Lucas might have vaulted to the top of the dick-o-meter, but, I admit, his taste in clothing is impeccable. I’m oddly proportioned—muscular calves and thin thighs, a generously rounded ass and curvy hips—which means I often spend more time in dressing rooms than cashier lines, usually leaving the store with nothing more than the overwhelming sense of defeat.

The skirt and blouse Lucas suspiciously had delivered to his apartment are a perfect fit, as though customized for my build. The cream-colored and elegant top drapes across my chest, and tapers at my waist, accenting rather than drawing negative attention to my less-than-perfect physique.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirrored window outside the Rubberneckers office and grin. Who cares how I got it—I’m pulling it off well. A slit runs up the side of my short skirt, landing about mid thigh, as though pointing like an arrow to how snugly the material cups my ass.

Fiction doesn’t pay, my father always said, but my parents accepted—begrudgingly—my decision to attend NYU, with a focus on magazine writing, and a minor in business. Prepare to be poor, he’d warned.

And it’s true I haven’t hit pay dirt, but today, in these clothes, I feel like a million bucks.

And although I debated wearing the outfit he got for me after the way things abruptly ended between us, I somehow felt like I deserved something for his piss poor treatment of me.

Perhaps I wanted to hurt him too, and his wallet may have been the only way to sting him the way he stung me with his casual dismissal.

I briefly recall the Oscar de la Renta tags, how they dangled before my eyes like gold-plated carrots before I found the courage to rip them off. I can still see them now, as though mocking me for succumbing to their power instead of rejecting them for what they represent. Entitlement. Luxury. Ridiculous and unnecessary wealth.

The very things that provided the foundational editorial for Rubberneckers, an e-mag that rose to popularity thanks to its satirical commentary on the lifestyles of Wall Street’s most rich and infamous.

And look at us now.

My spine stiffens, hesitating before I yank open the warehouse doors that spill into our makeshift office space. Tucked on the edge of Brooklyn’s grittiest streets, the building’s a fallen brick or two short of being condemned. But Liz has worked practical magic with her amateur design skills, transforming the once dank dungeon into a funky workspace that melds with the magazine’s unique style.

The scent of butter wafts from the corner of the lobby, where an antique popcorn machine churns through a steady stream of kernels. Intended for clients, the snack quickly became like a staff mascot, until we had to start letting people go, and fewer visitors braved the Brooklyn streets to stop by.

But somehow, I can’t bear to let this tradition go.

I scoop popcorn into a small paper bag and weave past the empty front desk. A picture of our old receptionist smiles at me as I pass, but I avert my gaze, still stinging from the loss of having to lay her off. I’d hand-picked her myself, plucking her from a stack of monotone resumes, hers a sparkling rainbow among the gray suits vying for a place on our then growing team.

It’s funny how life can be interrupted. How you can leave the house, expecting to come back, but then your path takes a left instead of a right, and everything changes. You change.

Marnie and Liz sit at their cubicles when I slip behind the privacy screens that separate the lobby from the once bustling workspace. Our phones used to ring off the hook, but in the wake of the impending lawsuit, fewer “scoops” land on our laps. Now, when we need it the most, we lack the resources to dig for those bigger stories.

Liz has her cell tucked under her chin, balancing it on her shoulder as she taps away on her keyboard. She glances up, spots me, and holds a finger in the air.

“Must be laundry day,” Marnie whispers, giving my attire the once over. My stomach clenches with unease. I have no plausible explanation for what I’m wearing. Next to Marnie’s simple jumpsuit and Liz’s classic dress pants and sweater combo, I’m more primed for the runway than our dusty office. It’s clear that I’m now an insect under a microscope. “Unless we have a meeting I don’t know about,” she goes on, obliviously not about to let this easily pass. “We saw the lawyer yesterday.”

As if I could forget.

I set my messenger bag down without comment, and fire up my laptop. The giant clock hanging high on the lofted wall clicks over to nine, which officially makes this latest I have come into work. That, coupled with the guilt I’m sure taints my skin crimson, practically screams, Yes! I had a fucking one-night-stand, okay!

My lips press together to staunch the urge to confirm what is flashing like a giant neon sign of confession. I’m shaken, my routine derailed by the events of the past twenty-four hours, and my partners would have to be blind not to know that something isn’t right.

Marnie sets a coffee on my desk, and leans her hip up against my chair. She folds her arms across her chest. “You good?”

I nod, perhaps unconvincingly.

Her lips purse. “You’re different…something’s not right. What’s with the getup?”

A lump forms in my throat. I swallow, prepared to drum up any excuse not to tell the truth. None of us are saints, but a one night stand is enough out of my character to grant a full-on inquisition, and I can’t handle that. Not with how things ended.

God, I never even learned his last name.

Reliving this morning’s rejection isn’t how I’d like to spend the day.

Marnie taps her mouth, still contemplating me, while I stay mute. “Hey!” she perks up. “Did something happen between you and Austin?” Her eyes twinkle with impish mischief. I open my mouth to interject before her assumption morphs into full tantrum mode, but it’s as if my vocal cords have been severed. She slams her palm on the desk with a heavy thwack. “Oh my god. That’s it!” She’s grinning like the Cheshire Cat now, and I can’t do a bloody thing about it. Her pitch rises, excitement taking over. “That’s why he isn’t here yet, isn’t it?”

“Not quite,” Liz interrupts while the phone sits cradled against her shoulder, her tone concerned. “Austin is at the hospital.”

Marnie sucks in a gasp, shocked. “What happened?”

