Elara
The Blackwood Tower conference room felt different this time.
Not because of the table-still long, black, gleaming-or the chairs arranged like silent witnesses.
Not because of the view-same glittering Thames, same indifferent city.
It felt different because everyone knew.
Not the details. Not the way Damian had f****d me on this very table yesterday, bare and relentless, filling me until I sobbed his name.
But they sensed something.
The way heads turned when I walked in.
The way conversations hushed.
The way eyes lingered on the high collar of my blouse-chosen deliberately to hide the fresh hickeys blooming across my neck and collarbone.
I wore a tailored pencil skirt and silk blouse today-professional, conservative, armor.
No dress. No bare skin.
But underneath:
