Page 221 of Terms of Exposure
The woman in the mirror smiled back, green-flecked eyes catching the light.
My phone buzzed on the vanity.
Damien: Car's waiting downstairs whenever you're ready. No rush.
Damien: You've got this.
Damien: I'm excited.
Three messages.
Simple. Direct. Exactly what I needed.
I typed a response, then deleted it.
Typed another. Deleted that too.
Finally, I settled on:
Me: See you soon.
I stepped through Falkirk's revolving doors, heels clicking against marble.
Damien waited near the security desk, looking like he'd stepped out of a magazine spread—charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, that undeniable authority he wore like a second skin.
He was talking to one of the security guards, but his dark eyes found mine the moment I walked in.
I crossed the lobby, hyper-aware of everyone I passed.
The receptionist who smiled at me.
Two analysts from the third floor who definitely whispered after I passed.
The maintenance guy who didn't give a shit about office politics and was just trying to fix the elevator panel.
"Hi," I said when I reached him, my vocabulary shrinking to single syllables.
"Hi." Damien's mouth curved. "You look stunning."
"I look terrified."
"No you don't." He reached out, tucking a curl behind my ear.
Behind the reception desk, Jill glared.
Take that bitch.
I sucked in a breath, then another.
"Ready?" he asked.
Weeks of hiding.
Months of secrets.
Stolen glances. Careful distance. Pretending we were nothing more than colleagues.
"Yes," I said. "Let's do this."
