Chapter 8
T he smell of soy sauce and sesame oil fills the room as I dig my chopsticks into a carton of lo mein, sitting cross-legged on the plush white rug in the middle of my very-not-Ben apartment.
The new cream sectional behind me is wide and welcoming, with tufted cushions and cozy throw pillows in pale blush and soft sage green. A fluffy knit blanket is draped over the arm, and I’ve added gold-framed art prints above it—delicate sketches of flowers and abstract shapes that make me feel calm. Feminine. Soft. Like I finally get to breathe in my own space.
My Pinterest board has officially come to life.
“You’ve got good taste,” Harper says between bites of orange chicken, her takeout box resting on her thigh. “It looks like one of those dream apartments on Instagram. All you need is a dog named Maple and a coffee machine that costs more than your rent.”
I grin around a mouthful of noodles. “Wait till I pay off those last two credit cards and I’ll consider both.”
Harper hums approvingly, nudging her foot against mine. “Well, you’re definitely not getting fired this time. Unlike some people…”
I raise a brow. “Oh?”
She sets her box aside, leans back on her elbows, and gives me a look. “You didn’t hear this from me, but apparently Steve tried to play the whole thing off like you attacked him.”
I blink. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. But turns out, you weren’t the only one who saw him get decked at the party.” She grins. “Some intern from the finance team reported the whole thing—said she overheard him being a total creep and saw everything.”
I let out a disbelieving laugh. “So they believed her?”
“Oh, they didn’t have a choice once they got a call from some hotshot lawyer from The Masquerade.” Harper pops a piece of chicken in her mouth, clearly enjoying the gossip. “Apparently, they were going to press charges if he wasn’t dealt with properly. They marched him out of the building by lunch. Security escort and everything.”
My jaw drops. “You’re serious?”
“Dead.” She grins. “They even sent out one of those vague internal memos about ‘upholding workplace values.’ I almost framed it.”
I laugh, the kind of deep, cathartic laugh that only comes after too much stress and too many “what ifs.”
“He cried too. It was glorious.”
Oddly that makes me feel a lot better, knowing he got what was coming to him.
It seems lately the men around me are the only ones getting their dream life and dammit, it feels like it should be my turn now.
I glance around the apartment again, my heart giving a little flutter at how different it feels now. How much lighter.
Every piece I’ve added since Ben left has been a quiet little rebellion. A small declaration of independence.
But as much as decorating has distracted my mind all day, there is nothing to stop me from thinking about the Sponsor Mixer tomorrow night.
The nerves start to tingle again in my chest, but Harper bumps her shoulder against mine, pulling me back to the moment.
“You’re going to kill it,” she says, somehow always knowing what’s going on in my mind.
Harper stretches her legs out, flexing her toes as she grabs another dumpling from the container between us. “Alright, enough about work. Let’s get to the real topic of interest here.”
I arch a brow, popping a piece of broccoli into my mouth. “And what would that be?”
She rolls her eyes, exasperated. “Oh, I don’t know—maybe the fact that you spent last night in a nine-story sex club? You’ve been suspiciously quiet about that, and I do not appreciate the lack of details.”
My face heats instantly, and I shove another bite of food into my mouth just to avoid answering.
Harper is undeterred. “Come on , Sienna. You went to The Masquerade as a Black Mask. You had full access. I need details.”
I chew, I swallow, because what the hell am I supposed to say?
That I stood in Wrath , surrounded by power and depravity, and liked the way men looked at me? That I walked into The Devil’s Playground and watched as the man in the devil mask devoured a woman like she was his last meal?
That he locked eyes with me and somehow fucked my soul.
That even now, just thinking about it, my thighs squeeze together, and my breath comes a little too fast?
Yeah. No.
I clear my throat. “It was... a lot.”
Harper snorts. “Yeah, no shit. Give me something better.”
I exhale slowly, staring at my takeout box. “I—I liked watching.”
