Page 63 of Man of the Year

I turn around and smile, a glass in my hand.

Rosenberg is not paying attention to me. It’s all right. I just need him to drink. And if he drinks even half of this, he’ll be out in half an hour.

“Sir?” I pass him the drink as I approach.

He greedily snatches it out of my hand, his attention back on the phone, and takes a large gulp. A contented “ahh” escapes him. He smacks his lips. I’m about to ask him a question or two, see if I can get him to talk, when he orders, “Lock the door.”

My stomach sinks.

Oh, crap.

FORTY-NINE

NATALIE

The words make my spine steel. Rosenberg doesn’t look at me to see my reaction, he just keeps scrolling through his phone. I have a feeling that no matter how long I stand, he won’t look at me. This guy is used to ordering people around.

I walk to the door and lock it, taking a deep breath to fight the nervousness.

Rosenberg shifts, sitting up, so that there’s room between his back and the headboard. Without looking up from his phone, he taps his shoulder with his glass. “I need some work here.”

Phew. I almost laugh in relief. This asshole wants a massage?

I hesitate for a second, deciding what to do, then kick off my shoes and get on the bed behind him.

When my hands touch his shoulders—and thank god he didn’t remove his robe so there’s no skin contact—he grunts, then takes another gulp of his drink.

I cringe, massaging him slowly, meanwhile looking over his shoulder. He’s on social media. I can’t see his profile, but he’s scrolling through pictures of a model named Mariah Dove. I’m assuming she’s a model because she’s half-naked in most of the pictures—great body, luxury setting.

I keep massaging him, cringing at the fact that I’m sitting on his bed, and that’s highly inappropriate. But I keep stealing glances at his phone. Meanwhile, his drink gets emptier. The drug hasn’t had enough time to dissolve properly, because this guy chugs booze like air, and soon, he might see the leftover powder on the bottom of the glass.

“Another one?” I ask and, without waiting for a response, take the glass out of his hand, hop off the bed, and go to refill it.

“So, what’s the important business deal you have coming up, sir?” I ask when I bring him another drink.

“Shhh. Be quiet,” he tells me and keeps scrolling, taking big gulps of his drink until it’s empty again, and he passes it back to me.

I continue to massage him and feel his body slightly sagging. The sedative is working, so I try to start a conversation again.

“Tomorrow is an important day for you, isn’t it?” I ask carefully.

This time, Rosenberg stiffens.

“Let go,” he says curtly, shaking my hands off his shoulders, and turns to face me. “Who sent you?”

My breath hitches in my throat. “Pardon me? I’m just trying to relax you,” I murmur, managing a smile and patting the bed. “Why don’t you?—”

“Who?” Rosenberg snarls, snatching my wrist and leaning forward, his nostrils flaring. This sudden change in him is unsettling, causing my heart to pound. “Hesent you, didn’t he?” His eyes burn with hate. “To test me?” He reaches for me and grabs the back of my neck, yanking me closer. “I was wondering why you were so helpful,” he hisses, his face so close that I could get tipsy from his liquor breath.

“N-no, no-no-no. What are you talking about?” I ask, panic rising inside me. As gently as I can, I push his hand away and smile weakly. “I want to make you feel good, sir. You have to take it easy before tomorrow. Why don’t you lie down?”

Rosenberg blurts out an angry laugh. “He’s trying to get to me, isn’t he, fucker?”

Is he talking about the blackmailer? So he knows about him?

“He’s always harassing me.” Rosenberg fumbles and sloppily lowers himself onto his stomach. “It’s okay. I know what I’m doing.” He lazily stretches himself out and closes his eyes, muttering, “Eat shit, buddy.”

Heart in my throat, I shift to sit next to him and try massaging him, but he stops me. “Do it properly,” he slurs, without opening his eyes. “Straddle me and do it the right way.”

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