January 16, 2026.
The high from the conference room lasted all evening—texts back and forth, filthy and sweet, replaying every second. I fell asleep smiling, body still humming.
Morning brought the crash.
I woke up to an empty bed and a wave of something cold.
Not regret, exactly.
But close.
I stared at my ceiling, replaying it: bent over that table, glass walls, people walking past. Anyone could have seen. Anyone could have stopped, looked closer, realized what was happening.
And I’d loved it.
That was the part that scared me.
My phone buzzed.
Damien: Morning, little one. Still feeling you. Last night was perfect.
I typed back slowly.
Me: It was. But… I’m freaking out a little this morning.
His reply was instant.
Damien: Call me.
I did.
He answered on the first ring. “Talk
