I’m staring at my closed laptop, perched on my couch all innocently, when I can really blame everything that’s happening on its silver, battery-powered self.

If my firm didn’t take this case, I’d never know about Ben’s protected past.

Part of me wishes I could just hate Ben the way I always have, or, barring that, drool over him and flutter my eyelashes whenever he walks by, like most ladies tend to do when he’s in their proximity.

In either scenario, I don’t want to be smart. I wish I’d never figured out who he was. I wish I could just fuck him and forget him, be enemies with benefits, and have nothing more to do with Ben Donahue other than sharing godparent rights to a sweet baby girl.

And I love my intelligence. It’s what got me past any horror, burying my grief in knowledge and data. Solving other people’s mysteries when I couldn’t fathom my own. I’m a proud woman in a powerful career, making my own way, and I’m horrified I’m made to regret that right now.

At the moment, my brain’s only buried me in deeper shit.

Or is it my vagina?

Could be both.

Mike’s aware of Ben and I’s…whatever we have going. He’s a bomb ready to press his own detonator as soon as the chance arises, unless we preempt Mike with our own self-destruction.

I ask Ben, before he leaves, if he’s going to my brother.

“Do you want me to?” he responds.

“I don’t know,” I said. I search for my ring finger to fiddle with it, realize it’s bare, and drop my hands to my side. It’s a nervous habit I’m ready to ditch. “But I do know he needs to hear it from you or me, not Mike.”

“You got that right.”

“I want it to be me,” I say, with sudden emphasis.

Ben nods, the man full of more understanding than I ever gave him credit for. “How much time do you think we have?”

“Mike likes to think he’s unpredictable, but he often needs liquid courage before he does anything risqué. Let me check.”

Ben’s stare follows me curiously as I go to the kitchen island, pull open a drawer, and tap in the passcode to Mike’s iPad.

“Yeah, he’s at a bar not far from here.” I look up from the screen. “Mike’s a lot of talk, and to face down Locke? To text him something like this? I don’t think Mike’s eager to be a victim of the results.”

“You’ve got satellite eyes on the guy?”

“It’s not what it seems.” I have a weird urge to defend myself. “The Find My Phone thing. It’s on here.”

“You got me on that thing?”

“Of course not.”

“Locke?”

“Well, maybe. But he’s a little fucker, too, ‘cause I know he’s doing the same to me on his phone.”

“Do you all think you’re gonna be kidnapped or something?”

“Can never be too careful.”

Too late, I realize where our banter’s going. Ben is, in fact, at a high risk of being kidnapped if he’s ever found out.

He reads my expression perfectly, and reacts with a low growl. “This is exactly what I’m worried about. You can’t react like this, Astor. Any time a murder comes up or a badly-timed joke—you gotta keep a straight face.”

“I can do this, Ben. I’m emotionless for a living.”

“Then stop looking at me with doe eyes every time someone comes close to my past.”

My brows jump. “You’re talking about Mike noticing the picture on the laptop?”

“Yeah, that.”

“Fine. Maybe I’m a little green, seeming how I haven’t had a full day to process your secret identity.”

Ben’s shoulders slope down. “I know it’s hard. But I need you solid on this—”

“You have me.”

He searches my expression, both of us on opposite sides of the room, unwilling to be the first to step closer and show any weakness.

“I didn’t want to do this to you,” he says quietly.

“I’m the one who wouldn’t stop searching after all your warnings.”

“Yeah, but now I’m forcing you to lie to your brother. My friend. All of my friends, actually. Our family.”

Ben’s summarizes our hodgepodge group too accurately. They are family. What are we doing screwing with it by screwing each other?

“We’re keeping it from them for their own safety,” I correct him. “And, it turns out, I’m already lying to Locke. What’s another one?”

Ben’s throat bobs.

“I’m going to tell him tomorrow morning,” I say, softer. “Before work.”

He nods.

“I’ll, um, I’ll text you tomorrow and tell you how it goes,” I say.

