Maybe I came down here to prove some point to myself—that he’s not the only one who can breach boundaries. Maybe I just couldn’t lie in that bed one more minute with my thoughts chewing holes in me.
Either way, I’m here now.
His desk dominates the room, all clean lines and expensive intent.
On top: his laptop, a glass tray with a few pens, a leather blotter. No photos. No personal clutter.
The drawers on the near side are innocuous when I tug them open—stationery, neatly labeled files, a gun my fingers brush against, and then jerk away from.
I swallow.
The bottom drawer is different.
Heavier.
Locked.
A small, inconspicuous keyhole sits near the handle.
Of course, he has secrets in a locked drawer.
Of course, I want to know what they are.
I stare at it, heart thudding, the quiet
