Chapter 45 Rae
RAE
WEDNESDAY MORNING
Priority: URGENT
The elevator doors slide open on my old floor, and I step out into enemy territory.
Well, not enemy exactly. More like… complicated territory. Which, in all fairness, seems to be the only kind of territory I inhabit these days.
Kir’s receptionist, the lethally skinny blonde with the golden retriever personality, glances up and then away again as I march past her desk. She looks almost rattled, for some reason. Normally, I’d stop to ask what’s wrong, but I have pressing business with her boss right now.
Kir’s door is open. He’s standing behind his desk, shuffling papers with a furrowed brow. “Can I help you, Rae?”
“Yeah, actually.” I wave my phone at him with this morning’s crack of dawn email still glowing on the screen. “What the hell is this?”
He doesn’t even look up. “New initiative. It’s all in the email.”
“I read the email, Kir. What I want to know is why my name is on it.”
“Because you were selected.”
“By whom?”
He pauses mid-shuffle, and, at last, looks up at me. “The selection committee reviewed candidates from across the organization,” he says in the most Corporate B.S. tone I’ve ever heard from him. “Your performance metrics stood out.”
“Well, that’s a crock of shit.”
He raises a brow. “Pardon me?”
“I’ve been on the fiftieth floor for, like, two weeks. I haven’t done anything impressive. I’ve hardly done anything at all.” I cross my arms. “So either someone specifically requested me for this thing, or there’s been some kind of mistake.”
Kir sets down his portfolio. I’m still trying to find a chink in this veneer of Mr. CEO he’s putting on so I can spot some glimpse of the haunted man I spoke to on that rooftop just a week ago.
“I’ll explain everything in the kickoff meeting,” he says as he stands up. “Which starts in approximately three minutes. So if you wouldn’t mind following—”
“Wait.” My gaze snags on something. Or rather, on the absence of something. “What happened to your plaque?”
There used to be an award mounted on the wall behind his desk.
Some kind of leadership recognition from Harvard Business School, a complex piece of blown glass, polished brass, and pretentious Latin.
I noticed it the first time I ever set foot in this office, back when I was just Kir’s assistant and the biggest complication in my life was whether to order Thai or sushi for his working lunch.
Now, there’s just an empty space. A rectangular shadow where the frame used to hang.
Kir shuts down completely. “We’re going to be late.”
“But—”
“Now, Rae.”
His hand closes around my elbow and he steers me toward the door. The receptionist watches us go with wide, worried eyes. Whatever explanation I’m owed, I’m clearly not getting it here.
The conference room is already half-full when we arrive. I recognize a few faces from various floors: a woman from Legal, a guy from Product Development, someone who I’m pretty sure works in Finance whose name escapes me entirely.
Kir releases my elbow and strides to the head of the table, all business. But there’s something off about him. A jittery energy buzzing beneath the polished exterior.
His fingers drum against the table’s edge. His gaze keeps flicking toward the door like he’s expecting the dang Kool-Aid Man to burst through at any minute.
“Thank you all for being here,” he begins. His voice is just a shade too fast, words tumbling over each other like he’s racing against some invisible clock. “This initiative represents a significant opportunity for cross-functional collaboration and—”
The door swings open. Every head in the room swivels.
Lukas fills the doorway like a storm front rolling in. Today’s wardrobe is black suit, black tie, black rings, black watch. His presence sucks all the oxygen out of the room.
Kir’s face goes slack. The edgy energy drains away. “Father,” he acknowledges.
“Son,” Lukas replies.
Because God hates me, the only empty chair in the room is directly to my left. Lukas saunters over, pulls out the chair, and settles into it. He doesn’t look at me or acknowledge my existence in any way. Just leans back, crosses one ankle over the opposite knee, and waves a hand at his son.
“Carry on.”
Kir is still for a moment. Then he smooths his tie and picks up where he left off.
I try to focus; I really do. I pull out my phone to take notes, angle my body toward the presentation screen, and nod along like a person who is definitely paying attention and not focused on the man sitting six inches to her left.
For the first three uses of the word “synergy,” I’m mostly with the program.
Then I feel something on my knee.
A hand. Heavy and warm through the thin fabric of my maxi skirt.
My entire body goes rigid.
I peer over, but Lukas shows no sign that there is anything happening beneath the table. His eyes never leave the presentation screen. His expression remains thoroughly bored, like he’s suffering through another tedious quarterly review instead of dragging my skirt higher and higher.
I don’t know what to do.
After a few more “strategics” and “bandwidths” and “leverages,” my skirt has ridden up just enough to give him access. Lukas’s slips his hand beneath the hem. The first graze of his finger against my inner thigh nearly makes me levitate out of my chair.
