14. Cloe
CLOE
I tore the photo in half.
Then again.
And again.
The sound wasn’t loud enough.
Nothing was loud enough.
I stood in the center of my tiny apartment, barefoot, shirt inside out, wine glass on the floor next to an unopened bottle I couldn’t afford, and Selene’s voice still echoing inside my skull like it had a lease.
He’s back in town.
He misses you.
Motel lace. Motel bruises. Motel shame.
My chest heaved. Too tight. Too hot. My fingers shook as I picked up the scraps of the note and threw them against the wall like they could bleed.
They didn’t.
They fluttered.
Mocked me.
I paced. Back and forth. One hand in my hair. The other still curled like it wanted to punch something.
“Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck ? —”
I ripped open the drawer beside my couch.
Camille’s old heels? Pawned last month.
Designer perfume she gave me? Half a bottle left—but that wouldn’t pay for shit.
“Think, Cloe.”
I grabbed my purse. Dumped it out.
Four dollars. A sample lipstick. A receipt from a sandwich I never finished.
I checked the coat pocket.
Nothing.
I opened my bank app again.
$1.21.
Not enough to buy dinner. Definitely not enough to disappear.
I tried to breathe.
Didn’t work.
The walls felt like they were inching in.
I opened the fridge.
A jar of olives.
Half a lemon.
Milk that expired a week ago.
“Okay,” I whispered. “Okay. Okay ? —”
Get a job. Faster.
Can’t. I have one.
Sell something. Anything.
I have nothing .
I opened the closet. Pulled out old dresses. Cheap, pilled fabric. A coat from a thrift store that still smelled like someone else’s cigarette smoke.
“Fuck. ”
I dropped to my knees.
Started sobbing—short, choked sounds that didn’t go anywhere.
My arms wrapped around my stomach.
My ribs hurt.
My head pounded.
“I can’t do this,” I whispered to no one. “I can’t go back to him. I can’t…”
My throat closed.
The panic came fast.
Hot. Crippling.
I pressed my face to the carpet.
Screamed into it.
My voice broke halfway through.
When I finally sat back up, eyes burning, body trembling, I reached for my laptop.
Didn’t think.
Just opened the browser.
I typed in one word.
Escort .
My eyes flicked to the closet.
The silk blouse from yesterday still hung from the door.
Next to it: the black skirt. The heels. The lace.
The outfit Barron bought me.
I stared at it for too long.
Thought about selling it.
But instead?—
I saw myself in it.
In the mirror.
On a street corner.
In a hotel hallway.
Slick red soles. Satin bow. Lipstick smeared.
The kind of girl you call when your wife’s out of town .
The kind of girl who smiles while dying inside.
And then?—
I clicked .
Because maybe I was already her.
And maybe that’s why the clothes fit so well.
Then added:
Quick cash. One night. Discreet.
I paused.
Stared at the screen.
And realized…
There was nothing else left.
No favors to cash in.
No secrets to trade.
Only me.
My body.
My skin.
My silence.
And for the first time, I let myself know it.
I didn’t cry again.
I just sat there.
Still. Hollow.
And I clicked.
I made it to the office ten minutes early.
Which was stupid.
Because early meant more time to sit at my desk and sweat through my blouse, wondering if the digital mistake I made in the dark had already clawed its way into the light.
I hadn’t slept.
I’d stared at my ceiling for four hours, then paced my apartment for two more. I drank wine I couldn’t taste. Took a shower I didn’t remember. And dressed in a blouse that still smelled like Barron’s cologne from the day before.
And now ?
Now I was shaking.
I opened my laptop with fingers that barely obeyed.
The screen lit up.
I clicked the browser. Reflex.
Just to check.
Maybe it hadn’t gone through. Maybe it hadn’t meant anything.
Maybe—
Inbox: 1 New Message
I clicked.
Available tonight? Double if you don’t speak.
My stomach dropped.
I closed the window. Fast.
Closed the whole fucking browser.
Or— thought I did.
My name was called over the intercom.
Gotham pitch meeting. Top floor.
I stood.
Smoothed my skirt.
Grabbed the laptop.
And walked.
The elevator ride was the longest 40 seconds of my life.
The floor was empty. Too quiet.
Loyal passed me in the hallway, gave a small nod. Royal followed behind, grinning like he already knew a secret I hadn’t told yet. Wolfe was waiting at the boardroom door, silent, unreadable, spine like steel.
Barron wasn’t there yet.
I prayed that meant something.
It didn’t.
I plugged in like I was supposed to.
Opened the presentation folder.
Double-checked the files. The slides .
Everything looked right.
You closed the browser. You’re fine. You’re fine.
The brothers filed in. Loyal. Wolfe. Royal.
Then him.
Barron .
I couldn’t breathe.
