Lily Thompson
The next morning, I painted my face in war colors — eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass, lipstick so red it should’ve come with a warning label and slipped into a dress that clung like a second skin. The kind of dress you wear when you want men to look twice, and when you want one man to choke on his own regret.
The look on Ryan’s face when I stepped out of the bedroom was worth every ounce of humiliation I’d felt the night before.
His jaw clenched. His eyes dragged down my body like magnets, and then snapped back to my face, sharp. “You’re not wearing that to work. Change”
I smirked. “No.”
“Lily—”
“Ryan,” I cut him off sweetly, tugging my blazer on but leaving it open. “You said I could come and go. Remember? No locks. No guards. No touching unless I asked. Those were y