“Yeah, then I’ll go talk to Locke.” Ben rubs a palm over his scruff. “Let him know that it’s nothing. We’re both consenting adults, but it won’t come to anything or mess up our relationship.”

What is our relationship? I want to ask. The pit in my stomach wants me to ask. “Okay. Yeah. It’s better not to team up against him, either.”

“Right.”

“It’s a plan, then. So…I’ll see you later.”

Ben moves to the front door, sliding on his jacket, but pauses in the foyer as he’s slipping on his boots.

“Are we good?” he asks.

I’ve never been so exposed, to him or to Mike, clad in a long sweater, with messy hair and a face devoid of makeup. I wish I had my glasses to draw the eye away from the scars on my cheeks. I wish I filled out this designer boyfriend sweater a bit better.

My attention strays to Ben’s arms, now covered with a winter coat. I can see them, anyway, despite all the layers—his scars are so much greater than mine.

“Yes, of course,” I reply to him.

“You sure? ‘Cause I know we…”

“It was good. Great, even.”

“Enough to try again?” he asks through a smirk, but it falls as soon as it comes.

Ben’s secrets. Mike’s threats. Those are not things mindless, adventurous sex can take away.

“We’ll talk later,” I say instead of answering.

“Astor.”

“What?”

It comes out snappier than intended, but he needs to leave. Ben has to go before I pull at his arm and beg him to stay.

“This, what we’re doing…does it…?”

Mean anything? Hurt you? Feel like more than a distraction?

Whatever Ben means, he keeps the rest of the question to himself. “Never mind. I’ll see you.”

I nod, but he doesn’t see it. Ben’s already shut the door behind him.

Once I’m sure Ben’s in the elevator, descending into the lobby and entering the public life of a smiling, handsome pro-footballer, I walk barefoot to my bathroom.

Shower.

Feel the tenderness between my legs, the residual ache from new, adventurous, sinful sex, and it’s as if Ben’s behind me again, cupping my breasts, sucking on my neck, his dick a heavy rod resting against my lower back…

It’s just sex.

It’ll never be more than that.

It won’t happen again.

I close my eyes in the steam for a while.

After pulling on an over-sized tee, I check my phone one more time—for Mike’s whereabouts, and for any texts or raging voicemails from Locke.

Mike is still at the bar, likely distracted by another woman and figuring he’d deal with ruining my life at a later time. My phone is silent on all message, voicemail, and phone call fronts.

Nothing and no one.

The only e-communication that’ll be overloaded is my work email, and I don’t want to go through it right now.

The database. Thinking about emails makes me remember that my laptop has access to the firm’s cloud, and any work Taryn’s done. I sprint to the living room and pull up what I need, the laptop’s sudden brightness forcing me to blink out the glare a few times.

I scroll, find my work on the complicated finances of Ryan’s inheritance, and despite all I’ve learned, despite Ben being in this apartment, being inside me, moments ago, my finger hovers over the DELETE button.

It’s Ben over my career.

I never thought such conviction would drive me, never again. Ben wouldn’t ever come first in my life, not after what he did. But, things are different now. I’m a changed woman and he’s a different man—literally.

Some emotions are better kept trapped, but others will suffocate if they’re not freed.

Closing my eyes, I hit DELETE.

I shut the laptop and pace through the dark, returning to my bedroom. I consider calling Locke in this moment of brutal decision making, and telling him over the phone about Ben.

It’s all to preempt Mike, but I’m so drained, so entirely confused, that the maneuver seems less smart when I can simply deal with it tomorrow, in daylight, whether or not Mike gets there first.

I lay the phone on my nightstand, then bend down under my bed and slide out a decorative box. Opening it, I sift through the photos, the handkerchief, the rubber duck with the football helmet, and the letters, finding what I’m looking for.

A pale pink, knitted baby blanket made for me by my mom.

I take it with me to bed, nestling it’s softness against my cheek, and let it catch my worries and nightmares.

