2. King Knows Best #2
I turn. He’s just a few feet away, watching me. That unreadable calm still in place, but something coils underneath it—not soft, not cruel. Just focused.
“In your dreams,” I retort.
His lips twitch, and something flashes behind his eyes. “If you were in my dreams, you’d be less hostile.” A beat passes. What does that mean? Then he continues, almost casually. “You always clench your jaw when someone questions your control. You probably don’t even realize you do it.”
That hits lower than it should. Because I do do that.
The silence stretches a second too long, just long enough to make me wonder—how much has he noticed? How long has he been watching?
“What exactly do you think you know about me?” I ask, voice tighter than I meant it to be.
He shrugs, fully facing me now. “Enough. That you don’t sleep. That you drink too much caffeine.” He takes a step closer. “That you check social media when you’re anxious.”
I go still.
He goes on, taking another step closer. “That you haven’t dated seriously since Ari.” I bristle at my ex’s name. Step. “That you tell yourself it’s because you’re focused on work, but the truth is you don’t trust yourself to get it right anymore.”
Step.
“You’ve been doing your homework. How’d you know about Ari?”
He prowls closer like a lion approaching its prey. “People talk. You and I have a lot of mutual contacts. And, well, I’ve been paying attention.”
My throat feels tight. I hate that he said her name. I hate that he’s right. And I hate that some part of me doesn’t want to correct him. He’s only a couple of feet away from me now, and his physical presence is large—not just his body, but his persona. His power.
“What else do you think you know about me?” I ask, folding my arms, every nerve frayed.
He takes a breath, slow and precise as he steps into my space. I’m tall, just shy of six-foot-five, and though we’re nearly the same height I feel like I’m looking up at him when he speaks.
“I know you haven’t taken more than a long weekend in two years. That you moved from San Diego to New York because they wouldn’t have opened the East Coast division without you.” He steps even closer, and I’m forced to take a step back. “That you rebuilt your client base from scratch.”
I wipe my sweaty palms on my thighs as I attempt to keep my breathing even.
“I know what it looks like when someone’s trying not to burn out. And failing.”
There it is. I feel it under my ribs. I hate that he sees it so clearly.
“Are you going to psychoanalyze everyone at this retreat, or just me?”
He smirks, a faint smile making his lips pull up. “Just you. You’re much more interesting than everyone else.”
I want to scoff, but I don’t. Because part of me—a stupid, dangerous part—likes hearing that. Even if it’s a lie. Even if it’s bait. Even if I know he’s setting some kind of trap I can’t see yet.
He walks past me to the kitchenette, fills one of the branded glasses with filtered water, then turns back to face me.
“Your brother—the one who was in the news a couple of years ago?” he asks, voice neutral.
I freeze. My mouth drops open, and my fists curl at my sides.
How the hell does he know about Maddox? King flicks his eyes down my body once, assessing, and then he shrugs.
“Didn’t take much to connect the dots. You two look exactly alike. ”
My stomach tightens. The media attention. The fallout. The fact that Maddox’s face is still floating around in corners of the internet I avoid like land mines.
I don’t answer. I don’t owe him that.
King just nods, like he didn’t expect me to respond. Like he only asked to see what I’d do.
And we’re not even twenty minutes into this shit show.
I grab my laptop from the bag, sink into the chair by the window, and flip it open just to have something between us. Numbers and strategy. Excel formulas. Corporate emails. Something real and familiar.
My personal phone dings with a text. I open the notification without processing the sender, and half a second later, I’m met with a photo of my nephew. Big blue eyes. Light brown hair. The same golden complexion as Ari.
“Cute kid. Is he yours?” King is behind me, and I lock my screen, sliding it in my back pocket again.
I scoff. “I’m surprised you don’t already know.” King smirks, but he doesn’t respond—which is only slightly unsettling. I look away as I answer his question. “He’s my nephew.”
King makes an intrigued sound. “He has your eyes.”
Of course he does. Maddox and I are identical. It hits like a punch every time I see my nephew, because I wonder if that’s what my kid would have looked like.
