Chapter 25 The Hammer
THE HAMMER
EMERY
The woman in the mirror looks powerful. An elegant and seductive energy radiates off her skin, like an aura, an ethereal halo of strength and confidence.
I slide my hand against the black and white dress wrapping the woman’s body.
It’s a work of art, crafted of the finest silk and lace.
The black, strapless bodice exposes a plunging neckline, revealing enough skin and hiding just enough scar.
It’s provocative and sexy, and I can’t seem to believe it’s me.
My gaze flits down to the stark white skirt that flows down onto the floor. Black lace appliques connect the two shades, melting the gown seamlessly into a hauntingly beautiful dichotomy of good and evil, pure and toxic, dangerous and safe.
“Do you like it?” Josephine asks, holding three other garment bags in her hands. “Or do you want to try more?”
This is the seventh dress I’ve tried on this evening. The others didn’t…make sense. One was a beautiful ball gown, something out of a fairytale. It didn’t suit me. I’m not a princess.
The other was pitch black and so tight it felt like it was painted on my body. It was gorgeous but felt too dramatic, too drastic, too flashy despite the darkness.
“This one is perfect,” I say, flashing Josephine a warm smile through the mirror. “Thanks for all your help.”
“My pleasure,” she says, checking her watch. “Should I tell Damon that you are almost ready?”
My gaze shifts to the puzzle box on the bedside table. I couldn’t solve it in time. My spine tingles as Quin’s voice infiltrates my mind.
Do you know how sexy you look when you’re coming, darling?
The skin around my breasts flush with bashful pride. Something about that man is teasingly exciting. But it’s a slow kind of excitement, one that lingers deep inside my stomach. Perhaps it’s because he’s off-limits. Perhaps it’s because he infuriates Damon.
Or maybe, it’s simply because I’ve always been a sucker for an English accent. Everything he says sounds like velvet. So smooth. So easy to digest. And crave.
Apparently, I’m hungry often these days.
“Tell Damon that I’ll meet him at The Met,” I say, needing more time to fiddle with the puzzle. “And no, I won’t drive myself. I’ll take a car service.” I make eye contact with Josephine, whose lips are twisted up. “What?”
“Damon was looking forward to seeing you,” she says. “Maybe you should—”
“And he will see me,” I say, inwardly rolling my eyes. “At The Met. When I arrive…alone.”
“But—”
“He’s a big boy, Josephine,” I say. “I’m sure he’s more than capable of navigating the city without a passenger.” Josephine doesn’t budge. I tilt my head. “Thank you again.”
“Of course,” Josephine says, her tone sour as she waddles out of my bedroom.
I don’t think she likes me very much right now.
She’d prefer it if I were tripping over my feet to please him, to make him happy.
But that’s not my job. Not only am I unqualified for such a demanding position, but I don’t want it.
Especially not after the vibrator stunt he pulled earlier this week.
I know I deserved it, and I suppose I eventually got what I wanted, but the path to pleasure is often littered with resentment.
I’m trying. I’m trying to accept his rules, to grow accustomed to the way he operates both inside and outside the bedroom. Unfortunately, trying doesn’t always result in success.
Not two minutes after Josephine leaves my apartment, the phone rings. “Yes?”
“You’ll meet me there?” Damon asks, tone baffled and cold.
Sitting down on the bed, I pull the puzzle box on my lap. “Is that a problem?”
“I got us a limo,” he grumbles. “It’s out front.”
“That’s good,” I hum, sliding the wooden pieces of the box side to side, frustration growing as the puzzle remains a mystery. “It’ll be nice for you to be in a vehicle large enough to contain your ego.”
“Emery.” His heavy breath crackles over the receiver. “Are you upset with me?”
“I’m always upset with you,” I admit, frowning at the carved design on the wooden panels, attempting to make out a pattern. God, this thing is old and worn. I push a piece too hard and a splinter slides into my finger. I wince. “Shit.”
Damon sighs. “I do not wish for you to be upset, Emery. I—”
“Wishing seldom changes reality, Mr. Cavanaugh,” I hum, wrapping my finger in a tissue as I stand up, deciding to give up on solving it the proper way. “Just go to the gala. I’ll meet you there.”
“What can I do?” he asks, tone low and weak. “Tell me what I can do to make you happy.”
Striding to the utility closet, I rummage through the shelves looking for a hammer. Fuck it. Desperate times, desperate measures.
“I never said I was unhappy, Damon,” I say, reaching for the toolbox. “I said I was upset,” I pause, removing the hammer, “with you.”
“You could’ve used your safe word,” Damon notes, swallowing. “I would’ve stopped immediately if I knew it would affect you this much. Why…” He clears his throat. “Why didn’t you?”
With a hammer in hand, I head back to the bedroom, lips twisted up in thought as I process his question.
He’s right. Why didn’t I say it? Why did I stand up at that podium for twenty minutes and suffer? Because you liked it, you fucking masochist. I wince. But I shouldn’t. Should I? Who doesn’t like a good hate fuck, right? Hmm… Interesting.
“That’s a valid point,” I concede. “I suppose I have no right to be upset, do I?”
“You’re allowed to feel whatever you want, Emery,” Damon says. “But be honest with how you’re feeling in the moment. I… I will always respect your boundaries.”
I snort. “Yeah, now that you’ve crossed all the ones that mattered.”
He stays silent for a couple of charged beats. “I know I didn’t approach our…relationship in the most conventional of ways. I know I—”
“It’s fine,” I sigh, catching my reflection in the vanity.
Despite the over the top attire and the professionally done makeup and hair, I recognize myself. More so than I have in years. It’s the version of me that’s always been screaming to be set free. That’s still screaming. The screams are quieter now, less desperate, less depressed.
