Chapter 4

Two men held her up—one gripping beneath her knees, the other behind her back—spreading her wide as the man in front delivered his final thrusts. His jaw clenched, his breaths sharp and broken. Then he stilled with a guttural groan, spilling inside her.

The camera zoomed in, catching every detail: the slow withdrawal of his glistening shaft, the drip of cum leaking from her swollen folds, the sheen of sweat gluing a few strands of hair to her cheek.

“That’s it,” Johnny said, voice flat as he clicked off the camera. “Cut. We’re good.”

Lena exhaled with relief, her body relaxing all at once as the men gently lowered her onto the sheets. They'd already reshot this scene twice tonight—once because she’d sneezed halfway through, another time because the second guy had come too soon. Not ideal when you're playing the desperate, sex-starved housewife whose husband couldn't keep it up. Apparently, viewers loved that trope.

The plotlines were always ridiculous, like fever dreams on paper. But they worked. They sold.

She sat up slowly, her body aching in quiet places. Her wig shifted as she grabbed her robe from the nearby chair and slipped it on. The hotel suite had two adjoining rooms, and she stepped into the second one to change and gather her things.

Dan was sprawled on the small couch, a bottle of flavored water in hand, watching her through the reflection in the mirror.

“So,” he said, not missing a beat, “how was work?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just pulled her purse strap over her shoulder and slipped her phone into the side pocket.

“Fine,” she said flatly.

“Just fine? No drama? No hot CEO boss who wants to bang his secretary? Come on, I expected more.”

She rolled her eyes and gave him a tired half-smile.

“You’re annoying.”

“Thanks,” he said with mock sincerity. “But I’m serious. Nothing happened?”

Lena didn’t respond.

She was too drained to rehash the tangled mess of the day—of finding out Evan was Damien’s son, of Damien walking in on them like some slow-motion nightmare, of pretending everything was normal when it was anything but.

“You still heading back tomorrow?” Dan asked, tossing the water bottle onto the table.

“Yeah.”

“Are you just gonna keep giving me one-word answers?”

She turned sharply. “We filmed that scene three times tonight, Dan.”

“That’s not my fault. You kept sneezing.”

“Because that guy’s cologne was all up in my nose!”

“The other guy came in like ninety seconds.”

“Again—not my fault,” she snapped. But even she knew her frustration wasn’t really about the filming. She was just... done. Mentally fried. Emotionally scattered. She wanted her bed, her blankets, and some goddamn silence.

Dan opened his mouth to say something, but his phone rang, and Lena took that as her cue. She waved him off and walked out, ignoring his gestures for her to wait.

The night air hit her like a slap—cool and damp. Rain misted down steadily, glistening against the city pavement. She pulled her coat tighter and stepped out toward the curb.

No cabs.

Her app showed nothing available for at least twenty minutes.

She sighed and began walking toward the bus stop, head down, steps slow.

That’s when the sleek black car pulled up beside her.

The tinted window lowered, and Damien Cross leaned slightly toward the passenger seat.

“Where to?” he asked.

She stopped in her tracks.

“None of your business,” she replied, arms crossed.

“It is my business,” he said smoothly. “You're my secretary and you're walking through the city this late? It’s reckless.”

She didn’t answer.

“Get in,” he said. “I'll drive you home.”

For a second, she thought about refusing out of spite. But her legs were sore, her boots were wet, and her patience had long since dried up.

“Fine,” she muttered, and walked around to the passenger side.

The ride was quiet. She told him which turns to take, but otherwise they sat in a thick, heavy silence. The kind that buzzed.

She could feel him sneaking glances at her every few minutes.

After the fourth one, she turned her head slowly. “See something you like?” she said, dry and bitter.

He chuckled, deep and amused.

“I can only look, not touch,” he said. “So I’m making do.”

“And if you could touch?” she challenged.

He paused before replying. “You have no idea what I’d do to you.”

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “Nothing that hasn’t been done before, I bet.”

“Not the way I’d do it,” he said, his voice lower now. “Give me one chance, and I’d ruin you for every man that came before me.”

His words struck her like a spark against gasoline.

She laughed—but it wasn’t amused. More disbelieving. Frustrated. Turned on.

Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the tension simmering between them since the first day. Maybe it was the way he looked at her like he saw her—the version of her no one else was allowed to see.

Before she could think twice, her hand slid under her skirt.

Damien’s breath caught—barely audible, but there.

Her fingers traced up her inner thigh, slick with a mixture of fluids from earlier. She didn’t care. Her pulse thudded in her throat as her fingers found that familiar ache and pressed.

Damien gripped the wheel tighter.

“You gonna stop me?” she whispered, her voice breathy.

“No,” he said, eyes flicking between her thighs and the road. “But if you keep going, I’m pulling over.”

She closed her eyes and circled her fingers, softly, slowly. She didn’t moan—but her breathing changed, and so did his.

His knuckles were white on the wheel.

The air inside the car felt humid, electric.

She kept going, faster now. Her other hand gripping the seat. Her thighs trembled. She was close. Too close.

Damien made a low noise in his throat, one she’d never forget.

And then she came—quietly, beautifully, back arching just slightly as her body tensed, then fell apart.

She slumped back in the seat, flushed and panting. He said nothing, eyes fixed ahead.

The silence returned. But it wasn't empty this time—it pulsed.

He pulled up outside her apartment building and shifted the car into park. Neither of them moved at first.

Then finally, she opened the door.

“Goodnight, Mr. Cross.”

He looked at her, jaw tight, voice low.

“Sleep well, Miss Morgan.”

She stepped out and closed the door without looking back.

But even as the car pulled away, she could feel him watching her in the rearview.