Page 25 of Dirty Little Secrets
She blinks, reaching for a glass of water. I watch her plump lips press against the rim as she takes a sip, a drop of water dripping down her chin. I’m tempted to lick it off as it rolls down her neck. My grip on the toy rake tightens. One step at a time.
“Feel better?” I ask as she puts the glass down.
Emery nods sheepishly, embarrassed by her reaction but she has no need to be. She’ll learn that soon enough. She’ll learn to own it, to be proud of her desires. I’ll teach her. I’ll train her to be the good girl she wants to be.
“Good.” I stand up, peering down at her. “Now, I need you to get up, go straight to your boss’s office, and quit.”
“What?” Her eyes spring open before she laughs. “Quit? Why the fuck would I quit?”
“Because,” I check the time on my watch, “your new office will be ready in a couple of days.” I grin at her. “And we have an appointment with my realtor in an hour. There are a few units available in my building. Wouldn't that be nice, Miss Jones? To live a few steps away from me?”
She blinks rapidly. “Office? Realtor?” She shakes her head. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I need a new CFO,” I say casually, replying to a text from Miranda. I glance up at Emery. “And you’ve graciously accepted the position.”
“I, what?” She stands up, crossing her arms. “Why in the world would I want to work for you?”
“Because if you don’t, Miss Jones,” my tone drops to a threatening rasp, “everyone in your life will be madeaware of what you choose to do on Friday nights.” I cock my head. “Is that what you want, Miss Jones? For your colleagues to discover your secret? Your parents?” My jaw tenses. “Thomas?”
“You wouldn’t,” she whispers, fear dripping in her voice. “You wouldn’t dare?—”
“But I would,” I hum. “And I will unless you do exactly as I say. Now,” I nod at her phone, “call your boss and request an urgent meeting. Tell him you’ve decided to move to Manhattan. Tell him that while you appreciate all you’ve learned here, it’s time to move on. Tell him that today will be your last day.”
Emery’s jaw hangs. “You’re serious? You want me tomoveto Manhattan?”
I offer her a lazy shrug. “Commuting from Connecticut hardly seems time efficient.”
She shakes her head, flabbergasted. “This is a joke, right? You’re kidding.”
“The faster you accept what’s happening right now, the sooner we can go over your new duties.” I tilt my head. “Well? Pick up the phone, Miss Jones. What are you waiting for?”
“This is ridiculous,” she whispers, disdain oozing from her pores. “This is—” A light knock on her door draws her attention toward the pompous suit at the door. “What?”
“Emily,” he says, nodding down the hall. “You’re wanted back in the conference room. Five minutes.”
Her lip twitches with contempt as her furious gaze snaps back to me, and I can’t gauge where her anger is directed. She’s silent for several beats, inwardlyattempting to defuse herself. “This…” she breathes out, shaking her head. “This is completely unethical, Mr. Cavanaugh. There are other ways to?—”
“Like I said, Miss Jones...” I round Emery’s desk, stalking toward her until we’re inches apart. I curl a finger under her chin, tilting her head up so she meets my determined stare. “There are no rules.”
“Clearly,” she grunts, slapping my hand away. I don’t let it get to me. As my father used to say— big risk, big reward. She sighs, slowly submitting to the situation at hand. She glances to her office door, and I swear I notice a sliver of a smirk grace her puffy lips. “Fine. I’ll do it. But,” she whips her head at me, glaring. “I fucking loathe you.”
“That’ll change, Miss Jones,” I rasp. “I’ll make sure of it.”
“Doubt it,” Emery grumbles, picking up the phone and dialing her superior. “Mr. Kenneth? Do you have a minute? There’s something I need to discuss with you.”
“I’ll wait for you outside,” I say, heading out of the office. “And don’t try to run, Miss Jones. By now, I think you’re aware of how capable I am of catching my prey.”
“Fuck you,” she hisses.
“That’s the plan.”
THE SICK OBSESSION
EMERY
My hands shakewith fierce rage as I storm out of CJ Piers. That motherfucking son of a bitch. This is what I get for playing with fire. I kindled it. Fanned the smoking ember until it erupted into unstoppable flames.Fire’s hot, can you blame us?Not now. Damon Cavanaugh is a goddamn manipulative snake. He says he doesn’t play games and now I know why. He doesn’t play games because he makes them. He’s the puppeteer, and I’m just a fucking marionette doll dangling and dancing at the hand of his conniving little strings.At least no one will call you Emily anymore.Shut up.At least you’ll have a position you rightfully deserve.That’s not the point.No? But CFO pays sooo much more than missionary.Not now. Now’s not the time for a glass half full.Yeah,of Cristal.I’m pissed. Despite the little ember of relief flickering inside me, I’m fucking livid.
“How’d it go?” Damon asks, leaning against his Rolls-Royce. With lightning speed, I wind my hand back and slap him hard across the face, the snapping sound scaring off a murder of nearby crows. He places a palm on his left cheek, rotating his jaw as he blinks. “I suppose I deserved that.”
