Just a paralegal. Meeting a client. Doing her job.
The smile arranges itself on my face. Polite. Appropriate. Empty.
I suck hard on the mint, letting the sharp coldness ground me in this performance.
“Marcus.” Dominic walks in to stand beside me, his hand briefly touching my lower back—guiding, controlling. “This is my paralegal, Dylan Wells.”
Marcus’s eyes light up. Like he knows the name and is now putting a face to it.Mine.
He stands slowly. Like he’s holding court. Like we should be honored.
He holds out his hand.
And I just... nope right the fuck out of my body.
My hand reaches forward from somewhere far away. Our palms touch. His fingers close around mine—warm, dry, firm.
These hands strangled a woman.
These hands pulled her by her hair.
These hands dropped her body in an alley like trash.
Did she shake his hand first? Did she smile and perform and think she was safe right up until she wasn’t? How many times did she do this calculation—be polite or be rude, risk rejection or risk assault—before she made the wrong choice with the right man?
The ring sits heavy against my chest. Evidence and warning. Her and me.
My face smiles. Polite. Demure. Exactly what he expects.
A soft, girlie giggle slips past my lips. The kind that makes men feel clever and important.
If Alex could see me right now, she’d either be proud or planning my intervention. Possibly both. Definitely texting BLINK TWICE IF YOU NEED EXTRACTION in all caps.
“It is—” He pauses mid-shake, not letting go. Steps even closer, invading my space. “—lovely to meet you, Dylan.”
His voice.
Oh god, his voice.
It’s him. The same voice from the stairwell. The same entitled tone. The same cadence. The way he draws out certain words like he’s savoring them.
“I have heard so much about you.” He’s still holding my hand. Still standing too close.
Oh no. Oh no.
He’s doing it.
You know. That thing. That thing men do when they aren’t just interested but are telegraphing—loud and clear—if you want, I know a closet on the fifth floor where we can fuck.
How are you going to play this one, Dylan?
“My resume is amazing, isn’t it.” I state it matter-of-factly. Not a question. A redirect.
Well done. Well fucking done.
“Yes.” He draws the word out, finally releasing my hand. His eyes do that thing—that slow up-and-down assessment that makes you want to shower.
“Dylan is on her way to passing the bar,” Dom adds, like he’s showing off a prized possession.