Just as I send off an email response, someone knocks on the door. I set my laptop off to the side and quickly answer, hoping and praying for any kind of distraction.
A man wearing a white tunic clad with the retreat logo is standing on the other side, holding a large, white mesh mag.
“Hello, Mr. Harrison. I’m just here to collect your digital devices. Please place your phones and laptops in the bag,” he says, like this is a normal request.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
He smiles. “We securely store all devices during your stay. For your well-being, clarity, and optimal neurological recalibration.”
“I have work,” I say flatly. “Clients. Deadlines. Emails.”
“Participation requires full presence,” he says. “Digital detox was part of the waiver. No exceptions, even for executive-tier guests.”
I clench my jaw. My firm had approved this week off, and it had all been cleared through corporate. I’d even turned on my autoresponder and all urgent inquiries would be rerouted to my assistant. But still… I had hedged on some downtime where I could get caught up on deadlines.
“Okay, fine.” I slide my work phone into the bag. Slowly. Like it’s the last piece of armor I have. Then, walking over to my laptop, I slide that into the bag as well.
King does the same, and I swear I see him smirk underneath that collected and unfazed facade.
“What about personal phones?” I ask, reaching into my back pocket. I don’t use it that often, but still. “What if someone needs me? Family? Friends?”
“Do they?” King asks.
I turn to face him, and he gives me a long, skeptical look.
I don’t answer.
Because the truth is… no.
Not really.
No one’s waiting for me to check in. No one’s tracking my location. If I vanished for a week, no one would notice.
What a depressing fucking thought.
“Personal devices are optional, but we encourage everyone to have a full digital detox.”
Before I can reply, King steps forward and pops his personal phone into the bag. Clenching my jaw, I do the same.
Not gonna let him one-up me.
My smartwatch is still on my wrist, and the man looks at it pointedly. “That, too.”
I open my mouth—to argue, maybe. Or stall. I use my smartwatch to track my sleep, my activity, my steps… it’s the last vestige of normalcy.
But King steps forward and reaches for my hand. “Come on, sweetheart.” I recoil at his term of endearment before he continues. “You heard the man. Full digital detox.”
And unclasps the watch himself.
Slow. Careful. The metal slides over my skin like it doesn’t want to leave.
His fingers brush my pulse point, and I flinch. It sends a ripple of discomfort through me, and my jaw tightens.
I hate how close he is—how gently he does it, like that makes it better.
“Wasn’t that hard,” he murmurs. “Was it?”
I look down at my bare wrist.
My stomach twists. This all feels… premeditated.
The retreat employee nods. “You’ll get everything back on departure.”
And just like that, he turns and leaves us to fend for ourselves.
“Take a few minutes to unpack. I’ll meet you in the lobby,” King says without another word. He grabs his coat and leaves me alone in the suite.
I look around the room, tapping my fingers against my thighs.
No work. No distractions. Just a week of being stuck here with him. With all of this.
Perfect .
There was a time when I liked this kind of quiet, but now it just feels dangerous.
Like, given the space and lack of distractions, my thoughts will have too much room to echo.
I look over at King’s duffel bag. The top is still open, and I see a paperback book peeking out.
Walking over, I glance inside, gently opening it further so I can see just what Mr. Steal-My-Clients-King is reading for pleasure.
The Dominant’s Discourse: Power, Control, and Consent.
I freeze mid-motion, staring at the book cover art: a picture of a man on his knees with thick, brown rope around his wrists, his head hanging forward, his body slumped slightly.
Okay. That’s… not what I was expecting.
It’s also not my business.
Still, something shifts inside of me, sliding down to the bottom of my stomach like molten lava. It’s not revulsion—not quite.
More like… friction. Like a gear grinding somewhere in the back of my mind, slowly waking up. What would it even feel like, that kind of surrender? The weight taken off your shoulders and handed to someone else?
Squeezing my eyes shut, I grab my coat and exit the suite.
Not my monkeys, not my circus.