VOICEMAILS AND VODKA
1469 Words
Ivy’s POV
It had been five days since we got back from Paris.
Five days since he kissed me. Touched me. Held me like I meant something.
Five days since he whispered “You’re addictive” into my hair after we made love in the suite overlooking the Eiffel Tower.
Five days of silence.
No calls. No texts. Nothing.
At first, I told myself he was busy. Meetings. Jet lag. High-level CEO stuff I couldn’t possibly understand.
But by day three, I stopped pretending.
He was ignoring me.
I didn’t know what I had done. I’d replayed every moment of that trip like a mental highlight reel—his lips on my thigh in the jazz club, his hand in mine as we walked back to the suite, the photos we took during our little game…
It didn’t feel fake then.
So why did he vanish like I was just another lay?
I sat at my desk at work, hands still on the keyboard, but my screen was frozen. I wasn’t typing. I was watching the elevator.
Waiting.
Hoping.
And then—he appeared.
Dominic Hayes stepped out, crisp in a black suit, every inch of him screaming control and dominance. He walked through the corridor like nothing had changed. Like Paris never happened. Like I didn’t happen.
And then it happened.
He passed right by me.
No glance. No nod. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.
Just walked on like I didn’t exist.
I blinked. My stomach dropped.
It was like being erased in real-time.
But at least… he was okay. That was something. My chest loosened just slightly. Maybe later, I thought. Maybe he’ll text. Maybe he’ll call me into his office.
But the hours passed. Then the day passed.
And nothing.
No message. No summons. No lingering glance.
By the time I got home, my heart felt like it had been wrung dry. I barely acknowledged Cassie’s “Hey, you’re home late!” as I walked past her and into my room, shutting the door behind me.
Cassie knocked once. “Ivy? You good?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound—”
“I said I’m fine.”
The silence after that was worse.
I collapsed on the bed, eyes burning. My body still ached from our last night in Paris, but now it felt empty. Hollow. Like all of it had been for show.
I stared at the ceiling, thoughts racing. What the hell had I done wrong?
I opened my phone and scrolled through our old messages. Still blue. Still delivered.
I pressed the call button.
It rang once… then went straight to voicemail.
I inhaled shakily and hit “Leave Message.”
“Hi… It’s me. Ivy. I… I just wanted to say thank you. For Paris. For everything. I know you’re probably busy, but I wanted to take you out this time. My treat. There’s this place I like. It’s lowkey, more my vibe than yours but… don’t say no, okay? Please. Just… come.”
I hung up before I could sound more pathetic.
Exactly five minutes later, my phone buzzed.
Dominic: Okay. Text me the address.
My pulse skipped. I sat up, clutching the phone like a life raft.
Maybe this was it. Maybe he just needed space. Maybe tonight, things would go back to what they were.
⸻
The bar I chose wasn’t his usual sleek, glass-and-marble kind of spot.
It was dimly lit, neon-accented, filled with people in ripped jeans and oversized tees—my world. Not his.
He walked in like a storm cloud—dressed in charcoal, jaw clenched, eyes scanning until they landed on me. His shoulders relaxed slightly when he saw me. He kissed my cheek. Sat across from me. Ordered a whiskey.
And for a moment, I thought this could still work.
But then he pulled out his phone.
Texted.
Smirked at whatever was on the screen.
Then another text. And another.
I tried to keep talking. Telling stories. Laughing. Asking questions. But his eyes kept drifting to that screen. He barely touched his drink.
“Not your scene?” I asked finally.
He shrugged. “It’s fine.”
“You hate it.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
The way he said it—like being here was a favor, a charity act—it scraped something raw inside me.
“Can you try, just a little?” I asked softly. “I brought you here because I wanted to share something with you. Like you shared Paris with me.”
He sighed, finally setting the phone down. “I’m sorry. I’ve just got things going on.”
I nodded, trying to hide my disappointment.
A few minutes later, he looked at his watch. “I should go.”
“No.” The word slipped out too fast. Too desperate.
He looked at me, brows slightly raised.
I leaned in, placing my hand on his thigh.
“Noah…”
I slid my hand up slowly, fingers brushing along his inner thigh, stopping just inches from his hardening c**k. “I’m wet,” I whispered. “I’ve been wet since the second you walked in.”
His jaw clenched. His breath caught.
“I want you,” I murmured, my voice low. “Come back with me. Please.”
He hesitated. His phone lit up again. He looked at it, then back at me.
“My place?” he asked.
“No,” I said quickly. “Mine.”
A beat. Then a nod.
“But I can’t stay long.”
“Just long enough.”
⸻
We didn’t even make it to the bed.
He shoved me against the wall the second we got inside, kissed me hard, fingers already working the button on my jeans. I moaned against his lips, pulling his belt open with shaky hands.
Clothes hit the floor. Mouths met skin. Groans filled the space between us.
He bent me over the couch and f****d me like he was trying to forget something. Fast. Deep. Hard.
It wasn’t slow and sensual like Paris.
It was urgent. Needy. Detached.
Afterwards, I lay on my bed catching my breath while he silently got dressed.
I watched him pull his shirt over his head. Fix his collar. Slide his wristwatch back on.
And then he sat on the edge of the bed, phone in hand.
He typed something.
Smirked.
Placed the phone down next to me and slipped on his shoes.
My eyes fell on the screen.
It was still open.
A message.
“On my way now. Give me 20.”
My stomach dropped.
Before I could react, he picked up the phone and stood.
A quick peck on my forehead. “Thanks. I’ll call you.”
And just like that… he was gone.
⸻
I sat frozen for a full minute. The air in the room felt like ice.
“Give me 20?”
Was that what I was? A pitstop?
A time slot?
No. I needed to know.
I pulled on a hoodie and jeans, called a cab, and followed him.
The car stopped just across from a hotel downtown.
A sleek, glassy building with tall windows and dim-lit suites.
I sat low in the backseat, watching through the front glass.
And there he was.
Dominic.
He walked into the lobby. Took the elevator up.
Five minutes later, I spotted him again—through the wide, transparent window of a suite two floors up.
He was standing, speaking to someone inside.
And then she appeared.
A woman. Slender. Elegant. Wearing nothing but a robe.
She smiled and handed him a drink.
He took it.
Smiled back.
And my heart broke so loudly I swear I could hear it crack.
Tears blurred my vision. My throat closed.
I gave the driver a quiet, “Home. Please.”
And curled into myself in the backseat.
The tears didn’t stop all the way home.
By the time I stepped into my apartment, I felt empty.
Not broken. Just… used.
Like a scratched record someone played too many times before tossing aside.
I crawled into bed fully clothed, phone still in hand. I stared at it—waiting for a message that I knew wouldn’t come.
He wasn’t going to call.
He got what he wanted.
And I let him.
I should’ve known better. I should’ve remembered who he was—CEO, billionaire, heartbreaker. I wasn’t special. I was a convenience.
Tomorrow, I’d see him again—maybe. Maybe not.
But I wouldn’t wait anymore.
I was here for work. That’s it.
Hayes Global didn’t hire me to fall into bed with my boss. They hired me to win cases.
And from now on, that’s exactly what I’d do.
Even if it meant pretending none of this ever happened.
- Writer
