“We’re not engaged,” I snap, too sharp, too fast.
The moment crackles.
Clara’s hand slips around my arm like a shackle disguised as affection.
“Don’t make this a thing,” she whispers.
Too late.
Every molecule of my skin still remembers his voice.
You’ve been desperate for someone who won’t apologize for the filthy things they want to do to you…
You’re dying to know how it feels to have a man grip your hair and show you exactly what it means to beg.
The memory claws up my spine like a fever.
“Excuse me,” I murmur, “I need to use the restroom.”
I feel like I’m underwater again. Every word muffled. My skin too tight.
I step away before they can stop me.
Preston calls my name, but it’s distant. Hollow. Background noise behind the thunder in my chest.
I don’t know where I’m going…until I do.
Near the bar, a server intercepts me.
Black suit. Polished. Discreet. The Langford’s crest gleams on his lapel.
He doesn’t speak.
Just extends his hand.
A keycard.
And a folded piece of thick, matte stationery.
Then he’s gone before I can breathe, before I can ask anything, before I can stop myself.
I look down at the card first.
PH-1.
The penthouse.
I unfold the note slowly, feeling the smooth, heavy paper between trembling fingertips.
A single line.
Clean, precise, devastatingly deliberate:
Stop pretending this isn’t exactly what you want.
— K.
My breath snags in my throat, a vicious tug low in my belly.
