7. Claire
Seven
Claire
E lliot Ramsay and I have had three Big Fights over the years.
The first: we were teenagers, bored on a sleepy summer morning, and I had the bright idea to dye my blonde hair red. I begged Elliot to help me with the box dye; he refused, folding his arms and jutting his chin. Always so stubborn about the weirdest things. Why on earth did he even care?
I accused him of being a sexist jerk who wanted to control all women everywhere. You know: normal, level-headed teenage stuff.
Elliot laughed, then dug the plastic gloves out of the box.
My hair looked awful afterward, like a clown’s wig. I blamed him, obviously, but he helped me dye it back and made it all better.
Our second Big Fight was in our early twenties, a few months after I started working as Elliot’s PA. It had been a shitty week, with damp spreading through my tiny rented apartment, a sprained wrist from slipping on the rainy sidewalk outside our office, and the not-so-surprising news from back home that my parents were finally getting a divorce.
I ranted about all of this to Elliot, pacing back and forth in front of his desk—we shared a much smaller office back then, in a basement in the outskirts of the city. Definitely no penthouse views.
Elliot nodded and hummed in all the right places, like a tutorial video for Man Practicing Empathy. Then, a few hours later, he left a box of tampons and a bar of chocolate on my desk.
Yes , I was on my period. Yes , his suspicions were correct.
But man, I nearly strangled my idiot best friend right there and then.
This fight, though, Big Fight number three—this one might take the trophy. Because for the first time since I’ve known him, Elliot Ramsay slept away from home last night, even though he is a creature of habit who treasures routines and familiar spaces.
When I stepped out of my bedroom this morning and found the kitchen cold and empty, the surfaces clear and sparkly-clean, my stomach dropped to my knees. When I tapped on his door and got no response, it plummeted all the way to the floorboards.
Elliot hates unexpected breaks in his routine. They make his shoulders go all stiff.
But last night… he must have hated being near me more. Didn’t even want to stay in the same apartment overnight.
…Shit.
A chill spreads down my limbs, and I jog back to my room and snatch my phone off the nightstand. I’m shivering so hard, my teeth chatter as I call my missing husband. The dial tone purrs in my ear.
Come on.
Pick up. Pick up.
Because—I gave him such a hard time. We shared the most intense, most amazing experience of my life, and then I panicked and shut down on him, all because I couldn’t tell how he felt. Couldn’t read the unreadable man.
Why do I always do that? Why am I always so hot-headed; the unreasonable one in our duo? I’m not like that with anyone else. It’s like my emotions flood higher in response to Elliot’s unflappable calm, like I need to feel enough turbulence for the both of us.
Or maybe I really am a hormonal ragbag.
“Come on,” I mutter, squeezing the phone so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t crack into pieces in my hand. “Come on, Elliot. Pick up.”
Is he okay?
Oh god. Where is he?
He should have slept here last night. It’s his freaking apartment! If he didn’t want me near, I should have been the one to go. I’ve got the keys to my crappy rental until the end of the month.
The phone purrs on.
And… Elliot hardly ever answers his phone. He says that’s whole point of being the boss—getting to skip all that bullshit and stay out of reach.
But he always, always picks up for me.
For a long, sickly moment, clutching my phone and breathing hard, it seems like that special treatment might be over. I’ve finally pushed Elliot too hard and been relegated to his voicemail with the other nuisance calls.
Then the phone clicks, and Elliot’s deep voice rumbles in my ear.
“Claire? Are you alright?”
I splutter, whipping the phone away and staring at his name on the screen. Relief shakes my knees, then panic rises again. Am I alright ? Is he insane?
“You were gone,” I say stupidly, cramming the phone back by my ear. “I woke up and—you were gone. I was worried. Where are you?”
There’s a long pause, then Elliot’s sigh crackles down the line. “I’m at the office, Claire.”
He’s at work? Now ? Doesn’t he care that we fought? Has he even noticed?
Last night, this man spread my thighs open and knelt before me like he was worshiping at an altar. His hungry sounds vibrated through my nerve endings and made my clit tingle; his ring finger breached my virgin pussy and pumped deep inside. He claimed me.
Now paper rustles at the other end of the phone, like I’m keeping Elliot from some pressing admin.
“Come here once you’ve eaten breakfast,” he orders, in full boss mode. My insides churn, and I want to wail that we were nearly so much more—before I blew it. Elliot’s ring has never felt heavier on my finger, and I squeeze my fist tight until the metal digs at bone. “I have something to show you.”
Unless it’s his cock, I don’t want to see it.
But even I can’t say that to the boss.
* * *
Forget breakfast. Forget brushing my hair or dressing in work clothes. I scrub my teeth, aim some deodorant at my armpits, then blindly throw on a stripy t-shirt and pair of holey jeans and jog for the door.
It’s raining again when I reach the lobby—this city, I swear to god—but my heart’s beating too fast for me to wait calmly for a car.
“Miss—” the doorman blurts, barely yanking the door open in time as I clatter past. “Let me call you a cab!”
