The betrayal

Lynn's POV

The penthouse was more beautiful than anything I'd ever seen. The entire far wall was glass, offering a dizzying view of the city below. Modern furniture in blacks and grays filled the space, abstract art hung on the walls, and everything screamed money and power.

Armstrong Goldwyn moved to a bar cart in the corner. "Wine?"

"I... yes, thank you," I said, my voice small in the vast space.

He poured two glasses of red wine, something that probably cost more than my two months grocery budget, and handed me one. Our fingers brushed and I felt a jolt of... something. Fear? Awareness? I couldn't tell.

"You're nervous," he observed, studying me over the rim of his glass.

"I'm sorry. I just... I want to do well. Whatever you need me to do."

That flicker of confusion crossed his face again. He set his wine down and moved closer. Too close. I could smell his cologne; expensive, masculine, overwhelming.

"What's your name again?" he asked.

"Lynn. Lynn Sheldon." I didn't know why I used my maiden name. The words just came out.

"Lynn," he repeated, and the way he said it made me shiver. "You're beautiful."

My cheeks flushed. Festy hadn't called me beautiful in years. "Thank you. Um, Mr. Goldwyn, what exactly do you need me to do tonight? I brought my phone if you need me to take notes, or I can organize files, or…"

He reached out and touched my hair, running a strand between his fingers. I froze.

"Your boss said you understood the arrangement," Armstrong said softly, his eyes intense on mine.

The word boss hit me like a bucket of ice water. "I... what arrangement? My boss?"

Armstrong's hand dropped. His expression shifted, darkening. "Don't play games with me. I don't appreciate dishonesty."

"I'm not being dishonest!" My voice rose, panic clawing at my throat. "I thought you needed an assistant. For work. That's what my husband said…"

"Your husband?" Armstrong's jaw clenched. "The man who interrupted my conversation with my personal assistant and said he had someone perfect for my needs. Who negotiated a price. Who took my money?"

My wine glass slipped from my numb fingers, shattering on the hardwood floor. Red wine spread like blood across the expensive wood.

"Price?" I whispered. "What price? What needs?"

Armstrong studied my face, and something in his expression shifted. "You really don't know."

"Don't know what?" But even as I asked, pieces were clicking together in my mind.

The way Festy had told me to dress "appealing." The doorman's pitying look. The fact that this was a penthouse, at night, and I was alone with the one most powerful man in the city.

"No," I breathed. "No, no, no…"

Armstrong stepped closer. "I need company. For the night. I was very clear with your boss… about what I was looking for."

The room tilted. I backed away, shaking my head. "There's been a mistake. I'm married. I have a husband. I thought this was a job job…a real job…"

"This is a real job," Armstrong said, and there was something almost gentle in his voice now. "Just not the kind you were expecting."

My hands fumbled for my phone. My fingers shook so badly I nearly dropped it. I found Festy's number, pressed the call, put it on speaker because my hands were shaking too much to hold it to my ear.

It rang once. Twice. Three times.

"Did you do it yet?" Festy's voice came through, impatient.

"Festy." My voice broke on his name. "Festy, this man…he thinks I'm here to…to sleep with him. To have sex with him. Tell him there's been a mistake. Tell him…"

Silence. Long, horrible silence.

"Festy?" I whispered.

"Lynn." His voice was cold, annoyed. "Just do it."

The floor seemed to drop out from under me. "What?"

"You heard me. Just do what he wants. It's one night. It's $4,000 for one night, Lynn. We need that money."

"You sold me?" The words came out as a shriek. "You SOLD me to him?"

"Don't be so dramatic." Festy's voice was harsh. "I didn't sell you. You're still my wife. What's mine is mine to decide what to do with. It's just sex, Lynn. It doesn't mean anything."

Tears streamed down my face. "It means everything to ME!"

"Then you're being selfish," Festy snapped. "After everything I've done for you. I married you when no one else wanted you. I gave you a home. And you can't do this one thing for us? For our future?"

"Our future?" I laughed, a broken, hysterical sound. "What future, Festy? The one where you hit me? Where you scream that I'm bad luck? Where you isolate me from everyone I love?"

"I never hit you." His voice was defensive. "I threw a plate near you. There's a difference."

"You sold me." My voice was dead now, emotionless. "You sold me to a stranger for sex."

"It's business, Lynn. Grow up. Now stop being difficult and do your job. I already spent some of the money." The line went dead.

I stood there, phone in hand, staring at the blank screen. I felt Armstrong's eyes on me but couldn't look at him. Couldn't look at anything.

"Lynn," Armstrong said quietly.

I looked up. His face was unreadable, those dark eyes studying me.

"Get out," I whispered.

"This is my home."

"Then I'll get out…. I'll…" I looked around wildly.

Where would I go? I had no money. No friends. No family I hadn't alienated. Festy had made sure of that.

Three years. I'd given Festy three years of my life. My career. My friends. My identity. Everything. I'd loved him so completely, so devotedly, even when he gave me nothing back.

And to him, I was just something to sell when he needed cash.

"It doesn't mean anything," I said, more to myself than to Armstrong. Festy's words echoed in my head. "It's just sex. It doesn't mean anything."

I looked at Armstrong Goldwyn, this stranger, this ruthless billionaire who had paid money for my body.

If I meant nothing to Festy, then this meant nothing too.

I reached up with trembling hands and started unbuttoning my dress. The first button. The second. The third.

"Lynn," Armstrong said, his voice different now. "You don't have to…"

"He's right," I interrupted, my voice hollow. "It doesn't mean anything. You paid for me. So let's get this over with."

I let the dress slip off my shoulders, pool at my feet. I stood there in my simple black underwear…nothing sexy, nothing special, just the plain cotton I wore every day… and looked at Armstrong with dead eyes.

Then I stepped forward and kissed him.

It was aggressive, desperate, wrong. I poured all my heartbreak into it, all my rage, all my devastation. My tears mixed with the kiss, salty and bitter.

Armstrong made a sound… Surprise? protest? …but then his hands came up to my waist and he was kissing me back.

And I shattered.