As soon as Ransome is out of sight, I rush to the door and try every code I can think of, past and present. Every time, the light blinks red and the automated voice shuts me down.
ACCESS DENIED.
ACCESS DENIED.
ACCESS DENIED.
“Fuck.” I run through my hair, then realize my wrists are sore. Bruised, actually. Normally, a bondage-induced bruise from Ransome would be a huge turn on. But not right now. Right now, I am in panic mode.
“Okay. Think. Think, Amara. You have no phone. No one knows you’re here…”
No one except…
I suddenly remember there was a guard standing outside the door when we came in.
I rush to the peephole and sure enough, he’s still there.
“Excuse me!” I pound on the door. His head turns one notch towards me, meaning he can in fact hear me. “Yes! Hi! I’m kind of stuck. I think Ransome locked the door from the outside by accident. Do you think you could help me out?”
He says nothing. Does nothing. His head moves back a notch to where it was.
Well. No help coming from that front. I take in a deep breath and reevaluate my situation.
My boss knows I’ve been stalking him. From web browsing to shirt-stealing to hiding in his closet while he masturbates on his desk…He has also very strongly implied that my suspicions are right and he is in fact more than just a CEO.
He’s someoneelse. Someone important. Someone with status…
Is he a felon? Is wanted for something?
I pace the floor, trying to make sense of it. Every step echoes my growing frustration. He tied me up. He brought me here against my will. And now he’s just… gone. Left me here to fucking rot.
The more I think about it, the angrier I get. All those months of perfect coffee, pressed suits, flawless schedules. All those late nights making sure his life ran smoothly. And this is how he repays my loyalty?
I've been nothing but devoted to him. Obsessed, yes, but devoted. I've anticipated his every need, protected his time, made his life easier in a thousand small ways.
I don’t deserve this.
Meanwhile, that whiskey he has is looking pretty tempting. I open the cabinet and help myself to the bottle, not bothering with a glass. No, this time, I am going to leave my lipstick right on the damn bottle.
Have fun getting that off, jerk.
After a couple swigs, I realize my stomach is empty and the booze is going to my head very fast. But I’m not hungry. I’m numb and angry and confused.
And I’m tired. I’m really, really tired.
I make my way to the couch—because I’m not about to sleep in the man’s bed, even though the door is left open. In fact, all the doors are left open. Except the office of course. Not that there was anything good to be found in there anyways.
My head is literally spinning, both from the whiskey and the day I just had. I flop down on the couch and take a deep breath. My eyes are heavy. My brain is a mess. And my internal monologue is all over the fucking place.
He knows.
I’m staying the night in his house.
He knows you’ve been stalking him.
You could sleep in his bed if you wanted to.
He’s dangerous.