Too late. I’m already sprinting down the sidewalk, dodging dog walkers and roasted nut vendors and tourists shuffling along in groups, prodding at glossy sightseeing maps. They all glance up under their umbrellas as I charge past, my unbrushed hair wild and my raggedy clothes soaking through with rain. They gape at me, but I don’t care.
Need Elliot.
Need to find my husband, shake his stupid broad shoulders, then sink to my knees and beg for another chance.
This time, I won’t pick fights over nothing.
This time, I won’t lash out because I’m scared and this is all so new.
What else can I promise one of the wealthiest, most successful men in the city? Elliot Ramsay could pick anyone, after all. After what happened last night, after all these hurt feelings, why on earth should he pick me?
Because I understand him like no one else does.
Or at least, I thought I did—back before Elliot revealed that he secretly wanted me this whole time. But apparently we’ve both been lonely for no reason, pining away for each other for years, wasting so much freaking time, and—
No .
Breathing hard, I shake my head at nothing and put on another burst of speed. I’m not dragging all that useless hurt and frustration up again; it does no good. And like Elliot so helpfully pointed out, we’re both to blame.
From now on, I’m looking forward. And when I look to the future, I want to see my new husband there. If he’s not…
Cold dread seeps through the marrow of my bones.
“Excuse me. Sorry.” My sneaker lands in a puddle, splashing up a suited banker’s leg. He lets out a loud curse, and I bite back a mad laugh. “Sorry!” I yell, flying down the crowded city sidewalk, raindrops streaking through my hair.
Elliot. Elliot. Elliot.
Nothing else matters. Nothing else exists.
I burst into our skyscraper’s lobby like an escaped madwoman, wet sneakers squeaking against the marble as I run to the elevators. My heart jack-rabbits as I prod the call button and jig on the spot. Raindrops patter down around me, dripping from my clothes and hair, and people stop what they’re doing and stare.
“Wet floor!” I yell at everyone and no one, piling into the first elevator that opens. “Watch your step!”
The floor lurches beneath me as I shoot up toward the sky, but I’m already queasy, my palms sweating as I scrub them on my jeans.
* * *
“Come in,” Elliot’s voice calls, so deep and calm and authoritative. My fist trembles as it lowers, and I push open the penthouse office door.
Bright, pale morning light fills the huge room, even as rain pelts the glass windows. It’s always unnervingly clean and sparse in here, with every carefully chosen object on Elliot’s desk placed at perfect right angles. One potted plant is permitted, provided it is dusted every day and it doesn’t grow lopsided.
The boss sits at his desk, leafing through a stack of paperwork. Elliot’s dark hair is neat and his jaw is clean shaven, while his navy blue button-down shirt is pristine.
It’s the exact shade of his eyes , I notice numbly, squelching my tragic way to the chair he’s set out in front of the desk. Guess Elliot had no problem dressing himself this morning. When I collapse into the chair, my best friend finally glances up—then jerks back in alarm.
“Claire?”
My breath wheezes in and out of my chest, and I shake my head, still too winded by my rainy-day sprint. Elliot curses quietly, then draws a glass bottle of spring water from the mini-fridge under his desk. He sets it in front of me, then stares with such stubborn expectation that I fight back a weak laugh.
The lid cracks open, and I chug half the water bottle in one go. Sweet, beautiful hydration! Yes.
“Good,” Elliot says brusquely, turning back to his paperwork. I set the bottle down and stifle a burp, which he mercifully ignores. “I need you to read over these papers and initial in all the places with sticky notes.”
He pushes the stack toward me, along with a capped fountain pen. It takes a long, awful moment to realize what I’m looking at, and then the whole penthouse wavers.
“Divorce papers?” My voice sounds like it’s coming from far away, echoing down a long tunnel.
Elliot nods once, his jaw firm. The only sign that this bothers him at all is his middle finger tapping rapidly at the desk surface.
“You want to divorce me?” My voice cracks—but hey, if I breathe in through my nose, maybe I won’t throw up all over Elliot’s polished desk.
Because this was always going to happen at some point. Right? This was a PR marriage, nothing more. There’s no reason for my insides to twist into miserable knots.
“I want a fresh start,” Elliot corrects, and when I get my misty eyes to focus on him… my boss seems more careworn than he appeared at first glance. Dark shadows cling beneath his eyes, and there’s a tiny cut on his jawline that says his hand shook when he shaved this morning. Tap, tap, tap, goes his middle finger. “So we can try this again with less pressure.”
I squeeze the water bottle with both hands, my chest clenching with desperate hope. “This? What do you mean, this ?”
Elliot gestures between us. “You and me.” He sighs and frowns out of the window at the damp, bright city. “If you’re still interested, that is.”
Um. What?
If I’m still interested?
If I still want Elliot Ramsay?
If I still crave him with each ragged beat of my heart?
“Oh, you are such a doofus,” I say, shoving my chair back and dropping to my knees. My adrenaline is finally crashing, but there’s something else seeping through my veins now, buoying up my heavy limbs. Something much sweeter. Something bright and warm.
Hope.
“What the—” my boss says as I crawl beneath his desk.