Morning consists of instant oatmeal and two gallons of coffee that I wish had whiskey in it.

I stand in front of my hall mirror, straighten by blazer over my cowl-neck red blouse, and brush invisible lint off my tailored slacks.

It’s all dilly-dally, because the last thing I want to do is make the trip to Locke’s and tell him I’ve been sleeping with Ben.

Checking the time on my watch, I can’t fuss any longer. Locke coaches at the local high school, and he would argue anyone under the table that his mornings start earlier than mine.

When the elevators hit the lobby, I cross the marble flooring at break-neck, confident speed. I remember who I am and what I want to become—not the flailing, heartbroken girl of my past who wants a forbidden boy.

Acne Hayes won’t be the person telling Locke about her history with Ben. It’ll be me, the woman who likes to add sex among her bids for power, but it stops there. Ben and I aren’t exchanging our hearts along with our bodies.

I nod to security and head to a car I’ve called, waiting at the curb. My phone buzzes within my leather tote as I slip in, but I ignore it.

We merge into traffic, and my phone goes again. This time, I rifle around for it, considering it’s 6 a.m and the only persistent calls coming through would be emergencies or wrong numbers.

I think—Lily.

Another phone call like that, I’m not sure I could handle. I search for my phone more frantically.

Finally, I find it, and when I see who’s on the screen, I let out the kind of curse other women in power would be proud of.

“Taryn, what is it?” I say once I accept the call.

“I’m so sorry to wake you,” she begins.

“I’m not asleep. What’s going on?”

Taryn is one of those individuals who comes into the office at nine, not a minute sooner, since she usually does whatever on-trend exercise class is going on in Chelsea at any given moment.

“Are you hurt?” I ask.

“No—nothing like that. It’s just…I…”

Taryn is also one of those women who never stutters, not even when Altin Yang is staring her down over her cubicle and asking why a motion hasn’t been e-filed to the court yet.

My back straightens, and I press the phone closer to my ear. “Taryn?”

“I don’t know how to tell you this,” she says.

“How about you tell me.”

“The…I’m at the office. I’m here, because Mike texted me to come. He said it was some kind of office emergency.”

“What happened?”

I try to remember the current state of the Delaney case and the defendants. The defendants didn’t make bail. They were in the midst of being processed for Rikers prison where they’d await trial or take a plea. All of that was normal, regular procedure.

“He was drunk.”

Well, yeah. Then… “Oh, God. Did he assault you?”

Jesus, what is my life coming to when I worry about my ex-fiancé sexually harassing co-workers? It really makes me question my choices.

“No. No. But he…he got into my computer, Astor. Into my files.”

My mind’s already flashing red emergency lights, but I ask, maybe in the hope there still is some hope, “What do you mean, into your files?”

“He said you asked for his help. That you were stuck on the facts of the Delaney case and needed his head in it.”

My back leaves the seat. All kinds of dread takes its place along my spine. “And you believed him?”

“He’s your fucking fiancé! How am I supposed to know he had nefarious intentions? As if you would do that to your future wife. As if he would be willing to destroy your career to save his own. Astor, I’ve wanted to make my feelings about him clear to you for a long time now, but this takes the whole three-tier, sprinkle-confetti wedding cake I imagined throwing in his face a whole lot more desirable.”

“What did he get, Taryn?” I already know. I’m already, terribly aware. “What’d Mike find that he didn’t have?”

Taryn sighs so hard I imagine feeling her breath tunneling through my ears. It’s better than hearing the panicked pounding of my heart. “The checks.”

I lay a palm across my forehead and it slowly slides down. “Ryan’s inheritance….Mike knows? Mike’s figured out the boy’s new identity?”

“Yeah.”

“No,” I groan through my fingers. I deleted everything! I know I did!

“It gets worse.”

How? How can this possibly be—

“He’s already told Yang. Mike’s taken the credit, Astor. He’s stolen our work and presented it to Yang like he did all the heavy-lifting, that pink, puckered, rat-assed bastard.”