I step out of my stilettos, leaving them near the edge of the rug. My feet ache, a dull throb radiating up my calves. I reach around to the side of the charcoal jacket, my fingers fumbling blindly for the buttons.
Malcolm’s hands cover mine before I can find it.
"Let me," he murmurs.
His voice is rough, exhausted. He stands right behind me, his chest brushing against my bare back. He pulls the zipper down in one smooth, practiced motion. The heavy wool loosens instantly, as he helps me slide the jacket and trousers down my hips, pooling in a dark circle around my ankles.
I step out of them, shivering slightly as the cool air of the apartment hits my skin. I am wearing nothing but the dark silk camisole and seamless black underwear.
Malcolm doesn't step back. He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me backward until I am flush against him. He buries his face in the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply.
"You're freezing," he says against my skin.
"I'm just coming down from the adrenaline." I lean my head back against his shoulder, closing my eyes. "I think my brain is still trying to process the fact that Simon actually locked me in a pantry like a cartoon villain."
I try to make it sound like a joke, a pathetic attempt to lighten the suffocating gravity in the room.
Malcolm doesn't laugh. His grip on my waist tightens, his fingers pressing hard enough to leave faint bruises on my hip bones.
"He is not going to have the opportunity to do it again," Malcolm says. The absolute, terrifying certainty in his voice makes my breath catch.
"Malcolm." I turn around in his arms, resting my hands flat against his chest. He has already discarded his tuxedo jacket and tie in the car. The top buttons of his shirt are undone. "It’s over. We won. Preston knows he can't use my mother’s debt against us. Simon is humiliated. We don't have to fight them anymore."
He looks down at me. The ambient light catches the sharp angles of his face, highlighting the deep exhaustion around his eyes.
"We won," he repeats softly.
He leans down and kisses me. It is a slow, heavy kiss, completely devoid of the frantic, desperate energy from the ballroom. It feels like an anchor. It feels like an apology.
When he pulls back, he traces the line of my jaw with his thumb. "Go put something warm on. I need to make a phone call."
"At midnight?"
"Logistics," he says smoothly. "I need to coordinate with Grant regarding the security contractors who pulled you out of the ballroom."
I nod, accepting the explanation. It makes sense. Malcolm doesn't leave loose ends, and a security breach at a family event is a massive loose end.
I walk down the hallway to the master bedroom. I don't turn the lights on. I navigate by memory, pulling open the heavy wooden drawer of his dresser. I grab a pair of his gray sweatpants and a long-sleeved black t-shirt. They swallow me completely, the cotton smelling faintly of his cedar cologne.
I walk into the master bathroom to wash my face. I scrub the heavy, dramatic makeup off, watching the severe, armored version of myself wash down the drain.
When I walk back out into the bedroom, I expect to find Malcolm waiting.
The room is empty.
I frown, walking back out into the hallway. I hear the low murmur of his voice coming from his home office. The door is cracked open exactly two inches, just like it was the afternoon before the family dinner.
I walk toward the door, intending to tell him I’m going to make tea.
I stop when I hear the tone of his voice.
He isn't talking to Grant. He isn't giving orders about security contractors.
"I don't care what the legal department says, Richard," Malcolm says. His voice is completely flat, stripped of all humanity. "Theresignation is effective immediately. You will have the formal documents on your desk by eight o'clock tomorrow morning."
My heart stops beating.
I stand frozen in the hallway, my hand hovering inches from the heavy oak door.
