I fucking knew it. He fell for the oldest trick in the book. God, men are so damn easy. An unwise woman once said that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. She was wrong. A truly wise woman knows that the way to a man's heart is through his dick.

And because of his dick, he just gave me the best ammunition to use on him thus far. And all it cost me was: two sex sessions, a walk of shame, a kiss, and a little harmless grinding.

Now all that is left to do is to get rid of him tonight and share the story with Sherri for her approval. Once approved, I will write the story that will destroy him, no hard feelings of course, and get the promotion.

Do I sound like a bitch? Yes. Am I a bitch? Probably. But this bitch is done letting men rule the world. It's about time some woman grabs them by the balls. And why can't that woman be me?

I have nothing against Aaron personally. And I most certainly don't have any quarrel with his glorious dick. It's just my boss who hates him. But the more I think about him, the more hesitant I am to actually go through with this. So, stop thinking about him, right? Yes!

It's not as if this will destroy him forever. With a dick like his, he'll surely find somebody else, even though he says he won't. Isn't that what they all say?

Albeit, he does know how to use that wood he is sporting between his legs right now. He did give me the best orgasms, that's right, ladies…plural with an s and everything, of my life. I lick my lips at the memory. Maybe one more time wouldn't hurt. No! I can't let myself be that big of a bitch, right? Right.

Now to just get rid of him. And the best way to do that is to start a fight.

"A fake fiancée just to trick people? What kind of person lies about something like that? And to make matters worse, you could have told me last night! But instead, you just made me look like a fool. If you cared about me at all, you wouldn't have lied to me. Trust is not something that is easily earned. But it is easily broken. And you broke ours," tears flow from my eyes. Much to my own surprise, they are real tears. Maybe forgetting him is going to be a lot harder than originally planned. "And, yes. Now you're the reason I’m crying."

I watch as he gets up and walks out the door. I expected him to put up more of a fight. If he cares about me as much as he claims he does, shouldn't he be pleading and begging for my forgiveness? And body? Score: Nicole-four, Aaron-three.

Maybe I was a little too harsh on him, but he did lie to me. That part was truthful. In all honesty, I do believe he is trying to change. Trying and succeeding are two completely different things.

I want to believe that he really does feel something for me, that I really am different. But I am going to need to see it through his actions, not his words. And right now, his words mean shit to me.

As the door slams shut behind him, I immediately regret the fight. I shouldn't have let him go in such a harsh way. I could have just told him I was tired and kindly asked him to leave. But the truth is, I wanted him to stay. To stay, rip off my pajama bottoms, unzip his jeans, and surge into me relentlessly until I came undone.

I fan myself with my hand as the temperature in my apartment increases dramatically. I am hot. For him. I want him. No. I need him.

I spring off my sofa, nearly tripping over one of the coffee table's legs, and yank open my apartment door. Looking oh-so-stylish with my matching pair of white fuzzy rabbit slippers on my feet, I sprint down the steps. Note to self: call landlord and ask when the fuck the elevator is going to get fixed.

As I descend the last flight of stairs, I make an executive decision and skip the last six steps by jumping into the air. I land hard with a thud. A painful tingling sensation forms at the bottom of my feet and works its way up into my legs. No pain. No gain. Not exactly how the saying is supposed to be implemented, but I don't work out or play sports, so in my case, it works for me.

I ignore the pain and run straight toward the lobby door. I am too late. Why must I always self-sabotage when my life starts to get good? It's a horrible habit that I can't break. More of a curse than a habit.

I watch in horror as the taillights of a silver Rolls Royce illuminate the lobby a vibrant red. Maybe it wasn't meant to be. We aren't meant to be.

I lie in my bed the rest of the night thinking about whether or not I am the type of woman capable of destroying someone's career just to help my own. While doing so, I stare at the ceiling aimlessly, waiting for it to shout out its opinion. Pointless.

I have never been the kind of woman that tears somebody down to just rise to the top. That's not me. And that's not who I want to be. But I have no choice. If I want that job, this must be done.

I have also never been the kind of woman that felt so dependent on a man. Yet, here I am, longing to hear his voice, see his face, taste his lips, feel his caress, and ride his exquisite dick.

With a flick of my finger, I swipe open my phone, dial his number from memory…that's right, I memorized his freaking number…and hover my finger over the green call button. I must be strong. I can do this. Just put down the phone and everything will be fine. I exhale loudly. God, I miss him. Score: tied at four.

I close the phone window and instead open Spotify. I instantly play the Independent Woman playlist, cueing TLC's No Scrubs to harmoniously blast throughout my bedroom speakers. Got to love Bluetooth. There, Nicole, just listen to the music and don't think about Aaron. Easier said than done.

* * *

That next morning, I head out the door in a rush…I'm late. Staying up half the night trying not to think about Aaron sure makes a woman sleep-deprived. I've been in a snail-like stupor all morning, unable to move any quicker, and quite frankly, not giving a damn about it…until now.

