She opens her mouth like she might say something, like the words are resting on the tip of her tongue, but nothing comes out.
So I go.
Chapter 13
April
It’s surprisingly easy to fall into a rhythm. Wake up. Go to work. Avoid Karen. Answer emails. Get railed by my boss. Repeat. The first time at work after the island was weird. I showed up to his office on Monday as if nothing had happened. My hair was pulled back, my lips neutral, and my skirt business-appropriate. I sat across from him in a meeting and pretended I hadn’t heard that deliciously erotic sound he makes when he comes. I pretended I didn’t know what his hands felt like wrapped around my thighs or waist, pretended I hadn’t fallen asleep still aching for him or that he hadn’t fucked me softly before disappearing from the island like he couldn’t get away fast enough.
He didn’t mention it, either. No acknowledgement. No smug expression or change in tone. Just, “Have you finalized the draft for this week’s press release?” and, “I hate that phrasing. Do it again.” Just Anthony. In peakbossholemode. Weirdly, it helped me tie up those loose ends in my head pretty quickly.
If he’d been gentle with me like he was that morning back on Edward Island, if he’d kissed my forehead again or touched me like I mattered, I think it might’ve broken me. But back in the office, he was cold, professional, clipped. Just his usualcharming self, if you consider being emotionally stunted and mildly terrifyingcharming. I knew I shouldn’t have said yes that morning, and that I was walking into a disaster after the previous night. Longing for him had sat with me all that day and all of Sunday. But by Monday morning, he’d wiped it off the face of the earth.
The second time we did it was Tuesday night at the Four Seasons, around the corner from the office.
He didn’t ask. He’d texted me a room number and said he'd booked it from that morning until the next, and to meet him on my lunch break. He’d told me to wait twenty minutes after he left the office and go out for “lunch.” Just like that, the deal was back in motion. A womb for hire, a contract, a job.
Except we weren’t being very scientific about it. “I’m not even ovulating right now,” I told him the second week, flushed and breathless, half naked in his arms. “Don’t fucking care,” he murmured, dragging his tongue up the side of my neck. “It doesn’t hurt to practice.” That became our new routine. A lot ofpractice.
It wasn’t tender anymore. It wasn’t slow. He didn’t kiss my forehead or touch me in ways that could be misconstrued or hold me after. He was efficient, focused and powerful. All of it, the way he pushed me down, held me open, and made me come with nothing more than his mouth or his hands. He was purposeful and detached. The way only a man who values control above all else could be detached.
Honestly, I’ve been grateful for it. This Anthony was easier to manage. He was not the one who brushed my hair from my cheek, whispering, “Wake up for me, princess.” This Anthony didn’t press kisses to my collarbone in the morning light. This Anthony is just a powerful asshole with an absurdly talented tongue, and an ego that could smash through concrete. It’s made it easier to keep my walls up, pretending it means nothing. Still,I can’t help but look forward to it; to him, to being wanted, even if it isn’t real.
We’ve been careful. Professional. We haven’t lingered in the office or sent inappropriate emails. I’ve kept my eyes glued to my laptop or my notes when we’ve been in meetings together, even though my body buzzes every time I’m near him. It’s like I’m a planet that wants to move into his orbit.
Then, there’s today. A text pings on my phone mid-morning, the door between our offices open, and I don’t need to look at the screen or through the doorway to know it’s from him.
Anthony Voss:
Room 1407. Just booked. Lunch or after work?
Charming as always.
Me:
Lunch. I’ve got work to do tonight.
Anthony Voss:
Attagirl.
I roll my eyes and reply with only a thumbs-up.
When I leave, I make the world’s smallest show to Sarah from accounting that I’m going to take a long lunch and work from Starbucks to “get away from Anthony” for a minute. I even bring my damn laptop with me to make it more believable. No one questions it or bats an eye.
When I get to the room, he’s already there. Still in his suit, halfway through loosening his tie. He doesn’t say much. He never really does anymore. He just pulls me in to kiss me like he needs it as he takes his clothes off and I take off mine. He puts me in my place on the bed as many times as we can both take.
Like always, it’s intense and hot. It’s completely out of step with the version of him that the rest of the world sees. When it’s over, he dresses fast, buttons his shirt one-handed, and squeezes my hip and says, “I’ll go first. Wait a few minutes.” As if I ever do it any differently, and then he’s gone.
I stay behind, my legs still shaky, chest hollow, but buzzing. I freshen up, check my hair in the mirror, and trynotto look like a woman who’s just been thoroughly and repeatedly fucked. I grab my bag and take the elevator down, planning to head straight back to the office. Apparently, things had been going according to plan too many times, and the world wants it righted.
The Prada heels and crisp ivory blazer are the first things I see, followed by that sleek bob. She narrows her eyes and aims them directly at me. Karen Bartley stands in the middle of the hotel lobby with her arms crossed, like she’s waiting for me to confess a goddamn crime.
I swallow, trying to keep my cool, and give her a polite nod. I’m hoping to walk past her and pretend I saw nothing, but she moves directly into my path.
“Well,” she says smoothly. Her eyes glide over me like she’s trying to see through my clothes. “What a coincidence.”
I stiffen. “Karen.”
