Chapter 4

Clara pushed the hotel door open with a bright, carefree swing, her laughter ringing out like a burst of fresh air in the sterile suite. She was the absolute definition of a busybody: vibrant, wonderfully chaotic, and possessing that effortless, creative spark that made every minute with her feel alive. She tossed her designer bag onto the armchair, kicking off her heels with a playful flourish, completely at home and entirely unbothered by the heavy corporate weight that usually crushed my shoulders.

"What is it that you want to show me, girl?" I asked, leaning against the doorframe with a half-smile, watching her flit across the room with bubbling, infectious energy.

Clara spun around, flashing a mischievous, teasing grin as she held up a finger. "Calm down, Mr. Impatient. Don't rush it; you'll get to see it when the time is right. Remember, the patient dog eats the fattest bone, so sit tight and let me build the anticipation."

She stepped closer, her eyes gleaming with a naughty, cheerful challenge. With a swift, playful motion, her hand brushed deliberately against me, her touch light as a feather yet electric enough to make my breath hitch. She let out a soft, melodic laugh at the immediate reaction in my posture, thoroughly enjoying the power she held over me.

"Wait right here for me," she purred, winking as she danced backward toward the ensuite bathroom, slipping inside and closing the door with a soft click.

Left alone in the suite for a moment, I shook my head with a dry, amused smirk, letting the lingering tension of the evening bleed out of my system. I walked over to the flat-screen TV on the wall, grabbing the remote to set the mood. I flipped through the channels, bypassing the news and corporate updates until I landed on a late-night music and lifestyle channel playing sultry, atmospheric visuals; something smooth and moody by The Weeknd, setting an effortless, intoxicating tone for the room.

When the background atmosphere was finally dialed in, I retired to the leather sofa, pulling my phone from my pocket.

The screen immediately lit up with unread notifications. My DMs across various platforms were a constant stream of messages from women vying for my attention: socialites, colleagues, and admirers who only ever saw the polished, successful facade of Frederick Vance. Idly, leaning back against the cushions, I started tapping out replies to keep them all on the hook, thoroughly enjoying the effortless validation.

First, a message popped up from Vanessa, a high-end fashion buyer I had met at a charity gala a month ago:

“Are you ignoring me tonight, Frederick? I’m stuck at this boring downtown launch, and I’d much rather be keeping you company.”

I smirked, typing back quickly:

“Never ignore good company, Vanessa. Just caught up in meetings. Tell me what you're wearing, and maybe I'll let you make it up to me later.”

She instantly replied with a string of laughing faces and fire emojis, taking the bait.

Next was a notification from Sienna, an executive assistant from a partner firm:

“Mr. Vance, I left those quarterly projections on your desk, but I hear you’re out of the office. Working late or hiding out?”

I grinned, tapping out a flirtatious reply:

“Let's just say I know how to escape the paperwork when it gets too heavy. What else do you have on your mind besides spreadsheets, Sienna?”

As I scrolled further down, another chat caught my eye—Chloe, a marketing influencer who always knew how to stroke my ego.

“Saw your company’s name in the financial papers today, Mr. CEO. You look dangerously good in print,” she wrote, attaching a winking emoji.

I chuckled softly, tapping back:

“Print is nothing, Chloe. You should see me when I'm actually out of the boardroom. What are you up to later this week?”

Within seconds, her reply flashed back:

“Name the time and place, Frederick. I’m entirely yours.”

It was a game, a constant ego boost that felt entirely natural to me now. Juggling these messages was effortless, a stark, welcome contrast to the miserable, nagging silence waiting for me back home with Esther. None of these women expected me to be a domestic saint; they just wanted a piece of my time, my success, and my attention. They fueled a sense of power and desirability that Esther had spent years slowly suffocating.

My thumb hovered over Chloe’s chat a second longer. The music pulsed low and heavy through the suite. Clara was still in the bathroom, the faint sound of water and soft movement drifting under the door. I felt the familiar restless heat settle low in my stomach. Without overthinking it, I hit the video-call button.

Chloe answered on the second ring. The screen filled with her face, flushed, smiling, and already lying back against pillows in what looked like a dimly lit bedroom. Her hair was loose. The camera angle dipped just enough to show the soft curve of her shoulders and the thin straps of whatever she was wearing.

“Well, well,” she purred, voice low and amused. “Who finally decided to show up? Why are you looking so lonely on that big bed, Frederick? Where’s your wife tonight?”

I leaned back deeper into the sofa, phone angled carefully, a slow smirk tugging at my mouth. “She’s not here. And I’m not on a bed… yet.”

Chloe’s eyes sparkled with pure mischief. She shifted, the camera wobbling just enough to let the neckline of her top slide lower. “Mmm. Lonely CEO in a hotel suite, calling me instead of going home. That’s dangerous.” Her voice dropped into something silkier. “You know I’m right here for you, right? You could come grab these anytime you want.”

She tilted the phone deliberately. The camera dipped. Soft, full curves filled the screen for a long, teasing second—bare, warm under the low light—before she brought it back up to her face, biting her lip with a wicked little smile.

My breath caught. I felt the heat spike hard and fast. “Christ, Chloe…”

She laughed softly, clearly enjoying the reaction she could see on my face. “What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue, Mr. Vance? Or is it just hard to talk when I’m showing you exactly what you’re missing?” She shifted again, the camera lingering lower this time, her free hand trailing slowly across her skin. “Come on. Tell me you don’t want to put your hands right here. I’m already waiting.”

I exhaled through my nose, jaw tightening, a low chuckle escaping despite myself. “You’re playing a dangerous game tonight.”

“And you love it,” she shot back, eyes half-lidded, voice pure sin. “Look at you. Sitting there, all worked up while your little surprise is in the bathroom. Don’t think I can’t hear the water running. You’re such a bad boy, Frederick. Calling me while she’s getting ready for you… showing you these…” She angled the phone once more, slow and deliberate, letting the view linger just long enough to burn. “Tell me you’re not hard right now.”

I didn’t answer with words. My silence, the way my eyes stayed locked on the screen, the slight shift of my body on the sofa. That was more than a yes. Chloe’s smile turned sharper, satisfied.

“That’s what I thought,” she whispered. “Whenever you’re ready to stop pretending you’re a good husband… you know where to find me. These are yours whenever you want them.”

The bathroom door remained closed. The music kept playing. My pulse was still hammering when…

Right as I was halfway through a teasing response to another admirer, a sudden sound pierced the air.

"Frederick!"

Clara’s voice rang out sharply from the bathroom, breathless and urgent.

I froze, my thumb hovering over the screen, and snapped my head up toward the door.