Page 73 of Sexting the Boss
“Lila,” she says, as if we’re close.
My shoulders climb halfway to my ears. “Sabrina.”
“Oh,” she says, pleased. “So you do remember me.”
“I remember you,” I say, and I keep my voice flat while my toes curl against the bathmat. “How did you get my number.”
“Does it matter?” she says.
I narrow my eyes at the wall. “Yes.”
She ignores that, because Sabrina’s biggest talent is hearing only what benefits her. “I’ve been thinking about you,” she says, and I can hear the smile in it. “About the way you looked at him.”
“I’m in the middle of something,” I say.
“Of course you are,” she replies, not deterred. “That’s what girls like you always say, right before you make a mistake.”
My fingers tighten around the phone. “Say what you want to say.”
She drags it out anyway. I can hear her shifting, maybe crossing her legs, maybe tilting her head in that way women do when they want to look harmless while they’re sharpening a blade.
“Do you know Ethan?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. “I know he hates being interrupted at dinner, and he doesn’t like women who insult people at his table.”
She makes a small scoff. “You know what he lets you see.”
“Okay,” I say, and my knee bounces once. “If this is about you wanting him, you’re late.”
“It’s not,” she says quickly. For half a second her voice drops into something more serious, then she drags it back into performance. “I’m doing you a favor.”
I roll my eyes so hard it almost counts as cardio. “Great. I love favors. They’re never manipulative.”
She inhales. “Ethan and Victoria didn’t just break up,” she says. “He was physically abusive.”
My face stays still. I don’t give her the satisfaction of a gasp, but my stomach does a slow, mean roll. I know about Ethan’s ex vaguely from company gossip, but I never thought to probe into the anatomy of his relationship with her.
“That’s not true,” I say, because it isn’t, because I have been touched by him in ways that required control and he never once acted like my body was his property.
“Is it?” she asks in a high-pitched voice. “You’re sure.”
“Yes.”
“You’re adorable,” she murmurs. “She thought she was sure too.”
I press my fingertips into my forehead, right above my brow, then release. “You’re lying.”
“Am I,” she says. “Or are you just new?”
I keep my tone light on purpose. “If you have proof, send it. If you don’t, stop calling me.”
“Proof doesn’t work the way you think,” she says, and I can hear her satisfaction returning. “You’re looking for a headline. You won’t get it. The firm doesn’t like messes.”
I swallow, then ask the question that matters. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you’re not special,” she snaps, and the edge in her voice is real now. “Because he does this, he gets obsessed, he gets possessive, and when it cracks you’re the one who pays.”
My mouth goes dry. I picture his note again, the casual claim, the confidence.
