When I open the front door of the condo, the first thing I see is white. A lot of white. On the pale timber console in our foyer is a gorgeous vase of tuberose, jasmine, and delicate greenery. The fragrance is blissful—sweet but fresh, sensual but not too cloying

It also happens to be my absolute, lifelong favorite.

“Lil? Are you here? Did you get me flowers?”

There’s no reply. Pulling my face from the fragrant petals, I glance down. Lillian’s purse is gone from its usual spot, as well as her keys. I have a vague memory of her mentioning a photo shoot last night.

Returning my attention to the flowers, I search for a card. They’re either from Lillian or Jeremy. And if they’re from Jeremy, it means his interview with Alex went well.

Alex.

I shake the thought of him from my head. Finally, I find the elusive card tucked between stems on the back of the bouquet. It’s not a small enclosure envelope, but letter-sized. I turn it over in my hands, frowning as unwelcome suspicion wiggles through me. There’s someone else who knows my flowers of choice.

I tear open the envelope and pull out a folded sheet of paper.

Thea,

I’m sorry for the way I behaved on Saturday. I won’t ask your forgiveness, not for Saturday and not for two years ago. I don’t deserve it. I know you don’t want to see me, or talk to me, which is the reason for this letter. There are some things I need to tell you.

In the four years we were together, I took advantage of you financially and emotionally. For a while, I convinced myself it was okay. You believed in me—I would make it up to you—we loved each other. Deep down, I knew it was wrong.

Eventually guilt overwhelmed denial. I couldn’t ignore anymore how tired you were, how my lack of success weighed on you. You supported me through thick and thin, working every day to keep us afloat. My guilt turned into self-loathing. And because I was an idiot, I lashed out at you. I broke the most precious bond in my life.

I’m sorry, Thea. So very, very sorry. I can’t ask for your forgiveness because I will never forgive myself. I miss you every day. I will never stop loving you.

Yours,

Damien

I walk to the couch and sit, the letter clutched in one fist. Slowly, daylight fades. I don’t turn on a light.

My mind is filled with a queer, electric fog. Every so often, I feel a jolt as memories zap me. Snapshots of my life with Damien before he turned into a coldhearted bastard.

Rose petals on the bed for our anniversary.

Beach picnics every Saturday.

Holding my hand as tattoo needles pierce my skin.

Private jokes and knowing smiles.

Naked and playing guitar for me.

His hands on my hips—his soft lips.

Sweat slicked skin.

His face between my legs.

I’m not sure why the last image comes, or why it stays fixed on the underside of my eyelids. Damien was never fond of oral sex. The giving of it, that is. It used to be a source of private shame and insecurity for me. Now, strangely, no emotion accompanies the memory. Not revulsion. Not desire. I feel nothing.

Unbidden, the narrative shifts.

Sweat slicked skin and a dark head between my legs. Strong fingers gripping my hips, holding me still. Alex. It’s Alex whose tongue makes me writhe. Alex’s hands that lift me from the bed. Alex who rises above me, that infuriating half-smile on his face.

The rasp of my breath startles me, dissolving the fantasy. I blink in the dark. My pulse is throbbing low in my body. I’m aching and wet, my limbs heavy and weak.

I look down at the letter bent in my fingers.

I feel nothing.

* * *

Lillian comes home around eight, exhausted and happy with her day’s work. She immediately shows me various stills from her digital camera. Rusted, antique typewriters half-buried by silty soil. A child’s bike bent and missing a wheel. Peeling wallpaper and broken windows in an abandoned nursery.

“Salton Sea?” I ask, knowing how much she loves the place.

She nods excitedly. “It’s so tragic and creepy. A failed paradise.” She sets her camera down on the now-empty console and wanders into the kitchen, sniffing loudly. “What’s that heavenly smell?”

I follow to pour a glass of wine for her and top off my own. “Chicken marsala, garlic mashed potatoes, and sautéed kale with goat cheese.”

Wide-eyed with adoration, she says, “I love you.”

“I know,” I say smugly. “Dinner’s in twenty minutes.”

“What’s the occasion?”

I ignore the hand she extends to claim her wine. “I’m designing the interior of Hemlock.”

Her jaw drops. “What?”

“And Damien sent flowers and a love letter.”

She sags against the counter. “It’s too much. My brain just exploded. Give me a second.” She takes ten before snatching the wine glass from my hand and taking a noisy gulp. “Now I know why you wouldn’t give me this.”

“I didn’t think you’d appreciate red wine all over your shirt.”

“More like your shirt,” she mutters. “Christ, Thebes. Okay, start at the beginning. Wait—no. Start at the end. Let’s see these flowers. Where are they? What kind?”

Klaxons sound in my head. I feel suddenly faint, and set my wine down before I drop it. “Lillian,” I say carefully, “are you saying you weren’t here to accept the flowers?”

Her eyes scan my face; she pales. “They were left inside?”

My stomach takes a nose dive. “Yes,” I croak. “Oh, God. Damien was here. He must have kept his key.”

