Nico Conti.
My boss.
The man whose name people barely dare whisper.
Still young for the reputation he’s built. Only twenty-six and feared across Atlantic City.
The man who looked at me across his desk and asked if I could handle pressure.
The man who—
My throat closes.
I stare at the curtained window in front of me, my vision going slightly blurry, because if I turn my head, I’ll see him. I’ll confirm it. I’ll make it real in a way my brain can’t handle right now.
I swallow. It hurts.
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my ears.
What did I do?
My face burns even though I’m alone in my head. Even though he’s asleep.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t help. The memories keep pushing in anyway—his voice, my body reacting like it didn’t belong to me, the humiliating fact that I didn’t fight the way I thought I would. The humiliating fact that my body did things my mind is trying to deny.
The fact that I liked it. A lot. And want more.
I want to rewind time. I want to climb out of my own skin. I want to undo last night so badly my chest aches with it.
How could I do this to myself?
And with him.
Of all people.
I feel sick.
My gaze drops to the sheets, to the edge of a robe tossed over the chair, to the faint blue tint in the glass on the nightstand that reminds me of the bath. My stomach lurches again.
I need to get out of this room.
The room where—
No. Don’t.
I force myself to take a breath through my nose. In. Out. Slowly.
I try to focus on logistics because emotions are dangerous right now. If I let myself feel too much, I’ll start shaking. I’ll start crying. I’ll start falling apart, and I can’t fall apart when a man like Nico Conti is behind me.
What happens now?
What happens at work?
My stomach twists harder.
Work.
The office. The desk. The routine. Him in a suit, calm, cold, and controlled. Me with a coffee in my hand, asking if he needs anything else.
