Chapter Eight Max
Chapter Eight
Max
I push open the door to my Knightsbridge penthouse, letting my satchel drop to the floor as I step inside. Loosening my cuff links, I roll my shoulders back, unbuttoning my shirt en route to the bathroom.
Grayson insisted I stay in the Livingstone Hotel in Mayfair with him, but I was happier staying in my old penthouse—the one I rented out on a month-by-month basis after moving to New York. He decided he’d rather stay at the hotel than room with me, and I respect his decision.
We both have rather active social lives and enjoy our… extracurricular activities, and now that I’m completely alone for the duration of this trip, weekends included, I fully intend to indulge.
I finish undressing and step under the spray, the hot water pounding against my skin as I scrub.
I’m exhausted, and honestly, wound up. I gave Grayson my word I’d see this launch go off without a hitch, and I plan to deliver.
I wasn’t lying earlier when I told Gemma her pitch was impressive.
It was. On paper, everything looked great, but the way she conducted herself today does have me second-guessing.
She’s smart, no doubt, but the attitude problem? That’s something to be addressed.
Something I wouldn’t mind taking care of myself.
My mind wanders back to that Instagram photo—sexy as sin—and a sharp breath hisses through my teeth as I wrap a hand around my hard, aching cock.
I rub the pre-cum over my tip before I start pumping, my grip firm.
I picture her bent over my desk, her skirt hiked up, silencing that smart mouth of hers until all she can do is scream my name as I pound into her.
I’d kick her legs wider, my hand sliding down to where we’re connected, collecting her wetness and smearing it over that perfect arse.
I’d sink my finger knuckle deep in her tight hole while I’m taking her from behind.
Warmth courses through me before I explode, lashing the tiled wall with my cum.
Fuck.
This woman.
After showering and freshening up, I pour myself two fingers of fifty-year-old Macallan—only the best. I swirl the crystal tumbler, letting the rich toffee notes of the amber liquid open before throwing it back.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table; Casey’s name flashes across the screen.
Casey and I divorced four years ago, but she still reaches out on the odd occasion—usually when she’s had too much to drink, or when reality seems to be slipping away from her entirely.
Perfect timing, as always. Even years after divorce, she still has an uncanny ability to surface exactly when I’m trying to unwind.
The calls and texts have become more frequent lately—sometimes three or four in a day.
Whether it’s rambling voicemails about how much she misses “what we had,” or bizarre texts claiming she’s seen me in bars and restaurants I’ve never stepped foot in, I can’t seem to escape her, despite being an ocean apart.
When I told her about my move to New York, she was devastated.
She begged me not to leave and insisted we could “work it out,” but I couldn’t stay—there was nothing left to give.
I let her down as gently as I could, and she finally seemed to accept it.
We weren’t together anymore, and we hadn’t been in years.
So, to my knowledge, things with Casey had ended amicably—or as amicably as things can when you realize the person you promised forever to isn’t your forever at all.
But when she started messaging me about her supposed sightings while I was clearly thousands of miles away, I began to worry. She doesn’t know I’m back in the country, and I haven’t told her deliberately.
I was completing my MBA with Grayson in New York when I met Casey. I had only recently broken up with my ex, Nicole.
Casey was in a few of the same classes as Grayson and me, and it felt like fate that she was from London too.
We had only been together for two years before I proposed, but everything was moving fast. It seemed to happen so naturally.
Looking back, I think we both mistook familiarity for destiny.
It felt like the universe had lined it all up: two Londoners finding each other across an ocean, both dreaming of a future back home.
It was a perfect fairy tale… until it wasn’t.
Casey was beautiful, vivacious, hungry for life… and I loved that about her. Her passion for living drew people in. That’s what first caught my eye—she was electric. She had that spark that made everyone want to be in her orbit. I never realized she’d burn through our life together just as fast.
I think I proposed because it felt like the next box to tick. Everyone around us was settling down, buying houses, planning futures. I followed their direction without looking at where the road led.
Little did I know that shortly after we married, Casey would develop an expensive shopping habit to keep herself busy, and the path I chose would lead to maxed-out credit cards, endless hours slogging away at my desk to pay the bills, and weekends spent searching for Casey while she disappeared on four-day benders.
As time went on, we drifted apart. We barely had sex. We never saw each other. Casey decided she didn’t want to work after we got married, and when I was home in the evenings, she was out with friends. When she was home or out shopping during the day, I was working.
I was more than happy to give Casey a life where work wasn’t something she had to worry about.
In fact, I loved the idea of earning enough to take care of the person I loved—if that was what they wanted.
But the late nights, the incessant spending, the not knowing where she was or who she was with…
that chipped away at me. It broke me down, piece by piece.
She had no problem spending our money but couldn’t show me the basic courtesy of letting me know she was safe, and it killed me.
I assumed Casey would grow out of the partying eventually, but she didn’t. And while I take control in my life—in business, in my plans, when I fuck—I don’t force other people’s decisions.
I shouldn’t have to tell my wife how to live. I could share my worries, sure. Express how I felt when she disappeared for days, but ultimately, they were her choices to make. She simply kept making ones that pushed us further apart.
I tried to make it work, but there’s only so much you can give of yourself before your pockets are empty. I was running on fumes, pouring everything I had into a marriage that was already dry. I was a shell of the person I used to be.
By the time I hit thirty-five, I’d stopped begging to reignite something that had long since burned out.
She noticed the shift—my distancing, my silence. That’s when the desperate talk of starting a family began, but by then, it was too late. I didn’t trust her anymore. I felt like I was married to a stranger.
Besides, I wasn’t cut out for fatherhood.
At least not the kind where my kids would grow up watching their mother spiral while I cleaned up the mess.
To be honest, I’m not sure I want children at all.
The white picket fence was never desirable for me.
I want a life where my partner and I can do whatever we want, whenever we want.
Midnight dinners in Paris, last-minute flights to Tokyo—a life built on shared ambition, spontaneity, and mutual respect.
Someone who understands that luxury isn’t just about spending money—it’s about creating something worth sharing with someone.
I won’t settle for anything less.
I let the phone ring out.
Though I still have love for Casey, the romantic love I once held dissolved long ago. She’s a dance I no longer remember the steps to. I could try and try, but the rhythm will always escape me.
I’ll always remember our best times together fondly.
For a period of my life, she was everything.
I wouldn’t be who I am today without her, and for a while, we made each other happy.
I can’t look back at that with disdain. But it’s because I care for her that I can’t continue the late-night chats.
Her love never faded, and although we remained friends, I can’t do it anymore.
I figure sometimes healing comes with walking away.
I hope she finds the person who can get the steps right.
If I learned anything from the divorce, it’s to keep things simple.
Purely physical.
Just two adults wringing out their needs before going their separate ways. I like to set the pace, determine the rules. In the bedroom, that means I take what I want, how I want it. Without the messiness of emotions, no post-coital cuddling, no morning-after awkwardness. Just pure, simple release.
Right now, between my career and the people I care about, my life is exactly how I want it.
Measured.
But I’m unsettled.
My thoughts should be focused on the hotel launch. Not my sister’s best friend.
The fact that she’s made herself at home in my mind after one day is dangerous.
Because for the first time since Casey, I’m not just craving a body—I’m craving the challenge.