Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 60951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
When I finally step out, the restroom is empty. I shuffle to the mirror, bracing my palms on the sink, and inspect the damage. My skin is flushed, cheeks a high-gloss red that no amount of cool water can erase. There’s a telltale dark patch right beneath the collar at my throat—James’s signature, neat as a notary stamp. I dab at it, but it’s no use; it’ll take a week to fade, and even then, I’ll see it every time I undress.
I smooth my hair into a bun, fumble for my lip balm, and try not to look at my own eyes. There’s something in them I don’t want to name. I’ve seen it before—on my mother, after every lost appeal. It’s the look of a woman who’s about to break, but is too stubborn to stop moving forward.
My phone buzzes: a Teams message from Shay. “You okay? Jenkins wants your butt in the copy room like yesterday.” I type a quick “On it!” and lurch out, trying to look like a woman who didn’t just lose a wrestling match with her reflection.
The rest of the morning is a blur: sorting case files, redacting discovery, running manifests to the mailroom, always with one ear cocked for the sound of powerful footsteps behind me. I take the service elevator twice just to avoid the partners, but it doesn’t help. Their presence is everywhere, seeping through the walls like groundwater, spiking the temperature of every office I enter.
At one point, I catch a glimpse of Brent in a glass conference room, phone pressed to his ear, blue eyes boring through a spreadsheet like he’s willing the numbers to change. He doesn’t see me, but I feel the weight of his attention anyway, like a phantom hand at the base of my neck. I hurry past, nearly tripping over my own heels, and take shelter in the server closet.
That’s where the tears start. Not a full-on breakdown, just a couple of silent sobs that burn on the way up. I press my forehead to the metal rack and tell myself to get it together. I’m Marnie Williams, daughter of Stanley Williams, born in a holding cell, raised on coffee and court records. I survived worse than this when my father died. So why am I coming apart now?
Because you want it, says the voice I hate the most. Because you liked the way those men use you, the way they stripped away everything that wasn’t you, and made you into their toy, for their pleasure. You want it again.
I swallow the taste of shame, and with it, the heat that pools low in my belly. I ignore the pulse between my thighs, the ache in my shoulders, the way my skin remembers every touch.
After five minutes, I emerge, face dry, breath even. I make it back to my desk without incident, but I can’t stop watching the corridor, waiting for the partners to find me. They don’t, and the absence is worse than the threat. I bury myself in work, pretending the numbers matter, pretending I haven’t already made a choice.
At noon, Shay leans over the divider and whispers, “Jenkins is gone for the day. Wanna get sushi?”
I shake my head, voice hollow. “I have to finish this brief. Maybe later?”
She shrugs, but doesn’t push. I watch her walk away, admiring how she can make even a Target blazer look chic. I want her confidence. I want to be a woman who can eat lunch without worrying about who’s watching.
But I’m not that girl. I’m the one hiding in restrooms, running away from the men she most wants to face. I’m the one who says yes to everything, even when I mean no. I’m the one with the sopping panties at the thought of servicing two men, even now.
The next time I see my reflection, it’s in the black glass of my laptop screen. My face looks haunted, but there’s a hard line at my mouth that wasn’t there before. Maybe it’s resolve. Maybe it’s resignation.
Either way, I know what’s coming. I’m just not ready to admit how badly I crave my two bosses’ touch.
My apartment is a wreck: legal pads crowd the counter, takeout boxes colonize the sink, and the sheets on my bed are twisted into a topography of insomnia. I crawl up onto the mattress, cross-legged and hunched, and gather the evidence like I’m about to launch a personal grand jury. Exhibit A: a yellowed news clipping with my dad’s mugshot, the one where he looks five years older and twenty pounds lighter than I remember. Exhibit B: a stack of Polaroids, most of them faded to the color of old cream, Stanley’s smile sharp as a switchblade. Exhibit C: the manila folder James Grant handed me earlier, stamped “CONFIDENTIAL” in red, already soft at the corners from where I’ve gripped it too tight.