Harper stills, then grins like a cat who just found a whole flock of canaries. “Oh? Oh!? Is my baby girl entering her hoe-era?”
“Oh, shut up.” I swat at her but she just dodges.
Harper cackles. “God, I love this for you. I mean, obviously. Have you seen the men at that club? Of course, you liked watching.”
“I also liked, um—” I gnaw the inside of my lip. “—being watched?” I turn the words up on the end as if I’m posing a question.
“Bitch.” Harper is practically levitating off the floor in anticipation. “Did you get run through like a New York subway and didn’t immediately call me? I could have taken your picture like a proud mom on her kids first day of school.”
“You’re ridiculous.” I stand, grabbing the empty containers and heading for the kitchen.
Harper heads for a bottle of wine.
“And no. We weren’t allowed to be touched but I sort of went up to…”
“Oh, my god you went to the Devil’s Playground.”
I wince, nodding.
“And I kind of watched… the Devil fuck the brains out of this woman.” I cover my face with my hands knowing I look like a God damn cherry tomato. “And he kind of… watched me.”
I pause.
Harper is nearly drooling.
“The entire time.”
Harper’s practically vibrating, wine glass in hand, eyes sparkling with enough mischief to light up Manhattan.
“Holy shit,” she whispers, like we’re teenagers gossiping about our first kisses. “That’s better than any porn plot I’ve ever heard. And he just… watched you the whole time?”
I nod slowly. “The entire time.” I say it again, softer this time, letting it settle between us.
Harper takes a sip, studying me. “And how did it make you feel?”
I sink back onto the couch, drawing my knees up to my chest. “Exposed.”
Her brows rise in surprise—not judgmental, just curious.
“Not just, like, oh-my-God-he’s-hot-and-staring-at-me exposed.” I glance at her, then away again. “But like… he could see something in me that I haven’t even admitted to myself yet. Like I walked in wearing a mask and he already knew what was underneath it.”
Harper stays quiet for a beat. Letting me talk. Letting me feel it.
“I don’t know how to feel about it.” My voice is barely above a whisper. “I think it should have disgusted me. It should have scared me.”
“But?” she prompts, already knowing the answer.
“But I couldn’t stop watching,” I admit. “And he wouldn’t stop looking at me. Like…” I trail off, the words too heavy to finish.
“Like he already knew what you were thinking?” Harper fills in, softly.
I look down at my wineglass, then give the smallest nod.
“Babe,” she says gently, “you’re allowed to feel that. All of it.”
I sigh, leaning back against the new cushions. It’s the kind of couch Pinterest dreams are made of, and it’s mine. But I still feel like I don’t belong in it. Like I’m pretending to be someone I’m not.
“What if this isn’t me, Harp?” I ask quietly. “What if I’m just a normal girl playing dress-up in a world that’s going to swallow me whole?”
Harper scoots closer, bumping her shoulder against mine again. “Sienna, babe, this world doesn’t make you bad. Wanting things—desire—doesn’t make you bad.”
I swallow, hard.
“You went to a sex club and liked what you saw. That’s not some earth-shattering crime. It just means you’re discovering what you actually want. And that’s a good thing.”
“I’m scared,” I admit, the words raw and unfiltered. “What if I’m making a mistake by staying?”
Harper nudges me again, this time gentler. “Then you’ll walk away.”
I blink at her.
“If you don’t like it, walk away,” she repeats. “But if you do? Own it.”
I laugh—nervous and shaky. “You make it sound so simple.”
She shrugs, sipping her wine. “It is simple. You don’t have to be scared of what you want. No one can control you unless you let them.”
Her words settle in my chest like an anchor. Heavy, grounding.
I glance around the apartment. The new couch. The fresh art prints. The soft cream throw I bought on sale last week, now folded perfectly on the armrest. My life is changing. Quietly, but undeniably.
Maybe I am too.
Maybe that’s okay.