!"

He leaned in and bit down lightly on her shoulder, leaving a row of teeth marks. "Let's see if you can keep up."

Jasmine drew in a sharp breath, forcing herself to move despite the burn of overstimulation and swallowing her embarrassment.

Her fair skin, delicate waist, and the flush of pink against creamy white all set off a visual that was too much for Quinton to resist. He drove into her harder, deeper—relentless, unyielding—finding that same spot over and over until her legs shook beneath the pressure.

After countless thrusts, his body finally trembled as he collapsed over her back, breathing in her scent like he was addicted.

Moisture dripped down her thighs. Jasmine was shaking all over, barely able to hold herself up.

Quinton gently lifted her from the door, taking a tissue to clean the traces on her body.

The door knocked again. Jasmine took the tampon from under the stall and said shakily, "Thank you."

"Miss," the woman added, "a man is waiting outside. He asked me to check if you're alright."

Jasmine froze and glanced at Quinton.

He was still dazed from their encounter, clearly not registering the meaning of the woman's words.

She steadied herself and said, "Tell him I've got a stomachache and need to rest. He should go back first."

"Understood."

When the footsteps faded, Jasmine forced her sore legs to stand, doing her best to smooth out the crumpled mess of her gown.

Quinton grabbed her hand just as she was about to open the door.

She turned and found his bloodshot eyes locked on hers—desperate, feral. "You still haven't answered me."

"Why should I?" she shot back coldly. "Who are you to me, Quinton?"

The ice in her voice made him hesitate, as if questioning whether the woman before him was the same one who'd just trembled in his arms.

He rubbed his temples, ignoring her sarcasm and softening his tone.

"Jasmine, you don't love Ethan. So why force yourself into this? Is it for the Arkwells? For what did your dad leave behind? I can help you."

He looked up at her, almost pleading.

Jasmine froze for a beat—but quickly composed herself again. She averted her eyes.

"Don't kid yourself," she said. "The reason I'm marrying Ethan is simple. I love him. I want to marry him. Got it?"

Then she opened the stall door and threw one last sentence over her shoulder. "Don't come looking for me again. This ends here, Quinton."

The sound of her heels on the tiled floor echoed hollowly. Her legs were so weak they nearly gave out.

She stumbled forward, and a familiar voice called out before she could even raise her head.

"Babe, what's wrong?"