7. Cora
Chapter seven
Cora
I ain’t got shit.
Pressure builds beneath my ribs, each breath coming out in short, sharp bursts as panic threatens to consume my mind. Desperation threatens to drown me. I force myself to take a slow, deep breath… count to three… then exhale, trying to release the pressure coiled tight around my lungs. The grounding technique my grief counselor taught me after Mom’s death comes to the rescue again. If ever there was a moment I needed it, it’s now: naked, on my knees, on a stage in front of a room full of powerful men.
My head is bowed, spine straight, knees parted, hands resting on my thighs with palms facing up. A position of complete submission. The cool air of the room brushes over my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms. At least the floor beneath my knees is forgiving—warm, soft carpet that cushions my skin.
As my breathing steadies, the stiffness in my shoulders melts away, and my muscles loosen enough to allow me to settle into this position. With my chin lowered to my chest, I take in my surroundings as best I can.
From the corner of my eye, I glimpse men seated around the club on lounges. Some are engaged in quiet conversation with the goddesses at their feet, while others sip their drinks in silence, waiting for selection to begin. The lightest trace of cologne hangs in the air, blending into the background of low, steady conversation.
As I become more aware of the eyes on me—watching, assessing, wanting—I lose myself in the moment. The feeling of being wanted is a heady aphrodisiac.
One gentleman stands out from the rest. He sits directly in front of me, as still as a statue, yet exuding a commanding presence even in his relaxed pose. His legs are spread wide, and with a flick of his wrist, he checks his Rolex. Not out of boredom, but with a calculated air, as though every second not spent on something worthwhile is a personal affront. A hint of impatience creases his brow, as if he has far more important things to do with this time. From what I can see, he looks to be in his mid-to-late thirties, with dark, tousled hair that falls effortlessly across his forehead. His navy suit and crisp white shirt only add to his charm.
Gorgeous.
There’s an aura surrounding him, an understated authority that draws every eye in the room without him having to say a word. It’s more than just his looks; it’s the way he seems to own the space around him, as though even the air bends to accommodate his presence.
His eyes flick up, locking onto mine with an unwavering focus. A slow smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as he catches me staring. Those dark eyes, so familiar yet so different—harder, colder—catapult my mind back five years.
I gasp, the sound slipping out before I can stop it, and quickly lower my gaze back to the floor, where it’s supposed to be. But my thoughts spiral into chaos.
No! It can’t be!
I can’t believe it’s him! What’s he doing here?
Does he recognize me?
Oh no! What if he recognizes me… here, of all places?!
After my initial search for Jonathon turned up nothing, I’d given up hope of ever finding him. Now, the possibility that it could be him makes my skin prickle, sending a tremor through my limbs. I’m not certain it’s him—I need another look—but I don’t dare raise my head to check. His gaze, however, is unmistakable. I can feel it raking over every inch of me on display, burning into my skin like a brand. My body reacts instinctively, as if it remembers that night in Malta all those years ago. Heat spreads in a slow wave, pooling deep and leaving my body taut, braced for what’s to come. My skin feels tight, too sensitive under his watch, as if I might come undone at any moment. I start to pant—not from panic this time, but from a deeper primal instinct.
Lost in my own thoughts, the sound of Hailee’s commencement announcement fades into the background. The selection process begins. One by one, my fellow goddesses are chosen by a gentleman, moving with a proficient grace that makes the entire process seem natural. Jess and Sarah are among the first to be selected, and if Sarah’s small smile is any indication, her man has chosen her again. Everything unfolds so quickly that it almost feels choreographed.
The quiet murmurs of conversation seem to still the moment Jonathon stands up. Even the other gentlemen glance his way, as though silently acknowledging his place among them. He doesn’t seem to notice—or care. His focus is entirely on me, as though the rest of the world has ceased to exist.
Jonathon doesn’t rush; each step is deliberate, almost predatory, as he approaches me. There’s a refinement in the way he moves, every motion calculated, like he’s used to making others wait. Even as he crouches in front of me, there’s no wasted energy, just pure, controlled power.
My heart pounds loudly in my ears.
Please pick me…
Please don’t pick me…
“Look at me,” he demands in that smooth American accent. His voice is a low rumble that vibrates through me and settles deep in my bones. His fingers are warm against my skin, firm yet gentle as they lift my chin.
I release a shaky breath and obediently meet his gaze, staring into the dark eyes that mirror my son’s so perfectly—except these eyes are cold, devoid of the warmth I remember.
His eyes sweep over my flushed face, taking in every detail, assessing his possession. “Let’s go, goddess,” he commands, his brow arching with a self-assured smirk.
There’s no hint of recognition in his tone or his eyes.
He doesn’t recognize me.
Not every one-night stand leaves a lasting impression, but ours certainly did. The way he looked at me that night, the way he touched me as if I were precious. How could that same man look at me now as if I were nothing more than another hole to fill? As I look into his eyes, there’s nothing—no spark of familiarity, no trace of recognition, just a blank stare. Maybe I overestimated the significance of our connection. Or maybe he’s slept with so many women that none of them embed in his long-term memory.
My heart sinks, and a hollow sensation blooms in my chest, each beat dragging with the painful realization that this moment isn’t unfolding as I had imagined over the years. I force myself to breathe, to push down the disappointment threatening to swallow me whole. This isn’t the time to wallow—this is the time to stand tall. For Leo. For the future I’ve clawed my way toward.
My gaze hardens, and I straighten my back, the fire of determination burning away the lingering disappointment.
“Yes, sir,” I say softly, with a calculated smile.
He fastens the black leash around my left wrist and commands, “You may walk.”
I’m gonna make sure you never forget me again .