Page 99 of Filthy Promises

But even as hot, liquid shame washes over me, I can’t deny the truth: It was the best sex of my life. The only sex of my life that actually felt like it mattered.

LikeImattered.

No wonder people destroy their lives for this feeling.

I step out of the shower, wrapping myself in a towel that’s old enough to be closer to tissue paper than anything properly absorbent. My reflection in the steam-clouded mirror is a stranger to me. I trace all the things that weren’t there yesterday: the cut on my cheek, the bruise on my collarbone, the fingerprints on my hips.

Souvenirs of the night I lost my mind.

My phone buzzes on the counter. A text from Vince.

Car will pick you up in 30 minutes. Business as usual.

Business as usual. As if nothing happened. As if he didn’t ruin me on my own couch last night.

What a fucking jokethatis.

Part of me is relieved. Maybe we can pretend it never happened. If we agree on that, then I can walk into that office and be nothing more than his assistant again.

The other part of me is utterly and completely devastated.

“Professional,” I say to my reflection. “You can do professional.”

Spoiler: I cannot do professional.

I’m a crumbling ruin from the second I step foot on Akopov property. The office feels different today. Or is it just that I’m the one who’s different?

Diane doesn’t even deign to nod in greeting as I pass her desk. Does she know? Can she tell just by looking at me what happened? Am I drowning in a cloud ofeau de pathetic?

“He’s in a meeting,” she says before I can even say hello, eyeing me warily over her reading glasses. “Should be done by ten.”

I mumble something that approximates “thank you,” settle at my desk, and do my best to focus on the mountain of emails that accumulated during my absence.

Work. Safe, predictable, boring-as-hell work. I can lose myself in this. The number my brain, the better.

I deliberately avoid looking at Vince’s closed door.

By lunchtime, I’ve managed to clear most of the backlog. I’ve also successfully avoided any direct contact with Vince, timing my bathroom breaks for when he’s in meetings, keeping my eyes glued to my computer when he passes my desk.

Then Natalie calls, demanding details about where I’ve been for the past two days.

“Family emergency,” I lie. “Mom needed me.”

“You could have texted,” she scolds. “I was worried sick!”

Guilt twists in my gut. “I’m sorry, Nat. It’s been… complicated.”

“Well, you’re buying lunch tomorrow and telling me everything,” she declares. “No excuses.”

I agree miserably. I’ll have to concoct an elaborate fiction to explain my absence without mentioning car crashes, gunfights, or sleeping with the boss, but that’s fine. I mean, who cares? It’s just another lie in the growing collection I’ve been piling since I started this job.

The afternoon stretches endlessly. I’m being tortured by a clock that refuses to move.

Finally, at the merciful stroke of five o’clock, I grab my purse and spring for the elevator. I’ve survived the day. Tomorrow will be easier. The day after that, easier still.

Eventually, this will just be another mistake in a long line of poor life choices.

The elevator doors slide open, and I step inside, pressing the lobby button repeatedly as if that will make it arrive faster.

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