His eyes never touched mine.
He took his seat. Leaned back.
“Ready,” he said.
I hit the projector button.
The screen blinked.
Then bloomed.
Not the deck.
The inbox.
The escort inbox.
Center screen.
Larger than life.
Available tonight? Double if you don’t speak.
Silence.
Immediate.
Devastating.
Royal let out a low whistle.
“Well… fuck.”
Wolfe sat forward, slowly. Hands clasped. Eyes locked on me.
Loyal didn’t move.
But I saw it.
The disappointment.
And Barron?
He didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe.
But the air around him thickened.
I scrambled .
Fumbled for the mouse. The keyboard. Anything.
“Shit—I didn’t—this wasn’t—I didn’t mean to?—”
“But you did ,” Wolfe said quietly.
His voice wasn’t cruel.
It was worse.
It was true.
The screen snapped black as I finally disconnected.
But the silence didn’t lift.
Barron stood.
Calm. Controlled.
“Out.”
One word.
The others left.
One by one.
Until it was just me.
And him.
And the knowledge that I hadn’t just been seen.
I’d been known.
The door clicked shut behind Wolfe.
And suddenly, there was nothing but silence.
Me.
Barron .
And the shame I’d just projected across a seventy-inch screen like it was branding.
My chest felt tight. Too small. I couldn’t seem to get air into it.
The only sound in the room was the static buzz of the disconnected projector and the blood pounding in my ears.
I didn’t move.
Neither did he.
He just sat there, watching me like a man carving his own gravestone—slow, precise, deliberate.
“I wasn’t going to go through with it,” I said, the words a scratch in my throat. “It was just… a search. A stupid moment. I didn’t mean?—”
“Stop.”
One word.
Flat.
Cold.
But it sliced right through me.
I shut my mouth.
Swallowed hard.
Waited.
He stood.
Slowly.
Every movement coiled, clean, effortless.
He didn’t pace.
He stalked.
A predator without urgency.
Because he already knew I wasn’t running.
He stepped around the table. Pulled his suit jacket open. Reached into the inner pocket.
And drew out his wallet.
He opened it like it weighed more than it should have.
Like each motion cost him something.
His fingers slipped inside and removed a single bill. A crisp hundred. He held it between his fingers for a breath.
Then added another.
And another.
Three. Four.
I should’ve spoken. Should’ve moved.
But I couldn’t.
I was frozen under the weight of something too thick to name.
By the time he reached six, his knuckles were white.
And then he looked at me .
Really looked.
Not at my face.
At my mouth.
Then lower.
His gaze dragged down my throat, over the line of my blouse, to where the silk curved around my chest and disappeared into the waistband of my skirt.
Lower still.
To my hips.
My thighs.
The tension between them.
His eyes didn’t flicker.
Didn’t flinch.
He watched me like a man making a purchase.
Like a man justifying it to himself in real time.
And in that moment, I realized?—
He wasn’t angry.
He was aroused.
Heat bloomed between my legs, hot and slick and immediate.
My stomach twisted.
I tried to step back.
Couldn’t.
He took one step forward.
And placed the money in my hand.
Six hundred dollars.
Not fanned. Not dropped.
Laid.
One bill at a time.
Like he was offering penance.
Or branding me with currency.
One of his fingers brushed mine.
I jerked.
Just slightly.
His gaze didn’t shift.
But his nostrils flared—just a little.
And his eyes—they dropped lower.
To my thighs.
To where they were clenched so tight I thought I might snap.
I could smell myself.
The soft, musky sweetness of arousal soaked into lace.
I hated it.
But more than that?
I hated how much I wanted him to notice.
He stepped in.
Closer .
My back hit the edge of the boardroom table.
He didn’t touch me.
But he didn’t need to.
His presence pressed into every breath I took.
“Get yourself something better for tomorrow.”
His voice was soft.
Too soft.
The kind of soft that left bruises.
I nodded.
Couldn’t speak.
Couldn’t even breathe.
He leaned in.
Not to threaten.
To scent me.
His mouth was close enough to kiss.
Close enough to bite.
I closed my eyes.
“Or I’ll be the one dressing you.”
The words shattered me .
Heat pooled low in my belly.
His voice was low. Brutal. Owned.
“And you might not like what I have in mind.”
A pause.
And then—softer.
Almost cruel in its softness:
“Or… considering your browsing history…”
He tilted his head.
Eyes met mine again.
Dark.
Sharp.
Possessive.
“You just might.”
My knees almost gave out.
But I stood there.
Burning.
Ruined.
Wanting.
He watched me another breath.
Then turned.
Left me there—holding six hundred dollars in trembling hands, shame pressed against my skin, and something much worse pounding between my legs.
And when the door clicked shut behind him?
I didn’t breathe for twelve full seconds.