I suppose I have Damon to thank for that.
“I need fifteen minutes. Will you wait?”
“As long as you need,” Damon says, relieved. “Take your time. I’ll be downstairs.”
“Okay.”
I hang up the phone, pick up the puzzle box, and walk over to the dining room table. Hammer in hand. I’m usually a patient person. I enjoy the satisfaction that accompanies a test, a challenge. There’s a time and place for patience. I pick up the hammer, swinging it back. That time’s not now.
Splinters and slivers of wood shoot out into the air as I smash the hammer against the puzzle box. One hit, and it’s broken. Shattered to pieces.
Tossing the hammer to the side, I flick away the cracked panels and fish out a red velvet pouch. Plus another handwritten note.
If you’re reading this, darling, I know you better than you think I do. - Q
What does that mean? He doesn’t know me. We’ve barely spoken. Nonsense. All of it.
Disregarding the note, I pull open the drawstrings of the pouch and spill the contents into my hand. My eyes light up as an utterly stunning diamond necklace lands in my palm.
Oh my…
The white gold necklace is set with baguette and round diamonds. I hold it up to the light, a kaleidoscope of colors shining back at me. I can see why the doctor set a deadline. This necklace is meant for special occasions, for nights that are undoubtedly memorable.
Delicately, I unclasp the necklace and place the diamonds around my neck. It feels heavy and cold against my skin, but it’s comfortable. So comfortable. As if it was made for my body, my flesh.
Now I’m ready.
With a white fur stole draped over my bare shoulder, I make my way outside toward the stretch limousine parked out front. It’s obnoxious and over the top, but it’s what’s expected of these people.
He’d show up in a carriage made of gold and pulled by Pegasus if he could.
Damon smiles at me, adjusting his bow tie as I approach him. “You look gorgeous, Emery,” he says, his admiring gaze sweeping the length of my evening gown. “Simply stunning.”
“Thank you,” I say, nodding down to his tailed black tuxedo, the edges of his lapels coated in glistening silk. “As do you.”
“Thank—” He halts, suspiciously staring at the necklace. “I don’t remember—”
“Do you like it?” I ask, placing my hand on the gems. I don’t need more conflict. Not today. “I saw it in the store and couldn’t resist. Miranda said tonight’s one of the biggest social events in Manhattan. I figured I should fit in with all the Kennedys and Rockefellers.”
“You bought it?” he asks, powering down, shoulders relaxing. “It’s…lovely.”
“Yes, it is,” I say, offering him a kind smile and nodding to the limo. “Shall we?”
“After you.” Damon opens the door for me, and I slide inside. He settles down beside me, reaching for two champagne flutes and a bottle of sparkling cider. “I know it’s not the same but…” He pops open the bottle, filling our glasses to the top. He hands me one. “To our first public outing.”
“As representatives of Cavanaugh Industries,” I add, ensuring there’s no confusion as to how we are to present ourselves this evening.
I already anticipate the media will do a deep dive into my past given my new and rather sudden title.
The last thing I need is speculation about my qualifications and relationship with the CEO. I clink his glass. “Cheers.”
Damon takes a sip, peering up at me through the glass. “You seem nervous,” he notes. “You have no need to be.”
“Says the man with decades of media training,” I say, tapping my nails against the stem of the flute. “I’m not nervous, I just…” I swallow. “I can’t say I ever dreamed of walking a red carpet.”
Damon grins. “This isn’t the Oscars, Miss Jones. It’s a fundraiser.”
I tilt my head. “Miranda hasn’t shut up about this fundraiser all week. She sent me a list of celebrities who have attended previous years. It might as well be the Oscars.”
“It’s a gala. Nothing more.” Damon rolls his eyes. “Miranda tends to embellish. I would take what she says with a grain of salt.”
“If you say so,” I hum, unable to shake the feeling that I know Miranda from before my first day of work. “Is Miranda from Connecticut? I swear I’ve seen her somewhere before, but I can’t remember where.”
Damon smirks. “You have seen her.”
I frown. “I have?”
“Yes,” he says, wiping a drop of apple cider off my chin as I take a sip. “She was at the club the first time I brought you there.”
I blink, unable to recall meeting anyone other than Quin. “I don’t—” My eyes spring open. “Oh my God…” She was the woman in The Pit. That was Miranda? Dots-her-i’s-with-hearts, Miranda? “That is…”
“Don’t be so surprised, Miss Jones,” Damon says, placing his hand on my thigh. “You’ll soon learn that people are more twisted than they appear.”
I shake my head. “But she’s so…peppy.”
Damon releases a small laugh. “One does not need to have a dark demeanor to enjoy being whipped.” My mouth dries, thinking about Miranda in that cage, how small and helpless she looked, how she begged, how the light and spark in her eyes contradicted the pain of her surroundings.
“What are you thinking about, Miss Jones?”
“Nothing that’s appropriate for a work function,” I say, willing my cheeks to cool down. “Let’s change the subject. My team is about halfway through collating accounts for the audit.”
“I don’t want to talk about work, Miss Jones,” Damon rasps, sidling closer to me. He dips down, feathering soft kisses down the slope of my neck. “Tell me what you’re thinking…”
Closing my eyes, I squirm in my seat, heat instantly igniting in my core. “Damon.” I swallow, stifling a moan as he nibbles on my ear. “We can’t. We’re almost—”
“Shhh…” he breathes, bunching up the tulle and silk of my dress, my legs spreading for him. “Just enjoy this, Emery.” His thumb glides against my panties, flicking my clit. “And don’t worry…” He dips a finger inside me. “This time I’ll let you come.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, knowing it’s what he needs to hear to make me taste heaven. “Sir.”