Page 115 of Terms of Exposure
"You don't have any," he answered confidently. "I tried to tell her that, but she wasn't convinced. She told me to keep her updated."
He chuckled. "It's like she expects you to develop one between now and Sunday."
"That sounds like Rosie." I laughed.
"She also wants to know if Candace is coming."
"To Sunday dinner?"
"To every dinner, from now until the end of time, apparently." He rose from the bed, crossing to where I stood in front of the open closet. "I think she's already planning the wedding."
I snorted, fingers trailing across fabric. "They haven't even been on a real date yet."
"Try telling Rosie that."
He reached around me, pulling an emerald green dress from near the back and handed it to me.
"Speaking of big days. Today's the last 'mentor' session." He made air quotes on the word.
"Thank god," I grumbled.
Nathan Bell's "executive mentorship"—a term so laughably sanitized it made my skin crawl.
Weeks of sitting across from him in that office with its yacht photos and leering smiles, enduring his critiques of my leadership style, my communication, my appearance.
Weeks of him pushing on the audit numbers. Circling back to them every session like a shark scenting blood.
The figures don't quite add up, do they, Emma? Interesting discrepancies. I'm sure there's an explanation.
And always, always, that proposition lurking beneath the surface. Implied in every lingering look. Every unnecessary touch. Every time he let his gaze drop below my neckline while pretending to review a report.
Each week I'd told Damien.
Each week his jaw would turn to granite and he'd say something likeI'm going to kill himorLet me handle thisorOne word, Emma, and I'll destroy him.
Each week I'd talked him down. Reminded him that Nathan wanted a reaction. That giving him one would only make things worse.
As the end approached, our meetings grew shorter. His barbs less pointed. The hungry look in his eyes dulled to something closer to resignation.
And after today, I'd never have to sit in that office again.
"I'm excited to get it over with."
He pressed a kiss to my temple. "And Jennifer?"
My stomach clenched.
"That's the one I'm nervous about."
An hour later I stepped into Falkirk's lobby alone.
The morning light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching the chrome fixtures and polished floors in a way that had once felt intimidating.
Now it was simply another Monday.
Jill glanced up from the reception desk as I passed, her smile noticeably cooler than the one she reserved for Damien. I'd stopped taking it personally around week two.
"Good morning, Ms. Sinclair."
