Close my eyes.
And try not to think about the fact I’m completely fucked.
Because this isn’t just sex anymore.
It’s not just wanting.
It’s feeling something I swore I’d never feel again.
And that terrifies me more than any contract violation ever could.
14
Jess
I’m standing in Ben’s Corner at FHG headquarters trying very hard not to think about Marco’s hands.
Or his mouth.
Or his cock.
Or—
Stop it!
You have a job to do.
A job that does NOT involve replaying your boss railing you into next Wednesday.
I adjust the laminated “Smell-Sip-Say” cards for the third time. They don’t need adjusting. They’re perfect. But my hands need something to do besides remember what it felt like when Marco’s fingers were inside me.
My face floods with heat.
Thank God no one’s here yet.
Ben’s Corner is actually adorable. Kid-height stools arranged in a semicircle. A bowl of citrus fruits for zesting and counting bubbles. Safety scissors and practice knives in color-coded bins. Everything at theperfect height for small hands to reach without climbing or asking for help.
Lucy Hammond-Blackwell breezes in carrying a clipboard and radiating that effortless philanthropy energy only billionaire wives seem to possess, though she’s a successful CEO in her own right. She’s dressed like she just came from brunch at some place where the mimosas cost forty dollars and they call them “sparkling wellness elixirs.” I know her through Tatiana, who used to work for her husband.
“Jess!” She gives me a quick hug. “This space is gorgeous. You did all this?”
“Marco’s team did the setup. I just, you know, pointed at things and said ‘put that there.’” I gesture vaguely.
She laughs. It’s genuine, not the polite kind. “Don’t sell yourself short. The curriculum is all you. Christopher showed me your proposal. It’s brilliant.”
Christopher. Her tech CEO husband. Right. Because of course billionaires share my curriculum proposals over breakfast or whatever.
When your side hustle becomes boardroom conversation and you’re still not sure if you’re qualified to teach anything.
“Thanks,” I manage. “That means a lot.”
Lucy starts distributing her micro-grant envelopes at the check-in table. Each family gets a small stipend for groceries, no questions asked. It’s the kind of generosity that makes me simultaneously grateful and uncomfortable because I used to be the person who needed the envelope.
Still might be, if I’m honest.
The main door opens and Sabrina Taylor-Maxwell walks in with her usual efficient energy. She’s carrying Mia Grace on her hip, and the twinsJamie and Theo are holding hands behind her like tiny matching bodyguards.
“Jess.” Sabrina nods at me, then immediately moves to tape a hand-written note by the entrance:
