Page 24 of Selfish Suit

“No,” he says. “And for the record, I doubt I’d have to force you to sleep with me. You’d do it willingly.”

My jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

“And if I wanted to pay you for sex,” he adds, voice low and hard, “I would’ve paid a lot more.”

My pulse stutters.

He steps in. Close.

One hand braces on the doorframe beside my head, the other ghosting just behind my hip. Not touching—not quite—but close enough to make my breath catch. His scent—cedar and clean spice—wraps around me, thick and dizzying.

“Open,” he says again, his voice lower now, more dangerous. “The door.”

I oblige, pushing it open and letting him follow behind me.

The lights are off, so I walk over to the battery-powered surge and step on the switch, waiting for it to power on.

As the LED lamps begin to flicker, the truth I’ve been hiding from family and friends is on full display. My air mattress lays on the floor—fully made up in the Four Seasons sheets I brag home about. Instead of a fridge, I have a stack of brightly labeled coolers, and on a whiteboard that props up my makeshift wardrobe rack, all my debts are listed in order—right next to the former Uber Eats tips I calculate for savings.

Everything else in the apartment is just… there.

When the lights are fully illuminated, I see Dominic looking around with his jaw clenched.

“Would you like a tour?” I try to lighten the sudden dip in mood. “Well, I mean, you’ll need to take your shoes off and then try not to step too hard on the floorboards by the window because?—”

“Pack up your shit,” he interrupts.

“What?” I cross my arms. “Why?”

“Pack. Up. Your. Shit,” he repeats himself. “You don’t live here anymore.”

“You could just say ‘no’ to the tour.” I laugh. “I appreciate the ride home. I’ll see you tomorrow, and you can leave the same way you came.”

“Exactly,” he says. “With you.”

“Come again?”

“I’m not letting you stay another night here, and I’m not leaving without you,” he says, glancing at his watch. “So either start packing, or I’ll call someone to pack everything for you.”

“You think you can just make me move out of my apartment?”

“Can you ask your ridiculous questions and pack your things at the same time?” he asks. “It would prevent me from taking more drastic measures…”

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

“What part of what I’m saying is unclear, Ivy?” The way my name falls from his lips is dangerous.

“You’re serious.”

“Dead-ass serious.”

“Well, I need time to go through things and?—”

“Tracey?” His phone is against his ear, and he’s dismissed me like we’re at work. “I’m going to send you an address and I need you to get me—” He looks around my room. “Six full sets of luggage within the hour. Thank you.”

He ends the call and leans against a door.

“There,” he says. “You have an hour’s time.”

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