My Body Feels No Pain

I was born without the ability to feel pain. For eight years, I was the secret lover and head of security for Wall Street titan Preston Montgomery.

To the elite circles of Manhattan, I was the one constant woman by his side.

Then, Preston’s first love, Martha Astor, crossed the Russian mob boss Nikolai Volkov during an art deal. As retribution, he demanded one of her hands.

Without hesitation, Preston made me take her place. Three of my fingers were shattered instantly.

His logic was that since I couldn't feel pain, it was no real loss. But Martha was an artist, and her hands were her life.

In that moment, I finally understood. To him, I was just an expendable tool.

So, when his arch-nemesis, a rising tech titan, made me an offer, I took it.

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1

I felt no pain, but shock sent a tremor through my body so violent I could barely stand.

Martha Astor screamed at the sight of my mangled fingers. Preston Montgomery gently covered her eyes.

"Don't look, Martha. You're an artist. This brutal scene isn't for your eyes."

Nikolai Volkov scoffed.

"I didn't realize Mr. Montgomery was such a sentimental man. Who would have thought the Wolf of Wall Street needed a woman to take his punishments for him?"

"This is none of your business. You named your price, and I've paid it. Let's go, Briar."

I stumbled after Preston, the world tilting with every step.

Seeing my pale face, Preston frowned.

"Get in the car. I'll take you to the hospital."

I instinctively moved toward the passenger seat, but Preston’s voice stopped me.

"Martha gets carsick. Briar, you get in the back."

Preston smiled dotingly as he opened the passenger door for Martha, carefully shielding her head so she wouldn't bump it.

He didn't spare a single glance for my ruined hand.

The stark contrast was a cold knife in my chest.

I had always known Preston was cold.

Even in our most intimate moments, his touch was one of absolute possession, nothing like the tender way he cherished Martha.

I swallowed my bitterness and climbed into the back seat.

Not long after the convoy started moving, Martha began to cry.

"Preston, the air in here is so suffocating. I can't breathe."

Preston glanced at me in the rearview mirror. "Briar's hand is mangled. If we don't get her to a hospital soon…"

Before he could finish, Martha let out another sob, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks.

Preston's hesitation vanished. He ordered the convoy to pull over, the car braking abruptly.

He opened my door and looked down at me, his expression unreadable.

"The hospital is only a few miles from here. Take the subway; it won't take long."

He pressed a cold subway card into my uninjured hand.

I knew what he meant.

Two years ago, I’d taken a bullet for him in a shootout. It was still lodged in my leg.

The old wound meant I couldn't stand for long.

Even now, on rainy days, my right leg felt like it was filled with lead.

Preston had once held me, his voice thick with anguish, and sworn he would never let me get hurt like that again.

Just empty words now.

The moment I closed the car door, his Bentley sped away. The cold autumn rain, thick with exhaust, stung my lungs and made me cough until my eyes watered.

The New York autumn rain was bone-chilling, the dampness seeping deep into my joints, threatening to pull me under.

A bone-deep chill set in. My body swayed. Just as I was about to collapse, a black Maybach glided to a stop before me.