Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
The words hit somewhere low in my chest. I nod, take the card, and put it in my back pocket with the weird care you give to something you might need later, in an emergency.
We stand in silence for a while, just the sound of the vent fan above and the faint drip of the hydroponic shelf. Angela picks up the clipboard again but doesn’t start writing. She just turns it over, runs her thumb along the edge, and watches me.
“We’ll miss you,” she says in an even tone, making too-direct eye contact. “You were a good employee.”
I smile wanly.
“Thank you for everything,” I murmur and mean it, even though my voice is watery. “This was the best job I ever had, I swear, and I’m sorry to leave you like this.”
Angela’s face does another shift—this time softer, almost maternal. “Go home,” she says. “Take care of yourself, kid.”
“Um thanks, okay,” I say, and for a second, I’m scared I might cry. I swallow it down.
On my way out, I pass the wall of ferns near the entrance, the fronds arching up and out like they want to pull me in for a hug. I drag my fingers along the edge of the shelf, leave a faint streak in the condensation. The air outside is cooler than I expect, sharp and almost sweet after the thick humidity inside.
I walk half a block before stopping to look at the business card again, just to make sure it’s real.
It is.
I slide it into my phone case, where I keep things I can’t lose, and keep walking.
My pulse is so high it rattles in my teeth, but I don’t slow down.
Not even when I realize that, underneath it all, I’m actually excited.
I’ve finished the first task on his list.
I quit my job to become his full-time sex slave.
And now, I want to see what Trevor will do next.
21
THE CHECKLIST GOES ON
Kayleigh
Istand at the stove in Trevor’s kitchen, my wrist turning the wooden spoon in slow, obsessive circles. The pan hisses and pops, little flecks of charred green flying up from the tangle of broccolini and lemon zest. Next to that, a salmon fillet is grilling in cast iron, skin curling and blistering. I know nothing about fish except that he eats a ton of it, that he likes it lean and salty, and that the fridge in this penthouse has more high-end protein than a Whole Foods delivery. The scent is sharp and clean, citrus cutting through the slick weight of olive oil. I taste the air, lick the inside of my cheek, and feel a thrill that isn’t just about being hungry.
The penthouse is silent except for the sound of the vent fan and the steady sizzle of dinner. Forty floors below, the city is a lattice of motion and headlights, but up here it feels like an aquarium: just me, the food, and the constant pulse of what I’m about to become.
I keep checking the door. I’m in a dress again - a white shirtwaist dress this time, because I didn’t want to look like I’m trying too hard, but I also want him to look at me and see the effort. My hair is still half-damp from a panic shower; I did a messy braid, then undid it because it looked too wholesome, and now it falls in loose, flowing waves over my shoulders. There’s nothing under the dress except a lace thong and the kind of bra that does more harm than good. I almost wore sneakers, but went with the low heels I picked up from my apartment, white leather with a strap so tight it leaves a groove in my instep. My face is bare, scrubbed pink, lips swollen from chewing the inside of them while I cooked.
Every minute I wait, my nerves wrap tighter. I taste-test the vegetables and burn my tongue, then pour myself a shot of water in a wine glass and drink it in gulps, hoping it will make my heart slow down. It doesn’t.
The elevator chimes. Three floors below, then two, then one. I wipe my hands on a bar towel and try to look busy, but when the door swings open, I’m standing right in the middle of the kitchen, like a rabbit caught in the spotlight.
Trevor stalks into the kitchen—no hurry, no wasted motion, coat slung over his shoulder, black hair slightly damp from the walk home. His shirt is white, collar open, sleeves rolled just enough to show a trace of muscle on his forearms. The trousers are dark and perfectly fitted. I catch a glimpse of his shoes, black and Italian, but they’re scuffed at the heel in a way that makes me weak. His face is tired, maybe, but not in the way of most people—more like he’s powered by an engine that can never really shut down. His eyes go straight to the food, then to me, and something in his expression softens by half a millimeter.