I hold my breath, unable to speak, even though I already know. It shouldn’t surprise me that his wounds needed professional tending—I see his bloodied nose in my guilt-ridden vision.

“He was beaten up pretty badly at a bar last night,” Liz says. Her eyebrows furrow. “Got into a fight with none other than Lucas Hammer.”

My mouth goes dry. “Did you just say—?”

She smiles tightly. “Yeah. That Lucas Hammer. One of the founding partners at Daylight Holdings.”

My blood goes cold and I feel suddenly faint.

Daylight Holdings is one of the most successful hedge fund firms in the country. No one actually knows how much the business is worth, but every news outlet in the U.S., including Rubberneckers, would love to find out. Over the years, our staff has scanned the dark web, combed the media, and networked with their competitors in search of scandal, some kind of juicy gossip that hasn’t already been dredged through the press.

But the company’s biggest “secret” has been so over-reported it’s old news—the fact that Lucas and his partners, Holden and Mason, were the only survivors in a high school shooting that killed a room full of their classmates, along with their well-loved and respected teacher, Mrs. Kratky.

The three boys grew up and eventually channeled their grief into building Daylight Holdings, a company that has a reputation for being ruthless in the face of adversity, but shrewd traders on the stock exchange.

I can’t fucking believe I didn’t recognize Lucas Hammer, but the other two tend to do more of the media friendly activities for the company. Lucas is notoriously reticent to deal with people in my industry—although on the whole Daylight Holdings is very secretive and not kind to those in my profession.

Marnie puts her hand on my wrist. “Eden, you were at that bar with Austin. Did you see what happened?”

With a trembling voice, I describe the scene, giving details about Austin’s escalating harassment, and how I didn’t realize it was that Lucas—fuck me, how could I not have known?—because he was in “disguise.” The excuse works well enough for Liz and Marnie, but it doesn’t explain how later, when I was sprawled out naked on Lucas’ bed, I didn’t make the connection. Couldn’t piece together his identity when all of the clues were staring me in the face.

Can someone truly be blinded by lust? Apparently so.

Slow heat creeps up the side of my neck. Marnie mistakes it for fear and rubs the small of my back. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she says, softly. “Austin was out of line and we’ll deal with him.”

Fresh guilt shakes through me, because I haven’t told my friends the whole truth. Maybe I didn’t ask for Lucas to be my hero, but I didn’t stop him either—and instead of going home, gathering my wits, I went willingly, like a damn puppet, to his warm bed.

But no way in hell I’ll admit that to Liz and Marnie.

Not after the way we’ve talked—seethed—about men like Lucas Hammer. Savvy, cutthroat businessmen who lead empty, vacuous lifestyles that border on absurdity. In my mind, I picture Lucas’ vast collection of heavy metal memorabilia, the extravagance of his décor, the price tags on the very clothes on my back, and my stomach roils.

Lucas Hammer is exactly the kind of man I’ve vowed never to date, let alone fuck. My brain tried to warn me, but logic was overridden by unbridled desire. I didn’t just want Lucas’s hands on me, I practically begged for it. And even now, with the truth of his identity on full display, I still want him.

Damn it.

My mind rewinds time to that first kiss, the way my knees buckled as his mouth met mine, electricity vibrating on our lips. I think about his muscled torso hovering above me while his cock pounds my pussy like a piston, and my thighs clench in response.

Fuck.

I can’t keep rehashing this.

It shouldn’t matter that Lucas gave me the kind of sex even my overactive brain couldn’t have imagined, this—these ridiculous fantasies—have to stop. Now.

But then it hits me that I wasn’t given the chance to end it. It was over between Lucas and I before it really began. Because the second I mentioned Rubberneckers, he grew distant and cold. Maybe we could have worked through the differences of our social stature, but Daylight Holdings has an already tense relationship with the media, and much as I hate to admit it, our magazine has slid down the slippery slope toward “tabloid” journalism and become the kind of publication guys like Lucas Hammer sneer at with disgust.

I recognize it now, that disdain I saw on his face.

If only I could hang on to that expression instead of the way he stared at me with unabashed lust before claiming my mouth, my body, and my heart for his own. I blink clear the visions, and blow out a breath.

“Don’t worry, Eden, we’ll handle Austin,” Liz says, calmer now. “If that weasel sets foot in this place, he’ll be getting a stiletto up his asshole.”

I stare at my computer screen, avoiding her gaze. Liz is the most perceptive out of the three of us—one false move and my composure will erode like sandstone in the wind. My heart beats like a jackhammer.

“I’ll have someone in to change the locks immediately,” she adds, switching to business mode. I always thought I was the practical one, but my actions over the past day prove otherwise. Impulsive. Reckless. These aren’t words I’ve ever used to describe myself, but I suddenly feel like a poster child for rebellious behavior.

“Something tells me he’ll stay away,” I say.

Marnie giggles nervously. “After the beating he got, I wouldn’t blame him.”

Liz taps her fingernail on my desk. “That rage in Lucas…” Her voice trails off. She clucks her tongue, contemplating. “Something there we can use? Is there any way we can plant a bug that he’s stressed out, maybe speculate that the company isn’t doing so good? Start that rumor?”

My throat swells.

Marnie calls up the Page 6 article of last night’s bar fight, the image of Austin’s bloodied face taking up most of the screen. “I don’t know, guys,” she says, shivering. “Anger like that needs a venting portal and I don’t think we need to be on the butt end of that.”

Liz nods. “Good point. It’s probably best we just steer clear of Daylight Holdings for now—especially Lucas Hammer. Am I right?”

My breath comes out in a slow hiss. Frankly, Liz has no idea at all how right she is.