Chapter 2: The Weight of His Name

Zoe

I walked out of his office on legs that did not belong to me. The door clicked shut, and I leaned against the cold wall, pressing my palm to my chest. My heart was a wild animal, throwing itself against the bars of my ribs. I could still taste him – whiskey, coffee, and something darker, like the air before a storm. His cologne clung to my skin. His fingers had left brands on my waist. Between my legs, I was still wet. Still aching. Still hungry. I squeezed my thighs together and hated myself for it. This was not supposed to happen. He was my target. My enemy. But my body wanted him to push me against this wall and finish what he started.

The receptionist looked at me with raised eyebrows. I pushed off the wall and forced my legs to carry me toward the elevator. Each step was a battle. My dress was damp between my thighs, and I prayed no one could see. The elevator doors closed, and I leaned against the glass. The city dropped beneath me. I closed my eyes and saw his face. The scar through his eyebrow. The hunger behind his cold mask. The way he had looked at me when my tongue flicked against his thumb.

What have I done? By the time I reached the lobby, my hands had stopped shaking. I walked outside into cold air that smelled like rain. The sky was the colour of old bruises. I pulled out my phone. A message from Evelyn Cole. First report due Friday. Make it good. I typed back with steady fingers. He is interested. I am in. The lie tasted like rust. Interested was too small a word. He had been hard against my hip. He had bitten my lip. He had kissed me like he was trying to crawl inside my skin.

I put the phone away and started walking. Forty blocks to my apartment. The city blurred past me. I felt like a ghost wrapped in borrowed skin. My mother's photograph burned in my pocket. Twelve million dollars. Three months. And a man who had looked at me like he already owned me. My apartment was dark and cold when I finally reached it. The radiator clanked its lonely rhythm. The walls were thin enough to hear secrets, and I had too many of my own. I locked the door and leaned against it, letting out a breath I did not know I had been holding.

My mother's photograph sat on the kitchen table, propped against a stack of bills. She was smiling – before the cancer, before the weight loss. She looked like hope. I picked it up and held it against my chest. "I am going to save you," I whispered. The words felt like stones sinking in deep water. But even as I said it, my mind drifted back to him. To the way his thumb had traced my lower lip. To the heat of his body pressed against mine. I pressed my palm between my legs, and the pressure sent a shiver through me. I was still wet. Still wanting.

Stop it, I told myself. He is using you. This is a transaction. But transactions did not leave you breathless and aching for more. I did not sleep that night. I lay in my narrow bed, staring at the ceiling. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him. I imagined his hands sliding up my thighs. His mouth on my neck. His voice in my ear, telling me all the things he would do to me.

I slipped my hand under the waistband of my underwear and touched myself. I was slick, ready, and it took almost nothing to find the rhythm that made me gasp. I thought of his dark eyes, his sharp jaw, the way he had looked at me like I was the only woman in the world. I came apart with his name on my lips, a broken whisper swallowed by the thin walls. Afterwards, I lay in the dark, my body trembling. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. I was crying because I had never felt so seen and so lost at the same time. What is happening to me?

The next morning, I walked into Crestwood Tower like I belonged there. The lobby was crowded – a river of expensive suits and clicking heels. I moved with the current, invisible. No one knew that I had spent the night dreaming of the man on the top floor. I took the elevator to the top floor and sat at the small desk they had given me, close enough to his office to hear every sound. The door was closed. I could hear his voice inside – low, clipped, a blade wrapped in velvet. I pressed my thighs together and hated myself for it.

At nine o'clock, the door opened. He stood there, leaning against the frame, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, his tie loose. His eyes found me immediately. They were darker than yesterday – two bruises in a face carved from marble. "Coffee," he said. "Black. No sugar." I stood and walked to the small kitchen. My hands were steady as I poured, but I could feel his eyes on my back, two brands burning through the fabric of my dress. I turned. He was still watching. I walked toward him, the cup in my hand, and when I was close enough, he reached out and took it. Our fingers brushed. The spark was a live wire, and I felt it all the way down to my core.

"Thank you, Lena," he said, and he said my fake name like it was a secret he was daring me to keep. He turned and walked back into his office. The door did not close. It stayed open, an invitation I was not sure I wanted to accept. Between my legs, the ache was back. At noon, he called me into his office. The folder on his desk was thick, heavy. He pushed it toward me. "These are the files you will give Evelyn. Old records. Nothing incriminating. You will tell her it is taking longer than expected. That I am careful." "And what do I tell her about you?" I asked. "About us?"

He stood. Walked around the desk. Stopped close enough that I could smell his cologne. "You tell her what she wants to hear. That I am interested. That I am watching you." His hand reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered on my skin, and I shivered. "And the truth?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

His hand slid to the back of my neck, pulling me closer. His mouth was inches from mine. "The truth is that I have not been able to stop thinking about you since you walked out of my office yesterday." He kissed me then. Softer than before. Slower. I gripped his shirt and kissed him back, and I forgot that this was a game. I forgot everything except the way he made me feel – like I was falling, like I was already gone.

His hand slid from my neck to my breast, cupping me through the thin fabric of my dress. I gasped against his mouth. His thumb found my nipple, circled it, and I moaned, arching into his touch. "Liam," I breathed. He pulled back, his eyes dark and hungry. "Say it again."Liam." He kissed me harder, his hand sliding down my stomach, over my hip, pressing me against him. I felt him hard and ready, and I wanted him inside me. I wanted him to take me right here, on his desk, with the city watching.

But he pulled away, his chest heaving. "Go," he said. "Before I do something, we will both regret." I walked out of his office with my legs shaking, my lips swollen, my body a live wire. I knew that I was in trouble. Because I was not pretending anymore. And neither was he.