I start my day as always, with a punishing workout. I don’t stop until I’m dripping with sweat, my muscles shaking, lungs straining with effort. Up in the kitchen, I fill my water bottle and drain it, then brace myself at the sink, breathing, allowing my heart rate to return to normal.

Sweat travels down my skin. I like the feeling, gritty and real. At a gym, I keep my shirt on. I don’t like my scars drawing any attention. But I’m at my home gym, so I can do as I please.

Heading toward the second floor master suite, I pause. Gus is arriving tomorrow. Which bedroom should be his? I have five.

It sounds excessive. It is excessive. I bought the house two years ago not for the bedrooms, but for the location and the view. I can be at the Custom offices in Palo Alto in 20 minutes, yet it’s also on 15 acres in the Portola Valley with views of the Santa Cruz mountains. Past my acres are undevelopable open space. No one can bother me, ever. At my home, I can retreat into complete solitude.

Gus can have one of the bedrooms on the first floor. He’ll need some things. I have no idea what. I’ll provide the funds. Whoever steps in as his nanny can make the purchases.

Will it be Lily? She still hasn’t responded to my offer. I want to press, but I hold back. If this happens, she needs to come to me freely.

I push myself ahead instead, plunging into my day, busy as always. Driving to Custom, I call my assistant Karen to confirm arrangements. She’s flying out in an hour to pick up Gus. Then staff from the extremely expensive rehab center will escort Sandi directly from the hospital. It’s safer that way.

It may be Sunday, but that makes no difference at Custom. When I walk through the doors at nine a.m., the place is bustling. My partners are both there in a conference room meeting with a couple of suits. They’re auditors or accountants if I had to guess, probably sent in by the board of directors to give advice. They look like dinosaurs in ties.

Clay gives me a nod, Logan a salute. I nod back, grateful they’re in that meeting instead of me. Our roles have been clear from day one. Logan’s the visionary, the creative genius. Clay’s the moneyman. Born into it, he’s fluent in Investor, a native speaker. Me? I’m the builder. I’m the one in the back room with my sleeves rolled up, surrounded by screens, making something essential out of absolutely nothing.

Back in the beginning, they’d approached me. I was a Freshman, not a thing tacked up on my dorm room walls, still getting lost between classes. Just because my IQ’s somewhere in the 200s doesn’t mean I have a sense of direction.

Clay and Logan took me out to lunch. I was worried about whether they were going to pay the bill. My financial aid package only included the dining hall.

But once they’d started talking, I could see it all taking shape, forming in my mind, making sense of chaos, order out of a scattered morass. I didn’t sleep that night, making notes, sketching on my wall. I knew I could build it.

Eight years later, here I am walking into my glass office. Fuck cubicles. That’s right, I said it. They’re popular at a lot of tech companies. Marketing, sales, HR, those departments at Custom have them. Not my teams. We have collaboration areas, flexible spaces for group work, but everyone has his or her own space for thought. Thought requires quiet and privacy, at least in my understanding of the world.

Whatever we’re doing seems to have worked. We’re making billions. All the while, hoards of twenty-somethings are clamoring to intern with us for free.

I lose myself in my element. Given the time, I’ve always been able to shut out everything else. I become completely focused, some might say obsessed. I’d probably agree with them, but I don’t know any other way.

And I’m in good company among the engineers and programmers at Custom. By Sunday afternoon plenty of them haven’t left the building all weekend, eating, showering, and sleeping all within our complex. Hell, some of these geniuses are even reluctant to take a pee break.

We have tremendous restraint. For example, I want to text Lily. I don’t.

I make it through an afternoon meeting with Max. He’s the one investor I can handle. He’s been with us since the start. A seasoned venture capitalist, my first fall at Stanford he was there as a visiting lecturer. His class? Entrepreneurial Ventures. Without his guidance, we would have made countless mistakes. For every start up that succeeds, thousands of good, even great ideas fail.

I grab dinner on the way out. One of the best chefs in the Bay Area runs our kitchen. He makes more with us than he ever did running a Michelin-rated, six-months-wait for reservations hot spot in San Francisco. That’s how we roll.

As soon as I’m home, I do what I’ve been thinking about all day.

Gray: Have you made a decision?

I keep it neutral. She should say no. It’s what’s best for her.

Lily: I already have a job.

Gray: Doing what?

Lily: Waiting tables.

Gray: What do you make an hour?

Lily: $11 plus tips

Gray: I’m offering $200.

Lily: A day?

Gray: An hour. 8hrs/day * 60 days = $1K to work 60 days.

There’s nothing in response, no three little dots showing me she’s writing, no text message. Is she offended? Shocked? Suspicious? Maybe she should be.

Finally, it comes.

Lily: That’s too much.

Gray: You don’t know your own worth.

She needs to know how to negotiate. I’d give her so much more. I’d give it to her without her coming here at all. What does she need? All she has to do is tell me.

But I don’t want to scare her off. And her parents might be intervening, telling her that under no circumstance will they ever allow her to do this. They’d be smart to do it.

I’ve learned a lot about negotiations. I’ve learned when to lie in wait, when to press, and when to pounce. Instead of sending another text, I take some calls, troubleshooting, advising, brainstorming. I give Lily space to form her own decision.

Around ten, I pour myself a drink and head out onto my deck. The evening air is cool and crisp, but not cold. I have heat lamps and a fire pit, but I leave them dark.

It’s just me, looking out into the darkness, the wilderness beyond punctuated with a few specks of light.

Lily could be there soon sitting next to me. She’s considering it right now. Is she thinking about that night on the roof deck?

Or is she thinking about the year after? The night we didn’t sleep. When she learned I have dark appetites and relentless needs. With her, my blood burns for possession and domination.

I take a sip of my drink.

I’ve resisted this for a long time.

I tell myself I’m offering Lily a job to help her out, but I know I’m not that altruistic.

I want to bring her near so I can watch her, scent her, close all the distance between us.

By my side in the darkness, my phone lights up with text.

Lily: Yes

Gray: I’ll book you on a flight tomorrow morning.

Lily: Wednesday

Gray: Tuesday

Lily: OK

And like that, she’s on her way. Lily Gallagher, back into my life, under my roof. One door down from my bedroom.

I must be insane bringing this kind of temptation into my life.

I’d be insane not to.

If I don’t step in, she might get herself into trouble, make some bad decisions because she feels financially trapped. She shouldn’t ever feel that way. I’ll take care of her, make sure she’s all right. Protect her from harm.

Except I want to devour her whole, bury myself in her like an animal. I want to trap her here, lock her in, tie her to my bed and never let her go. I want to make her pant, desperate for more of what she shouldn’t have.

I’d never force myself on her.

But I might see what I can do to drive her crazy. I can be very creative. And I won’t stop until she’s quivering and wet beneath me, thrashing and moaning, begging for release.

Lily is mine.

Temptation will be out December 5th, 2017. Add it to your !