But I show up at seven on the dot anyway, as prepared as I can be for him to make me suffer for the little bit of humanity he allowed me to see on Saturday.
To my surprise, he's almost…calm. He doesn't mention what happened or the way he ran out, as if his confession shamed him. He says nothing at all about the weekend, in fact.
"I brought you coffee," he says instead, motioning to the cup perched on the edge of my desk.
I eye it suspiciously. "Did you poison it?"
His level stare tells me he didn't poison it and doesn't find me funny. "Drink it," he growls.
It's the first weird moment in a day of weird moments.
By nine, I'm positive I've entered a parallel universe.
Asher doesn't so much as look at me twice. He runs through the week's agenda like a machine, spitting out valuable information on the industry and different studios that I should be soaking up. Except I'm not. My mind keeps shorting out, replaying his taste, the sound of his nightmare, and the way he confessed to a wound as deep as bone and then vanished like the moment was too real for him.
I want to ask if he slept at all this weekend, or if he even tried.
But I can't. I'm not even sure what imaginary rule of our agreement I'd be breaking if I did, but I'm sure he'd think of one. Maybe the one about pretending we're both still human.
Lunch comes and goes, which is nothing new, but Asher doesn't even fake an appetite. He just keeps working, occasionally glancing up to make sure I'm still taking notes as he explains all the little nuances of a game that he mastered a long time ago.
He's polite, asking instead of demanding for the first time in his life. He even says "please" once, though I think it's a slip of the tongue. When it happens, he goes silent for a full threeseconds, like he's trying to process what the fuck he just said, and then he picks up where he left off.
The only hint of our real dynamic is when he calls me "princess" under his breath, so quietly it's almost an afterthought. But the word hits me like a shot of bourbon—sweet, burning, and very, very real.
At two, he closes his laptop and stretches his arms above his head, every move deliberate. The way he looks at me feels like a threat.
"Come here," he says.
I do, because there's never any point in resisting. He's bigger and faster than me. He's meaner, too.
He waits until I'm standing on the far side of his desk to send my heart into overdrive with a single word. "Strip."
I glare at him silently for a long moment before I mutter a soft curse and slowly shimmy out of my pants and top. Why I thought wearing pants today might save me, I don't know. Obviously, it didn't.
"All of it, princess," he demands, his eyes locked on my body.
I throw my bra at him across the desk, but I'm not stupid enough to toss my panties at him, not after what he did with them on Friday. I throw those halfway across the office, so he has to work for them if he wants to gag me again.
Once I'm naked and trembling in front of him, he opens the drawer nearest me, producing a length of black silk rope.
He lays it on the desk like an offering.
My brain takes a full five seconds to process.
"Are you threatening to tie me up?" I try to keep my voice casual, but it shakes, my wrists burning with the memory of him binding my hands on Friday.
His mouth quirks. "You think it's a threat?"
"Please tell me you're joking. The entire office is still here!"
"Then you'd better hope no one decides to stop in this afternoon." He moves around the desk, standing a foot away. "Now, put your hands together in front of you."
I don't move. "No."
His smile is patient, amused even. "Try again."
"This wasn't part of our agreement." I stand my ground, arms crossed and feet planted.
