TWO

CLARA

“What kind of life am I even living?” I muttered to no one, adjusting my dress and pretending like I hadn’t just been wrecked across Damien Holt’s desk.

I could still feel him between my legs. Still feel the sting of his palm, the heat of his voice in my ear. My lips were swollen, sticky with whatever lipstick was left.

My thighs were trembling every time I took a step, and the soaked lace between them made it impossible to forget how completely he’d used me.

Not that I could forget. Not for a second.

I picked up my ruined notepad from the floor, shoved it into my bag, and looked around his office like I’d just committed a crime. Which, in a way, I had. Not legally, but morally? Ethically? Spiritually?

Yeah. All crimes committed.

I smoothed my hair back, twisted it into something resembling a professional bun, and told myself I could pass for normal if no one looked too closely.

Big if.

I took a shaky breath, clicked the lock, and turned around.

“Clara?”

I flinched.

Lina from HR. Of course. Perfect timing.

She was walking toward me with her usual clipboard and perfectly pressed blazer, her heels clicking like judgment.

She raised her brows. “Is Damien around?”

I blinked at her. My brain took a full second too long to find words.

“Nope,” I said, smiling just a little too wide. “Just me.”

Her eyes narrowed.

I tried not to panic. I was pretty sure my mascara was smudged, and my lips still looked like I’d been kissed within an inch of my life. My voice came out hoarse, too. Great.

Lina glanced at the office door. Then at me. Then at my dress, which I suddenly realized was still hitched just a bit too high on one side.

I tugged it down quickly, pretending not to notice the way her eyes followed the motion.

“Well,” she said slowly, “tell him I’m looking for him.”

“Will do,” I lied.

She gave me one last once-over, then turned and walked away, muttering something under her breath that I didn’t catch but definitely felt.

I turned in the opposite direction and started down the hallway, trying not to limp.

But I was limping. My thighs were too sore. My muscles too weak. I was pretty sure I had a handprint somewhere on my ass and evidence dripping down my thighs.

I should’ve felt ashamed. Embarrassed. Something.

But mostly, I felt…

Wrecked. Raw. And stupidly high off him.

I made it to the elevator and hit the down button three times even though it only takes one. I leaned against the wall, trying to collect myself.

My reflection in the polished doors was a mess. Hair askew. Eyes glassy. Cheeks flushed. Lips bitten red.

I looked like the problem.

And maybe I was.

The elevator dinged. I stepped inside alone, clutching my bag like it might keep me upright. I tried to breathe, but my chest still felt too tight, like he’d left his fingerprints on my ribs, too.

I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes.

You can’t keep doing this, my brain whispered.

But then I remembered his voice in my ear, the way he’d held me there, the way he’d said “mine” without actually saying it. The way he’d filled me like he needed to leave a part of himself inside me to prove I was his.

And God help me—I wanted it again.

Even if it meant breaking my own heart a little more every time I let him touch me.

When I stepped out of the elevator, the air felt too cold. Too clean. Too normal.

The fluorescent lights were harsh, and everything smelled like industrial cleaner.

I made it to the parking lot without collapsing, but barely. My car felt like the only place I could finally breathe.

I slid into the driver’s seat, shut the door, and let out a breath I’d been holding for the last ten minutes.

Then I laughed.

It came out low and a little unhinged.

“What the hell is wrong with me?”

By the time I got home, I was already peeling off the version of myself I wore around other people.

The smile, the posture, the silent act like everything was under control. The moment the door shut behind me, it all dropped.

Keys clattered onto the kitchen counter. Jacket next. Heels kicked off in two different directions. My body was sore, but not in a way I could complain about to anyone.

Not unless they wanted to hear how Damien Holt bent me over his office desk and left bruises on my hips like a promise.

I didn’t even glance at the mirror. I didn’t need to see the damage, I could feel it.

The shower called to me, so I headed straight to the bathroom, not bothering with lights.

I stripped slowly, every piece of fabric peeling off like a secret. My dress first. Then the lace panties that were still damp from earlier.

The skin on my hips was red, blooming with the faint outlines of his fingers.

He touches like he owns, I thought, fingers brushing the marks. But he doesn’t. He can’t.

I turned on the water and stepped under it, letting the heat hit me all at once. I braced myself against the tile wall and let my head fall forward.

The water didn’t wash him off. If anything, it made it worse. Every droplet seemed to echo his name down my spine.

Desire. Disgust. Shame. Obsession.

It was all tangled inside me.

I closed my eyes and tried to think of anything else. Anyone else.

But all I could feel was his mouth on mine. His hand around my throat. The way he whispered my name like it was both a curse and a craving.

When I finally stepped out of the steam and wrapped myself in a towel, my legs still trembled.

I sat on the edge of my bed, hair dripping down my back, phone in hand. Reflexively, I checked for a message.

Nothing.

Of course.

Damien didn’t text. He didn’t call. He didn’t send a “had a good time” or “get home safe.” He just used me. Broke me. Sent me home with him still inside me—and silence.

And the worst part?

I waited for it anyway.

Two months ago, I didn’t even know what his voice sounded like up close.

I was in customer service, answering angry emails and begging for PTO I didn’t have. Just another name tag in a sea of them.

Then came the team dinner.

It started like any other: cheap drinks, forced laughter, and coworkers pretending to be friends for the sake of HR.

But Damien was there.

All sleek black suit, expensive watch, and a gaze sharp enough to cut through steel. I’d never been that close to him. He barely acknowledged me at first.

But then his hand brushed my arm when I reached for the bread basket. That light touch lingered a second too long.

I looked up—and he was already watching me.

Something shifted.

From across the table, he watched me like I was a challenge. Like I was a question he wanted to spend all night answering.

Later, we ended up standing outside together, waiting for the valet.

“You’re smarter than the job you’re in,” he said, no hello, no small talk.

I blinked. “That a compliment, or are you just trying to undress me with words now?”

“Both,” he said.

And that was it. I should’ve walked away. Told him to shove his tailored arrogance.

Instead, I got in his car.

I remember how quiet it was. How his fingers tapped the steering wheel while I stared straight ahead, pretending I wasn’t soaked under my dress.

When we got to his penthouse, I told myself I wasn’t going in.

But I did.

He barely got the door shut before his mouth was on mine. I didn’t even remember walking into the kitchen, we were just suddenly there. My back against the marble counter. My dress shoved up. His mouth trailing heat down my neck, my thighs, my everything.

We didn’t talk about work. Or consequences. Or how I’d be promoted the very next Monday.

It was supposed to be one night.

Instead, I walked into the office three days later with a new job title and his bite still fading on my inner thigh.

Everyone said I earned it. That I was quick. Sharp. Ambitious.

Only Damien and I knew the truth.

And maybe that’s what killed me. That I let it happen. That I didn’t fight it. That I wanted it.

I’d spent years dating safe men. Kind ones. Boring ones. Men who bought flowers, sent good morning texts, and didn’t make my stomach twist every time they said my name.

Damien made me feel too much.

He made me feel everything.

I grew up in the system. Foster homes. Case files. I learned early that men with power often come with cruelty.

I promised myself I’d never fall for that kind of man.

But here I was—freshly showered, freshly wrecked, and checking my phone like some addict waiting for her next hit.

No text.

No calls.

Just silence and bruises I didn’t hate.

I laid back on the bed, towel slipping, body still humming with the memory of his touch.

“You’re smarter than the job you’re in,” he’d said.

And maybe I was.

But apparently, I wasn’t smart enough to stop falling for the boss who broke me open and walked away like I was nothing more than another promotion.

Or worse, like I was already his.