As I see the sign reminding me that the elevator is still out of order, I think of him. I think about how great his hand felt in mine as I latched onto him for balance as we walked down the four flights of steps to the lobby. Then my mind wanders to the restaurant, to the limo, to his apartment, to his bed, and to his shower. Instantly, I clench my legs together, hoping to conceal my wetness. I don't have time to go back upstairs and change.

I stride down the street, looking very chic in my black lace trim V-neck top, paired with my high-waisted four-button skinny jeans, topped with my marble bomber jacket, and accented with my Lionette NY Ofir choker. All with my favorite accessory in hand, a cup of coffee, straight-up.

I walk into the office building with my blinders on, not paying attention to anything in my peripheral vision. I have tunnel vision, only focusing on the door that reads: Sherri Jenkins, Editor.

I push the door open and practically jump out of my skin as I see him. It's the Dickweed himself. Nervously, I rake my fingers through my hair, hoping to regain some of my composure. I take a sip of my coffee in the hope that it will give me enough time to come up with an excuse to dismiss my rude interruption.

"I apologize, Mr. Matthews. But I'm on the verge of a story and need advice from my editor." Travis Matthews nods in acknowledgment, scratching his neck before he speaks.

"Very well, what's the story?" Fuck. Why did I have to choose today of all days to wear my fucking blinders? If I hadn't, I might have seen his lackeys standing outside Sherri's door. Do I admit the secret aloud? To him of all people? Or should I just make some shit up? I'm not that great of a liar under pressure…just one of my flaws that I would love to be able to change.

"Well, Sir, I have a hunch that Aaron Hunter is using his fiancée, Marcia Gonzalez, as a publicity stunt to appeal to minority voters. I wanted advice as to whether I should run with this story or trash it." The Dickweed's eyes widen as the words Aaron Hunter escape from my lips. He arches his brow and bites his lip. If Aaron did that, I'd melt in my pants. But not when he does it. Travis Matthews is an attractive man, but he has no effect on me at all. And certainly not the intensified effect that Aaron has on my body.

"I say run with it. That bastard needs to be brought down." He turns to Sherri, giving me a great view of his back. "Assign that story to Ben Miller. I need my best man on this story."

I can feel my blood start to boil in my veins. I clench my fists, digging my nails deep into my palms hard enough to possibly draw blood, but I don't care. I have to keep my cool, or else all my dreams will be shattered instantly when I'm fired and blackballed from journalism forever.

Sherri glances over his shoulder at me, flashing me her calm-the-fuck-down glare, accompanied by her infamous nostril flare.

"Right away, Sir."

On that note, the Dickweed bids us a farewell, gathers his posse of Suits, and exits the premises. I peek around the door, making sure they are gone before I slam it shut.

"What the fuck?" Sherri shrugs.

"I don't know. He never ceases to astonish me. Just when you think he can't get any lower, he digs another two feet deeper into his shit-hole." I take a deep swig of my coffee.

"God, I wish this was vodka instead. I should have spiked it." We both laugh synchronously. "Anyway, that hunch I mentioned to Dickweed, it's not so much a hunch as it is a fact."

Sherri's eyes widen as she messes with her hair. She purses her lips, smacks them, and glances down at her nails. Then she whips out a nail file from her top desk drawer and starts to file away. The suspense is killing me.

"You're really not gonna ask?" She grins from ear to ear.

"You know I love messin' with ya, girl." I roll my eyes at her. That's one trait of hers that I wish I could tweak a little bit. She messes with me way too often. "So, what's the shit?"

"The shit is, he told me in person that his fiancée is just a PR stunt. They’re using her to appeal to minority voters. Isn't this perfect? I can use this to get the promotion." Sherri wrinkles her nose. That's never a good sign.

"Honey, I love that you’re finally getting somewhere that isn't in his pants, but don't you think you’re overlooking something?"

That's when her words resonate with me. How could I have overlooked something so significant? My sexual attraction to him is jeopardizing my journalistic instincts. I overlooked the fact that I have no evidence. It is all just hearsay, and that won't validate any article…let alone one as important as this one is. How could I be so stupid?

"You're right. I need proof. And I don't appreciate the pants comment." Sherri shakes her head.

"It is what it is, girl. You’re letting his cock get in the way of the story. And that's not like you. I'm afraid you’re already in too deep. I don't want to give the story to Miller, but in the end, that might be best for you." I cannot believe what I am hearing.

"Is that a threat?" My tone is now harsh and unforgiving.

"More like a promise, sweetheart. I don't want you to get hurt."

"And you think stealing my story out from under me and giving it to my nemesis won't hurt me? I know what I’m doing. And quite frankly, I am the only person he trusts. So, go ahead, give the story to Miller-the-Filler!"

"Consider it done! You're off the story! Cover this instead!" Sherri tosses a manila folder at me. I catch it.

With my new assignment in hand, I storm out of her office, not daring to look back. What kind of best-friend does that? She stole my story! For what? To protect me? That's bullshit! Nicole Parker is not going to give up so easily.