She sounds irritated, but her voice is somehow nonetheless soothing. I grit my teeth. I can’t have her see me like this, when I’m out of my mind. I might say something I’ll regret, reveal something I shouldn’t.
Need a distraction.“How did you get my number?” Part of me wants to beg her to come and put me out of my misery.No. Hell no.
“How did I—?” A huff. “You never changed it! Look, if you aren’t going to be home soon, I’m going to bed and docking it off the number. It’s you who’s bailing on this ‘date,’ not me.”
Go to bed. But the words catch in my throat as I struggle for control. Finally, I grit out: “The Aylster. Presidential suite.Now.”
The second the words are out, I bite my lip hard, the bitter taste of blood filling my mouth.
Chapter Fifteen
Fiona
How curt. And weird.Bryce didn’t sound like himself, like he was both angry and relieved. If he was upset that I called, he should’ve answered my texts. It isn’t easy to stay up this late when I usually get up by six. But I couldn’t just fall asleep, knowing he wanted to take his second time tonight.
Maybe he wants to role-play and got annoyed I didn’t call sooner?
I shake my head. We used to be so in tune. A single glance, and I knew what he needed, whether it was a kiss or a hug or comforting humming or sex. Now, I never have any idea. He threw me out of my office, then changed his mind. He mocked me for “offering my body,” then demanded I pay with my body.
The man is fickler than a weathervane in a hurricane.
Or this might be his way of screwing with me. After all, he made it clear he’d never forgive me for what happened…which is probably deserved. He’s doing everything in his power to punish me for that past humiliation—also understandable from his perspective.
Part of me wishes I hadn’t bothered with the text, asking to meet and speak to him—just gone over to him and explained what really happened between me and Jude before leaving for my job in Wisconsin. However, when Bryce said I was dead to him, my courage died. Ormaybe I was just relieved that I didn’t have to relive the trauma and shame. I felt like I owed him an explanation, but even if I’d given him one, he might’ve still accused me of making excuses. He might’ve been more disappointed and annoyed that I wasn’t the perfect angel he’d initially assumed when I saved his golden retriever.
Stop thinking about what might’ve happened.
An Uber drops me off in front of the Aylster. The concierge comes to me with a polite smile. “Ms. Oberman? The presidential suite is this way.”
Guess Bryce told the hotel.
I nod and follow her, carrying a box of condoms in a paper bag. Can’t be prepared enough. It’s possible Bryce arranged for some, but birth control matters more to me than him. After all, my consequences would be far more immediate—and dire.
The concierge takes me to a waiting elevator, swipes a card over the reader, then hands it to me. The car moves upward silently.
I exhale, trying not to fidget. The mirrored doors show a woman with her hair shiny and unbound, cascading around her shoulders in auburn waves. A respectable black trench coat with the waist cinched tight with a fabric belt. The heels I picked out are strappy and scream sex.
Bryce wants something sexy. I plan to give it to him—and show him that just because I go along with his demands, it doesn’t mean he’s in control. If I can’t establish that, our time together is going to be disastrous.
He already wants to establish his control and possession over my body. I need to make it clear that sex doesn’t mean he gets to own me until he gets his fill—because I know perfectly well he isn’t going to count all the way up to three hundred. He’s just being a jerk because of how we parted ways. Once he gets bored, he’ll stop, but my life needs to go on.
Hopefully that will happen sooner rather than later. And hopefully we won’t harbor any residual feelings for each other. A clean slate, everything totally even. Hell, if I ever get married and need a divorce lawyer in the future, it’d be nice to be able to consult Bryce without any hard feelings.
The elevator stops with a ping. The doors open. A sign in the hall says the suite is to my left. I walk along the thickly carpeted corridor, taking a deep breath to calm my nerves. I can play whatever game Bryce wants to play.
There is a pair of massive double doors at the end—and a platinum plaque to the right that reads PRESIDENTIAL SUITE. I swipe the card. The lock clicks open.
I run a palm over my hair and stride inside, my heels silent on the lush carpet. A giant vase full of fresh white calla lilies sits on a stand to my left. The floor-to-ceiling windows show a spectacular view of L.A., countless lights glittering like gemstones in the dark.
Next to an ivory baby grand piano is a trail of clothes: a white shirt, black vest and jacket, pants and underwear, all thrown haphazardly. Cushions litter the floor, some flung far from the big sectional. Socks and shoes lie under the glass-top coffee table. A tie at the foot of the bed. The tips of my shoes almost kick the cuff links glinting on the floor.
What the hell happened here?It isn’t like him to leave a mess all over. He’s surprisingly tidy. Even when stripping for sex, he’s always left his things in a neat pile near the bed.
Except… The only time he was a wreck was that time he had a horrible nightmare earlier in our relationship. I walked in on him after a late-night group study session as he swiped his hands over his desk, sending everything crashing on the floor, including his laptop and phone. He threw the Babs Bunny mug I left on the nightstand that morning. The ceramic exploded like a bomb against the wall. I jumped, my heart pounding with shock and concern. He yanked at his hair. I dropped my bag and rushed forward. He swiveled his head toward me, but his eyes were glazed and unfocused, lost and haunted.
“Fiona…?” he croaked.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
