‘Meet me at The Blackwell Hotel by 8:00 p.m. Room 212.’
The text from him hit my phone on Saturday morning, after my encounter with him in his office yesterday. Not a request. Just a command. My pulse spikes as I stare at the message, my thumb hovering over it, thinking about the way I’ve led him here, how I teased, and dared him for weeks. I know every coldness in his replies, every careful word he’s chosen whenever he speaks to me, to convince himself he isn’t thinking about me. But I’ve proven him wrong anyway.
Mr Reid is Forty-Six. Divorced. Has a son my age. And yet, those details don't stop me. It doesn't restrain him forever either. The thought stays in the back of my mind, but it doesn't last. Because this isn’t about age, or past lives, or morality. This is about control—and rig