Lillian runs to the door and throws the deadbolt and chain, then turns and slumps against the wood. “This is so totally, unbelievably, not okay,” she rasps furiously. “Why the fuck was he let up? We pay for a goddamn concierge to keep people out!”

I blink hard against the dark spots in my vision. “He’s Damien Young,” I say faintly. “They probably wet their pants and asked for an autograph.” Lillian jerks into action, crouching to rummage through my purse. She rises with my cell phone. “W-what are you doing?”

“I’m calling Matthew.” At my panicked expression, she glares. “Would you prefer I call the police?”

I hesitate, then shake my head. “No.”

She nods curtly and scrolls through my contacts. I turn away, hugging my arms to my chest. The electric fog is back. But instead of memory-zaps, emotions punch me. Vulnerability. Violation. Sick, dark satisfaction.

I think I might throw up.

“Matthew… hi, no, it’s Lillian… We have a situation… Damien broke into the condo… No, he apparently still has a key… No, no police… Okay… Okay, thanks. Bye.”

Footsteps pad across the kitchen floor. Her arms come around me from behind, holding me tight as she rocks from side to side. “Is Matthew coming?” I murmur.

“Of course,” she says gently. “He’s going to stop at a hardware store and change the locks for us.”

Relief weakens my knees before humiliation stiffens them again. The thought of Matthew coming to my rescue—seeing me weak, defenseless—is like acid in my throat. He already knows too much, has seen too much.

My eyes begin to burn. The pieces of me separate, then slam together hard. Even so, the first quiet sob takes me by surprise.

“Oh, honey,” Lillian whispers. “It’s okay.”

I gently extricate myself from her arms and pull the folded letter from my back pocket. She immediately snatches it from my hand. I watch the play of emotions on her face as she reads it once, twice. Anger. Surprise. Grudging respect. And anger again.

Finally, she looks up. “I can’t imagine what you must be feeling right now.”

“Fucked up, huh?”

“How are you feeling right now?”

I smile wryly and wipe the wetness from my face. “Besides the fact I have something stuck in my eye?”

She gives me a sad smile. “Go sit on the couch. I’ll make sure dinner doesn’t burn.” I turn numbly and walk out of the kitchen. “Thebes?”

“Yes?”

“Do you want to keep the letter?”

“Throw it in the trash with the flowers.”

I curl into a corner of the couch, knees to my chest, and close my eyes. I drift, emotionally bereft and physically exhausted. The occasional sounds from the kitchen are comforting. Lillian is here. I am safe.

I’m asleep when the knock comes.

* * *

Something lifts me gently from dreams. Voices? I hear murmuring. Lillian. Matthew. But that’s not what wakes me. It’s a touch. The gentlest of them all, that of someone stroking my hair. I sigh and tilt my head toward the contact.

Fingers trace my jaw, the shell of my ear, and dip once more into my hair. A purr of pleasure in my throat, I wiggle deeper into warmth. Someone draped a blanket over me.

“Marry me, Lil,” I whisper. The fingers halt, then retreat. I pout. “Keep petting me.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” murmurs a rich, warm voice.

I’m so relaxed and safe—or anesthetized by today’s events—that I’m not even surprised. Because of course he would be here, to see me at my weakest. It makes perfect sense.

I open my eyes.

Alex sits on the coffee table directly before me, knees slightly spread. His chin rests on one palm, the attached elbow balanced on a muscular thigh. The eyes watching me are both wary and disarmingly tender.

I swallow twice before my voice comes. “What are you doing here?”

“Matthew and I were having a dinner meeting when Lillian called.” At my skeptical expression, he smiles knowingly. “Don’t panic. No ulterior motives were involved. Matthew didn’t know how to change a lock. I did and offered to help.”

“You know how to change a lock?”

“You’d be surprised by how many things I know how to do.”

I can’t hold his gaze any longer. I can still feel his touch on my face, his fingers in my hair.

“I thought you were Lillian,” I mumble.

His low chuckle vibrates through me. “First time I’ve been mistaken for a woman.”

Why did you touch me like that? But I don’t ask—can’t.

Matthew’s voice floats over us, “Is she awake?”

I push to a sitting position as Matthew and Lillian round the couch. Their expressions are identical: concerned parents surveying a hurt child. I wouldn’t know, personally, but decide it can’t be that far off.

“How long was I out?”

“Almost an hour,” says Lillian, and my eyes widen. She glances at Alex. “We were going to wake you, but some hungry billionaire vetoed us.”

I gasp and glare at him. “You ate my chicken marsala?”

He has the grace to look abashed. Lillian chuckles and says, “They had to leave the restaurant before eating. You would have fed them anyway.”

“Of course I would have,” I mutter.

“It was excellent, Ms. Sands. Thank you.”

“Still Ms. Sands?”

I shake my head at Lillian. “Don’t ask. Time to change locks?”

“Already done,” intones Matthew with a wink. “You slept through that, too. Alex, you ready?”

“Yep,” he says, standing.

Lillian and Matthew move out of sight, toward the foyer. Alex sidesteps between the coffee table and the couch but pauses in front of me. Slowly, his hand reaches toward my face. Warning me of his intent. I don’t move—can’t.

