Falling For His Dirty Trap

Six

Hillary

I jump out of bed and run to the mirror. Oh no—my cheeks are flushed. I rub my whole face so it looks blotchy instead of glowing, because God forbid anyone guesses I was just touching myself to a disgusting memory of my boss groping a girl in his car.

I rush back to the door and swing it open.

Ben. Just like I thought.

His hands are shoved into the pockets of his blue and white flannel pants, his glasses sitting low on his nose as he scans me with a scowl.

“We’re working from home tomorrow. Be in my study by noon—that’s enough rest for you.” He glances at my hurting leg.

That’s all he wanted to say that he couldn’t text or call? He just had to come knock on my door.

“My leg is fine,” I assure him.

I’m sure he only cares about my leg because my limping annoyed him. How can a human be so cold and miserable? What—or who—made him that way?

“Good,” he nods softly.

“Alright, thank you,” I reply, hoping he’d just turn around and leave but he doesn’t, he stares at me for a while like he was searching the depth of my soul. I hate eye contact. It makes me flustered and uncomfortable.

My cheeks burn, flushing pink as I nervously look away from him.

He smirks, it’s almost a smile—which I have never seen him do, then he turns around and walks away.

I go back to my room. Sleepiness pulls at me, and thankfully, I won’t be touching myself to sleep again tonight.

Working from home.

We’ve never done that before. What do I even wear?

Should I text him?

No.

I’ll just wear my house clothes. Especially the flimsy outfit he told me never to wear again. I have plenty of those.

And I want to piss him off.

———————

I’m stuck somewhere between sleep and consciousness, unable to snap out of it until I register that my phone is ringing. I roll over and grab my phone from the nightstand. My fatigue vanishes when my eyes land on the caller ID.

Georgia.

She’s finally calling me back.

“Georgia!” I press the phone to my ear, jerking upright.

“Don’t sound too surprised. How is your life?” she says, her voice far from excited.

“Are you still mad at me for getting engaged to Jake?” I ask.

“I don’t even care anymore. It’s your life.”

“Then what is it? You sound irritated.”

“I hate my life, Lary. Leo pisses me off all the time. It’s like he just loves to get on my nerves. He’s rude and arrogant and loves to order me around and tease me.”

I almost laugh.

I met Leonardo Lynch—her husband—once at their wedding. The marriage was arranged, and very quickly at that. We didn’t have time to elope.

“Well, look at our lives. We had this fairytale all planned, and now you’re married to some broody tattooed bastard, and I’m engaged to a man who cheated on me,” I say, mostly to make her feel better.

It works.

She laughs.

“I wish I could still run away, but Leo would definitely find me. He’s as obsessed with me as much as he hates me. God help me I don’t stab him in his sleep one of these nights.”

“There’s a thin line between love and hate,” I remind her, stifling a laugh.

I can practically hear her roll her eyes.

“I’ll never feel anything but hate for that bastard,” she grits.

We both sigh in exhaustion. Never in a million years would we have expected to end up here—exhausted, clinging onto hope.

My throat is dry, so I leave my room and go downstairs for water.

“I miss you—and Jake, and my mom, and Laurel. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate my job. I actually like what I do, but I don’t like my boss. That’s not even the issue. I knew who he was before I came to work for him, but there’s no fun around here. Everywhere is quiet and boring. It’s like Ben counts his words for the day and refuses to go beyond—”

“Wait, f**k. I got confused for a second. I forgot you told me you got a job. From who?”

“Well, Jake reached out to his rich brother—you know, the prodigy—and got me a job as his personal assistant. He’s much worse than Jake described him. I wondered why Jake was always dismissive of his brother, but I get it now. Bentley is a handful.”

“Aww, poor girl. Is he hot? You should f**k him to get back at Jake—”

My eyes widen, and I almost choke on my water, as if the thought of sleeping with my fiancé’s brother is that bad.

It is. It really is that bad.

Georgia laughs over the phone.

“That was a joke. Is he being too mean? Because when I get back in a week, I’m going to whoop his ass if he’s treating my girl badly,” she says.

I sigh.

“You know me. I can put up with the worst.”

I glance at the time—11 a.m. I have an hour to get to Ben’s study.

“Speaking of jobs, I have to get to mine as soon as possible. I’ll talk to you later, Gee,” I exhale.

“Sure. Let me just go back to dealing with this asshole Leo,” she says with so much exhaustion I almost pity her.

The line goes dead.

I head back upstairs but stop abruptly when something catches my eye. At the end of the staircase stands a white Greek statue of a naked woman. Maybe it’s always been there, but I never noticed before.

Her body is sculpted beautifully—round breasts, a thin waist, a piece of cloth falling off her body. But she doesn’t have the round face of most Greek statues I’ve seen, and I’m pretty sure they usually don’t have straight hair either. She looks like she’s falling, and a man is holding her, though only his fingers around her waist and the platform she leans on are visible.

It’s beautiful. Symbolic.

Not like I can ask Ben about it anyway.

I stand in front of the mirror, making sure my outfit is irritating enough to piss Ben off. Pink loungewear and a brown cardigan I’ll take off once I walk into his home office.

I’ll probably keep the cardigan, though—Ben likes it freezing everywhere he goes. I grab my things and head to his study. At 11:59 sharp, I knock, and he responds for me to come in.

“Hii,” I step in. The door is so heavy it nearly knocks me back, but I manage to keep my balance.

Ben doesn’t even glance at me. He’s bent over a model of ship parts, connecting the pieces.

“‘Hi’ is very unprofessional. I’m not your friend. Don’t say that to me,” he responds coldly.

What is wrong with this man?

“Fine,” I mutter under my breath and take my seat across from him, setting down my things.

“Finish up the documents from yesterday, and don’t forget to join them together,” he instructs—still without looking at me.

He’s dressed just as casually as I am, in a loose, rumpled brown shirt and black pants. I tear my eyes away from him and get to work immediately. The room stays quiet, though I catch Ben glancing at me a few times. Each time, he tightens his jaw and looks away.

When it’s time to join the documents, I suddenly forget how it’s done. It’s in the back of my mind somewhere, but no matter how many times I try, it just doesn’t work.

I don’t tell Ben I can’t do it. He’ll look at me like I’m stupid. So I just keep silently struggling.

My frustration builds—and apparently irritates him.

“What’s with the annoying grunts?” he barks, making me flinch.

I pout like a kid, already feeling small and stupid in the eyes of perfect Bentley Brown.

“I don’t know how to merge the documents. I forgot,” I admit, biting my lip and bracing myself for the humiliation that’s sure to come.

He huffs like he’s completely tired of me.

“You forgot? You simply can’t get anything right, can you? Why am I paying such a huge amount of money if I have to hold your hand and do everything for you like a damn kid?” he snaps.

I shrink into my chair, a strange feeling pooling low in my belly.

He slides out of his seat and comes behind mine, leaning over. Caging me between his arms, he reaches for my mouse. He’s so close I can feel his warm breath on my neck, smell the choking strength of his aftershave, his face almost brushing mine.

My n*****s pebble from the intense freezing temperature in the room and I grab my cardigan and tighten it around my body. I don’t want him to have any more funny thoughts.

“Even a f*****g third grader can do this,” he hisses.

If being humiliated by him makes me feel this way, I wonder how far I’d go just to earn his praise.