I grip the edge of the table so hard my knuckles go white. My thighs clamp together on pure instinct, but that only traps his hand more firmly between them.
“Rae?” Kir’s voice slices through the haze.
I look up. Everyone is staring at me. “Y-yes?”
“What are your thoughts on the subject?” he asks.
“I—Well, you— Could you repeat the question?”
Kir frowns. “If—”
“Ms. Everett was just reflecting on the integration challenges inherent in cross-departmental initiatives,” Lukas interrupts, his voice pitched in almost a taunting sort of lilt. “Weren’t you, Ms. Everett?”
His finger traces a lazy, upward spiral on my inner thigh. Higher. Higher still.
“Y-yes,” I manage to stammer. “Integration. Challenges. Yes.”
Kir’s eyes narrow, but he moves on. Thank God. “Right. Well, as I was saying, the first phase will focus on…”
I stop listening. I can’t listen. Every ounce of my concentration is devoted to not making a sound as Lukas’s fingers find the edge of my underwear.
He traces the elastic band. Slowly. Methodically. Starts to venture underneath it…
In another version of this moment, I’m jumping to my feet, grabbing my portfolio, and storming out without a word, letting the door slam speak for me.
In that version, I have self-respect. Functioning survival instincts. A spine.
In this version, I shift in my seat to give him better access.
His finger slips beneath the cotton.
The sound that almost escapes my throat would have ended my career if it snuck out. Luckily, I swallow most of it down and convert what’s left of it into a cough that makes the Finance guy glance over with mild concern.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “Dry throat. Allergy season, you know.”
Lukas’s face betrays nothing. He might as well be carved from marble for all the emotion he shows.
But his finger—his finger knows exactly what it’s doing.
He finds my clit with the pad of his middle finger and presses down. I’ve never tried harder not to scream.
He lingers there for a moment, until I notice I’m starting to squirm and rock, craving more. In response, his finger begins to move.
Not fast—God, no, nothing about this is fast. He draws tiny, precise circles against that swollen bundle of nerves. It feels like he’s writing his name there. Signing me.
My thighs tremble. I press my lips together until they go numb.
Then he changes course. Two fingers slide through my wetness, gathering it, spreading it. He drags that slickness back up to my clit and the glide becomes frictionless and perfect.
The heel of his palm grinds against my pubic bone while his fingertips work. He finds a pattern that uncorks me: slow circle, press, release. Slow circle, press, release. Building something molten in my core.
I’m drenched. I can feel it soaking through my underwear, probably running down my legs.
As he continues, the internal pressure builds and builds. My vision goes spotty. The presentation slides become meaningless smears of color.
Kir is still talking, but the words he’s using are basically nonsensical to me at this point. They belong to a world where I’m not being finger-fucked by his father in plain sight.
Lukas increases the pace just slightly, and that’s all it takes.
The orgasm pours through me like a silent scream. My toes curl inside my flats. I don’t make a sound or move an inch—I just sit there, still in my chair, while my body detonates from the inside out.
Not once does Lukas glance my way.
When I finally come back to my senses, his hand withdraws as casually as it arrived and smooths my skirt back down over my thighs before returning to rest on his own knee.
No one in the conference room has any idea that I just came.
Kir wraps up with something about “next steps” and “alignment sessions,” but it’s just white noise. I’m busy trying to remember how to arrange my face into something that doesn’t scream I just had an orgasm in front of my coworkers.
To my side, Lukas reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a black silk pocket square.
As I watch, he unfolds it. Then he begins to wipe his hand. Each finger, one by one, in full view of everyone at the table. Cleaning my juices off of his scarred knuckles.
The Finance guy glances over, then looks away with a frown. The woman from Legal doesn’t even notice. But I notice. I feel every single stroke of silk against skin like he’s doing it to me.
When he’s finished, he tucks the pocket square back into his breast pocket.
“Best of luck with this bold new initiative,” Lukas says to Kir. “I look forward to seeing the results.”
He stands. Buttons his jacket.
And then he walks out of the room.
Soon afterward, the meeting breaks up. People file out in twos and threes, clutching their laptops and coffee cups. I wait until they’re mostly gone, then I rise on shaky legs.
My underwear is ruined. Completely destroyed. I can feel the evidence of what just happened with every movement, a slick reminder that I am a sick, sick individual.
I’m almost to the door when a hand closes around my elbow.
“Rae.”
I turn to find Kir squinting at me with concern.
“You look flushed.” His brow creases. “Are you feeling alright? Did that asshole do something to you?”
My knees threaten to buckle. I lock them through sheer force of will.
“Fine,” I say. “It’s just warm in here. I’ll see you later, Kir.”
Then I get the hell out of there before another Lazarev man tries to ruin my life.