Warm knuckles brush over my jaw. My breath hitches. I’m helpless to look away from his eyes. “No more tears tonight, Thea.”

I nod weakly. His thumb slides across my lower lip and desire surges in my blood. No armor. No protection. Just the storm inside me. I have the near-overwhelming urge to bite his thumb.

A low noise escapes his throat. “There you are,” he whispers, and removes his hand, tucking it into a pocket. “Sweet dreams.”

I swallow thickly. “Goodnight.”

“Thea?” calls Matthew.

I look over my shoulder. “Yes?”

“You need to be at Hemlock tomorrow at eight for your first design meeting with Alex.”

I clear my throat, staring fixedly at my boss. “Without construction sketches or blueprints?”

“Correct.”

I squirm at the implied challenge. “Are there even walls? Or is this purely conceptual?”

Matthew glances at Alex, who now stands near the front door. I steel myself for eye contact but when I look at him, he’s staring at the floor. He says, “There’s framework, some of which will be taken down. I’ll walk you through the rest from memory. Bring your sketchbook.”

“Color palettes? Swatches?”

“Not this time.”

Why won’t he look at me? “Okay.”

Matthew opens the door. “Get some sleep, ladies.”

When the men are gone, Lillian gazes at me with awe. “Rockstar stalker and billionaire admirer. Jesus, Thebes, I feel inadequate. Why do you waste time with me?”

“Good point. Any suggestions on a new best friend?”

“Bitch. You want cereal for dinner?”

“Sounds good to me.” As she rummages in the cupboard, I drag hands through my hair. Two inches past the root, my fingers stall. Horrified, I whip around on the couch. “Oh my God, what do I look like right now?”

Lillian glances up from pouring milk. “Like you had crazy sex then cried about it.”

I sputter.

She laughs and brings me a bowl of strawberry-topped cereal.

* * *

After taking a long bath and brushing the knots from my hair, I lie sleepless in bed. The ceiling cinema is frenzied tonight. Damien. Alex. Damien. Alex. Alex… Alex.

Elegant fingers on piano keys. Knuckles on my jaw. His ocean sunrise eyes.

I fixate on the moment at the US Grant, when he held me flush against him and made me confront the power I wield. The heavy promise of his arousal.

Gentle fingers in my hair.

I am lost—I crave the center of the sun with fierce intensity. Knowing it will kill me. Not caring. I have never wanted anything as badly as I want Alexander Hughes.

My cellphone buzzes from my nightstand.

The cinema pauses. I fumble in the darkness, find the phone, and roll onto my side to read the text message. The number isn’t in my contacts. But it’s familiar. Very familiar, as just yesterday I spent minutes staring at it, afraid to press Call.

I read the message and smile in the dark.

Are you sleeping?

I reply: Nope.

There’s a long pause—I hold my breath.

Then: Why not?

I don’t sleep much. Why are you awake?

I can’t stop staring at your photograph.

Confetti explodes in my stomach. That’s a little creepy.

It is, isn’t it?

My fingers dance uselessly above the alphabet. I have no idea how to play this game. I type several responses but delete them all.

Thea?

Yes?

The best part of the photo is the mole.

“Oh my God,” I whisper aloud. I’d begged Lillian to photoshop the spot and she’d refused. Her argument had been that the small, dark mole (on my right cheek) was symbolic. It made the creature in the image human. Flawed.

The phone vibrates.

I love the mix of Americana and traditional Japanese. Most of the imagery I get—lotus, birds, waves/storm—but why the roses? I assume you weren’t going for red rose = love.

How does he know that? But the thought doesn’t linger. If he’s looking at the roses, he’s basically staring at my ass. The knowledge sparks a vivid image of his hands there.

Too personal?

Yes! But I respond: Seven-petaled roses are the Pythagorean icon of perfection and universal order.

Why am I not surprised? He’s smiling—I know it.

Giving in to temptation, I type: I assume you have a tattoo?

A few.

A thrill dances up my spine. Where?

Patience, Ms. Sands. You’ll find out soon enough.

I almost drop the phone, then do drop it as it vibrates again. The message stares up at me: Go to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.

My smile, I know, is borderline foolish. Yes, sir.

Mmm, I like that.

I release a slow, measured breath. Going to sleep now.

Good girl. Sweet dreams.

I return my phone to the nightstand and flop onto my back. My skin is humming with the need to be touched. Stroked. Squeezed.

My eyes flutter closed as I bring tentative hands to my breasts. They are full and heavy, the nipples over-sensitized. I imagine his fingers on them, kneading and plucking. His tongue circling. Teeth biting.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

I yelp, shooting upright. The light on my phone winks like a knowing eye. I grab the device, scan the three received messages, and immediately toss the offending electronic across the room. It lands with a thump on the carpet.

Panting, I collapse back to the bed and rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. It’s no use. The words are seared into my mind.

Do NOT touch yourself, Ms. Sands.

If you do, I’ll know.

Go to sleep.