Chapter 11
Amara
The day after the storm, I wake up in the guest cottage with a splitting headache and the kind of emotional hangover that has nothing to do with alcohol.
Last night, Corin and I had the most incredible sex of my life in his study.
And then, while I was still catching my breath, he looked at me with those stupidly dark eyes and said, “We can’t do this again.”
The worst part? He was right.
Exactly right.
Which doesn’t make him any less infuriating.
I want to throttle him.
And at the same time, I want to kiss him until he forgets every professional boundary he’s ever learned.
When I emerge from the guest cottage, I pull out my phone and call a taxi. My rental car is still parked at the clinic where I left it yesterday, before the storm trapped us at the community hall and everything went sideways.
Keon appears. “Ms. Khan, Mr. Saelinger asked me to drive you.”
“That’s okay. Got it covered.” I wave my phone like it’s evidence. “Taxi’s on the way.”
Because sitting in an SUV with Corin for twenty minutes sounds like actual torture right now.
Keon nods once, doesn’t push, and disappears back toward the main villa. Probably reporting to Corin that I’m being difficult.
Good.
While I wait for the taxi, I stay well away from the main villa, not wanting to run into Corin just yet. I feel oddly exposed the whole time, like Corin will suddenly round the bend and demand I take the SUV.
Shortly thereafter, I hear a vehicle starting somewhere, and catch sight of a blur through the trees. I suppose that was his SUV leaving.
The taxi finally arrives fifteen minutes later. The driver is a cheerful local guy who spends the entire ride telling me about his daughter’s upcoming wedding and asking if I’ve tried the conch fritters at this place near the harbor.
When we pull up to the clinic, the SUV is already there, parked in its usual spot. Through the clinic window I can see Corin at the steel desk.
My heart rate instantly picks up.
I pay the driver, grab my canvas tote and legal pad, and walk inside like I’m heading to my own execution.
Corin looks up when I enter our shared office. His expression is completely neutral. Like we didn’t have our hands all over each other twelve hours ago.
“Morning,” he says.
My cheeks immediately heat. “Morning.”
He closes his laptop screen. “We should talk.”
Oh God.
Here it comes.
He’s firing me.
Totally firing me.
“Okay.” I set my tote on the desk, trying to look casual.
“Last night.” He pauses, and his jaw tightens. “Is that going to be a problem?”
The question lands like a slap.
It’s the way he says it.
Like he’s asking me if I can handle a difficult client, not if I’m going to be okay after he made me cum two times on his desk last night.
“No.” My voice comes out more confident than I feel. “Not a problem.”
“Good.” He nods once, then opens his laptop again.
Dismissed.
Just like that.
I stand there for a second, blinking, before my brain reminds me to sit and start working.
So I do.
And the entire day is torture.
Because I’m aware of every movement he makes. Every time he shifts in his chair. Every time he reaches for his coffee. Every time his fingers brush the keyboard.
Aware of how badly I want him.
It’s like someone cranked all my senses up to ten and forgot to give me the manual.
We barely speak. Just the minimal necessary words.
“Can you pull up the Morrison contract?”
“Got it.”
“What’s your read on clause seven?”
“Unconscionable. We should challenge.”
“Agreed.”
That’s basically it. That’s the extent of our communication. All business. All of it.
No personal observations.
No coffee banter.
No accidental smiles.
It’s exactly what we agreed to, and I hate every second of it.
By the time I drive myself back to my resort in my rental car, I’m wound so tight I could probably snap in half.
Four more weeks until the contract ends.
Then we reassess, like I told him.
But what if he doesn’t want to reassess?
What if he just wanted one more night?
Oh God, this sucks so much.
The days and weeks that follow blur together in this weird professional purgatory where I’m supposed to pretend nothing happened.
We fall into a routine that’s almost comfortable if you ignore the simmering sexual tension that follows us around.
Days pass helping islanders with predatory contracts. Running workshops on lease agreements and exploitation clauses. Drafting legal frameworks that might actually protect people from developers who view locals as obstacles rather than human beings.
Corin brings me coffee every morning. Black, no sugar.
Without asking.
I pretend it doesn’t mean anything.
Because it probably doesn’t. Just a boss keeping his employer happy.
He adjusts the louvers to keep sun off my face.
I pretend I don’t notice.
