Page 5

I roll up the sleeves of my robe and get to it, letting my brain slip into its favorite mode: categorization and organization. I isolate the flat-edged pieces and snap the border together in under three minutes. Next, I separate the pieces into distinct piles: darks, lights, and whatever the textured pattern is supposed to be. My fingers move quickly, slotting the pieces together while I alternate between building the image and finishing my coffee.

As the fragmented shapes begin to interlock, my mind races through what the image could be. A map to a restaurant? The logo of that boutique hotel downtown where she booked us a suite last year? For a fleeting, panicked second, as a swath of pale pink materializes, I wonder if it’s a photograph of me in a compromising position. But no, the pink connects to a patch of dark gray, derailing that theory.

Fifteen minutes and one empty coffee cup later, I snap the final piece into the center.

Voilà.

I lean on my hands, my eyes sweeping over the completed image, a triumphant smirk curving my lips as the next clue on Jo’s little scavenger hunt makes itself clear.

It’s a wolf emoji. That wolf emoji. It’s become her digital calling card, popping up in texts whenever she’s feeling particularly wicked. But what does it mean now? Could it be a digital clue?

I push myself up from the rug and stride down the hallway to the bedroom, snatching my phone off the nightstand. My thumbs fly across the screen as I pace at the foot of the bed. Maybe she sent an encrypted email to my personal account? Or slipped a fake calendar invite into my schedule? I refresh my inbox. Nothing. I check my calendar—also nothing.

Frustration bubbling, I open my contacts, tempted to call her and demand a hint, or at least imply that my patience is wearing thin. I tap the search bar and type in her name. The contact pops up, but instead of the simple Jo accompanied by the red heart I’d assigned her, the screen reads: Jo - No shortcuts, love.

I stare at the glowing letters, my mouth falling open in disbelief. “Are you kidding me?” I whisper, a laugh catching in my throat as I lock the phone and toss it onto the mattress.

I wander back down the hall to the living room. “Fine. We do it the hard way.”

I sink onto the rug and lean closer to the puzzle, forcing myself to look past the smug gray face and analyze the context around it. I study the dark mahogany wood grain in the background. It does look familiar.

Is that my office door?

It would make sense. That office has been the site of more than a few late-night, steamy encounters after the rest of the executive floor went home. And the building would be empty on a Sunday, save for the security guard at the lobby desk.

A deserted office. A locked door. It’s dangerous and a little bit forbidden—100% her style.

I stand up, my mind shifting into logistical overdrive to calculate the fastest route downtown. My hand brushes the knotted sash of my robe, and a slow smile curves my lips. If I am going to play Little Red walking into the woods to hunt down a very hungry wolf, I intend to be the most lethal thing out there.

I turn on my heel and head straight for the master bedroom, pulling the knot free as I walk. Jo doesn’t realize yet what kind of trap she’s setting for herself. The robe slides off my shoulders and pools on the floor. I step over it to reach the small, matte-black box sitting on my dresser. Inside is the lingerie I bought for tonight—a barely-there set of sheer black lace, matched with a pair of thigh-high stockings that are guaranteed to make Jo lose her mind.

Next comes the main event. Jo has a documented, highly exploitable weakness for my pencil skirts. Every time I wear one to work, her eyes go dark, her professional mask slipping just enough to let the feral beast peek through. I reach for a burgundy custom piece I’ve never dared to wear to the corporate building.

The leather hugs my curves like a second skin, and the slit up the left thigh is deep enough to be considered a severe HR violation all on its own. I pair it with a strappy black silk camisole. The neckline plunges, leaving my collarbones and the swell of my cleavage bare.

Moving to the vanity mirror, I reach for my signature matte red lipstick. I apply it carefully, pressing my lips together to set the striking crimson color. It’s my favorite formula for a very specific, thoroughly tested reason: it boasts an amazing, bulletproof resistance. It can survive three cups of coffee, an intense budget review, and—more importantly—hours of relentless, breathless sex without leaving a single smudge on Jo’s skin.

Perfect.

I step out of the bedroom and walk down the hallway, grabbing my outerwear from the closet by the front door. To complete this modern reinterpretation, I slide my arms into a burgundy leather jacket to match the skirt, and step into a pair of black ankle boots with needle-thin stiletto heels.

I check my reflection one last time in the entryway mirror. The aesthetic? Sultry, completely in control, and ready to wreck my fiancée.

I grab my keys, turning the lock of the apartment behind me. The rhythmic click-clack of my heels echoing down the corridor sounds exactly like a countdown.

Chapter Four

During the twenty-minute drive downtown, my brain treats me to a highly explicit highlight reel. Every red light becomes an invitation for my mind to wander, my grip tightening on the steering wheel as the leather skirt shifts against my thighs.

I picture her perched on my desk in black lace, legs crossed, watching the door open. By the next block, my imagination turns her into the wolf again—all sharp teeth and bare skin, sprawled in my chair with her thighs parted in a silent challenge. A challenge I would gladly accept, dropping to my knees on the carpet. By the time I pull into the parking lot, I have her in nothing but a silver wig, stretched across the coffee table like an offering, waiting for me to bind her wrists with my silk camisole.

Each new version leaves my mouth dry and the rest of me aching.

I bypass the weekend security guard—who barely glances up from his monitors—and ride the elevator up to the executive floor.

I push open the door to my office, fully prepared to drop to my knees.

Nothing.