Yeah, right. Like I believe a word that comes out of her mouth. Sarah is the one who wants control and I’m tired of it.
I look over to the other side of the room where Ethan is talking to a group of older rich boys and inside mychest, something is already unraveling as the memory of his scent envelops me.
I can’t let this happen. This want. I can’t.
It’s a couple of hours later into the party and I try to focus on Sarah and on the safe, predictable chaos of small talk and champagne. But every time I laugh, I feel him watching me, like a hot brand being pressed into my back.
Every time Sarah touches my arm, my shoulder, my back, I imagine Ethan seeing it. Wanting to cut her hand off so she stops touching me. Just as I’m about to suggest to Sarah that we leave, my phone vibrates alerting me to a text message.
Ethan:Come to my office. Now.
My mouth goes dry, but I don’t question his command. Sarah is in the middle of explaining her “five-year vision” to a woman with diamonds in her hair.
“I have to take this,” I say.
She waves me off distractedly, too involved in her conversation to care what I do.
I weave through the crowd, heart climbing into my throat, and take the service elevator to Ethan’s floor. When I get there, the executive corridor is empty. I see his office door is open, light spilling out like a hazard warning to stay away. But I don’t. Instead, I step inside.
Ethan is standing by his desk, jacket removed, sleeves rolled to his forearms. I stand in the middle of his office, with my hands in my pocket without saying a word. Ethan moves over and closes the door behind me with a soft click, which may as well be a slam with how loud every noise is.
“You brought your wife,” he says.
“Obviously.”
“Why?” he asks accusingly, and I swallow hard.
“Because she wanted to come.”
“That is not an answer.”
Taking my hands out of my pockets, I grip them together to stop them from shaking.
“She’s my wife.”
“She’s a pest that shouldn’t be here.”
His eyes move over my face, my mouth, my throat, then lower, then back up. Slow and possessive.
“You’re breaking our contract,” he says, and I frown in confusion.
“How? The contract was for one night.”
“No. If you read the fine print, you would be aware of what you signed. Never sign a contract without reading every detail.”
“Hold on, what do you mean fine print?”
“You signed your life away, Leo. To me.”
I blink sharply, trying to dissect what he means.
“You’re lying,” I say, fear creeping in the longer I stand here.
“I’m not. Go read it again. You agreed to exclusivity with me, Leo.”
“Exclusivity? For how long?”
He moves over to me and whispers into my ear.
