Page 33 of Perfect Satisfaction

Their life’s mission on this earth is to make mine a living hell.

They circle the waters I lurk in daily, protecting their clients with the madness of Greenpeace Warriors at a Pacific drilling rig. As much as she’s a fucking pain in my ass, Carys is a piranha—one of the most brilliant entertainment lawyers in the industry. Her clients should worship the ground she walks on.For damn certain, no one had better bitch about the exorbitant fees it’s rumored her exclusive client list pays her,I think ruefully. I recall some of the more obnoxious fines she’s forced StellaNova to fork over in the past for harassment, stalking, invasion of privacy—just to name a few.

I have little doubt I’ll have a takedown notice the minute she’s notified of the photo. I’d be shocked if I didn’t.

A fleeting thought hits my mind.Will Danielle Madison cry?

Ursula’s gamine face shoves to the front of my mind again, this time wet with tears, much like Liza’s was. The two women wore the exact same expression, only I know one to be a fucking liar and the other to be a steadfast friend. I brutally shove the memory aside.

Maybe it’s the isolation I’ve encapsulated myself in that’s causing me to be reminded of my personal Jezebel’s face in those last seconds before she stormed out of my life. In my more sane moments, I feel like I should thank Ursula. Quite possibly, her dramatic little stunt freed me to become more ruthless and determined.

But late at night, when I miss her warm body cuddling next to mine, I am not even close to sane.

Without hesitation, I order Hastings, “I don’t even want there to be a chance of a scoop. Run it now.”

“You got it, boss.” Hastings disconnects.

Just then, an alert pops up from a business focused blog with a quarter of our followers—Moore You Want—notifying the world how incredibleThe Golden Ladyis and implies they’re crying from the emotion of the show. I sneer, “You’ll need tissues after you read this scoop. There go your click throughs.”

That’s when another alert catches my eye. One I likely wouldn’t have seen until the morning if I wasn’t working so late. I can’t quite keep the derision from my voice when I drawl, “What were you and your lover doing in Asia earlier this week, my darling wife?”

I reach for my drink and polish it off, trying to wash away some of the bitterness as the woman who has been permeating my thoughts all evening appears on my screen. Since I’m a freaking masochist, I click the box in the corner of the screen to blow up the image accompanying the article touting a deal made between the Taiwanese government and Moore Software Worldwide. Internationally sought-after program manager Ursula “Sula” Moore was spotted being escorted into the building by CEO of Moore Software Worldwide, Joshua Basset, two days ago.

I note the casual affection with which his hand rides on the small of her back.

It’s a move reserved for loved ones.

Tramp.

“Those vows meant so much to you, I see.”

What a laugh she’d have if she knew what they meant to me.

“Neither of us knew who the other was, did we?” I hate my weakness, but I can’t prevent myself from dragging my fingers down her still smooth cheek. Raven hair frames her face and grazes her shoulders. “Looking back, would I have treated you any differently if I knew who my Ursula was? I couldn’t keep my hands off you as it was.”

Her face with its quiet reserve reflects back at me, welcoming me home the way it always does.

Then I recall the man I’ve become, and my voice is merciless in the empty office. “How much more would I have hurt the daughter of that prick West Moore?”

That’s when I whisper aloud something I haven’t said singularly since the last time I pushed myself inside her tight warmth with nothing protecting us but a tiny pill she dutifully swallowed every day after she raced to “our” apartment. “My Moore.”

Just as I do, I hear a massive whoop rise up outside my office. I click the red circle in the upper left corner to close out the news article about the woman I should have long forgotten and refocus on the reason I’m even at the office at this hour.

The high of scooping my competitors. It’s the only fuck I need.

Nothing, absolutely nothing else, is worth the price.

Refreshing StellaNova’s page, I see the article posted. With perverted pleasure, I watch with great avarice as the number of reactions starts ticking up. Each one means someone has hit the site, causing my advertisers to go wild. I’m certain by morning, my website ranking is going to be crazy. “Get yourself together, Arek. Google and SEMRush are the only bitches whose esteem you give a damn about.” Still, even as I turn off the monitor, I think about the shadow of a smile on Ursula’s face.

I’d do anything to see it in person one more time. It’s twisted, but I can’t quite define why.

Maybe it’s an exercise in agony I’ll never be able to move away from.

Redemption I’ll never receive.

In the meantime, other perks make up for the ache in my soul where my heart once resided. “Like a hell of a lot of money,” I half-heartedly joke aloud.

Given a choice between money and love, I’ll take the first. It might not be perfect, but its predictability has a level of satisfaction.