We work elbow-to-elbow reviewing contracts, and every accidental brush of his arm against mine feels like a small electrical shock.
I’m definitely handling this maturely.
I start seriously considering just leaving when the six weeks are up. Taking my hundred thousand dollars and whatever’s left of my dignity back to Manhattan where I can process this disaster from a safe distance.
Maybe get a therapist.
Definitely get a therapist.
I’m not even sure I believe his story anymore. About how he fought the board five years ago, how he tried to protect Leena, my mentor. Maybe he just made it all up so I’d want to kiss him like I did later that night. A lie to get into my pants. I wouldn’t put it past him.
The days continue to creep by. During the nights and weekends, when I’m not obsessing over every micro-interaction with Corin, I throw myself into my Manhattan caseload like a woman possessed.
Contract reviews. Client emails. Research memos. Anything to keep my brain from replaying that night in the study on an endless, torturous loop.
The distraction of work is literally the only thing keeping me functional right now.
Healthy? Debatable.
Effective? Absolutely.
I bill more hours in two weeks than I normally do in a month.
My clients back in Manhattan are thrilled.
Meanwhile, I’m having a mental breakdown disguised as productivity.
Finally, finally, only two days remain on the contract.
Thank God.
Today I find myself organizing foundation files in what Corin calls the “transparency room” at the clinic. Which is basically a fancy way of saying “the closet-sized office where we keep all the files that prove we’re not totally corrupt.”
It’s a space that probably used to actually be a supply closet before someone slapped a desk in it and called it an office. The concrete walls match the rest of the bungalow, and there’s one small window with louvers that actually open.
Still, it’s quiet. A good place to hide when you’re on week six of your emotional crisis and pretending you’re A-okay.
Two days left.
Two days until I can go back to my normal life where I don’t have to see Corin Saelinger’s stupidly attractive face every single day and pretend I’m not thinking about how he looks when he cums inside me.
Stop it.
You’re supposed to be working.
Right.
Work.
I’m sorting through physical files in one of the ancient filing cabinets when I find a folder labeled “Board Minutes - Archive” shoved in the back.
Inside are printouts of old email threads, the kind that get printed and filed away when lawyers want a paper trail that can’t be digitally altered.
Riveting stuff.
This is exactly how you pictured spending your afternoon.
I flip through them anyway, because apparently I hate myself.
The first few are standard corporate nonsense. Meeting agendas, budget approvals, the kind of bureaucratic minutiae that makes my eyes glaze over even though it’s literally my job to care about this stuff.
Then I see Corin’s name.
And Diana Castellane’s name.
And the date: five years ago, three days before the scandal broke.
Shit.
Maybe I’ll finally learn the truth about what happened.
If Corin lied...
======================
From: Corin Saelinger
To: Xavier Laurent, [ Board Members ]
Subject: RE: Castellane Global Relief Fund - Financial Irregularities
======================
I’ve reviewed the preliminary audit findings and I’m formally objecting to our continued involvement with CGRF.
The evidence of fund diversion is substantial.
Shell companies, inflated administrative costs, grants that can’t be traced to legitimate recipients.
We need to blow the whistle immediately and sever all advisory ties.
Continuing this relationship exposes us to massive liability and, more importantly, damages the civil-society partners who’ve been working in good faith. Including Leena Chowdhury’s legal clinic.
I’m recommending we report to regulators today and issue a public statement. This is the only ethically defensible path forward.
======================
I read it twice. Then three times.
My hands are actually shaking.
He wasn’t lying. He wasn’t spinning some convenient story to get me to fuck him.
He actually tried to save Leena.
There’s more.
Xavier Laurent’s responses makes my blood boil.
======================
From: Xavier Laurent
To: Board Members
Subject: RE: Castellane Global Relief Fund - Financial Irregularities
======================
Corin’s concerns are noted but premature.
A public scandal would be catastrophic for our reputation and expose us to litigation from multiple parties, including our own limited partners.
I’ve recommended a quiet exit strategy that protects all stakeholders, with no reporting to regulators, and absolutely no public statements.
...
The board has agreed, and has voted to table Corin’s recommendation and pursue a contained resolution. This thread and all related documentation are to be archived and sealed to preserve the board’s decision and maintain attorney-client privilege.
...
Corin, you’re overruled. Move on.
======================
I stare at the printout.
Because this. This confirms everything.