Page 331 of Mad Girl

You propped your head up. “Okay,” you murmured, thumb lightly brushing my hip. “Ask me.”

“Do you really want a place at the firm? Or are you just…letting my dad talk you into believing that’s what you want?”

“Nic’s giving me an opportunity to build a life here—with you. Of course I want it.”

“A life with me? Or a life of monitoring me?”

Your brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

“He’ll have you follow me around Harvard, and after that, the firm. You’ll keep tabs on me there, too. The same way you’ve always done here.”

“It won’t be like that. We’ll be colleagues. We’ll be working together.”

“But the firm’s supposed to be mine.”

“And it will be,” you said.

“Unless my dad decides you’re a better fit—then he’ll give it to you.”

“Elliot, he wants us to be a team.”

“He wants you to keep me in line, Casey, and if you can’t? You’re his backup.”

“It isn’t like that.”

“Then why hasn’t he asked how I feel about it? If I even want to share the firm with someone else?”

That crease of concern deepened between your eyebrows. “Do you?”

“I don’t think it really matters to him.”

“It matters to me. If you don’t want me working at the firm, just say so. I’ll do something else.”

I lifted a brow. “Like what?”

“I could be a music teacher. Or a baker. Or even just your lowly assistant. I’d bring you coffee and tea all day, make sure you’re eating at the right times, calm you down when you’re angry or stressed. Five days a week, you’d get to order me around.” You grinned so big my heart melted. “You’d love that.”

I laughed. “My dad says we’re right for each other.”

“I’ve only been trying to tell you the same thing for months now,” you said, searching my gaze. “But you don’t want to accept it for some reason. Or maybe you’re just scared—to fully let me in.” Your hand slid beneath the hem of my camisole, resting warm and flat over my stomach. “Show me what you showed Willoughby.” You brushed your lips against my jaw—so softly it barely counted as a kiss—and whispered, “Be vulnerable with me.”

My stomach flipped while you waited, hoping to be trusted.

The ache inside me grew stronger—that burning mix of fear and longing, the need to be seen and accepted for who I really was. I thought of Nic’s words again: “You’re exactly right for each other.” And I didn’t think I believed it.

But I’d given you other truths—the bruise on Halloween, the time I’d stabbed myself with the pencil in kindergarten—and you’d accepted it all, without judgement or shock. So maybe those were signs. Maybe my dad was right about this, too.

I swallowed, pulse pounding in my throat. If I asked you for this twisted thing, you might make me feel the way Willoughby had when I’d asked him: like I was a freak for asking. Or like Michael had when I’d broached the topic at Thanksgiving: like it was wrong of me to want it in the first place. And, yeah, it would crush me so much more if you did it. It would completely eviscerate me. But at least I’d know.

If you could handle the darkest pieces of me.

So I looked you in the eye, and I said it: “Put your hand around my throat.”

Your head snapped back, eyebrows pinching together. You hadn’t expected that. “What?”

“Put your hand on me like Greer did,” I repeated, somehow managing to keep my voice even.

Your expression hardened. “I broke the hand he used to touch you like that.”