Chapter 11
Willow
I got drunk again.
I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling for a full three seconds. Then last night came back like shattered glass—sharp, loud, and all at once.
I had smashed Tom.
Not only had I smashed Tom, but I had also shouted to half the damn bar, "Tonight, all the girls' tabs are on me."
"Did I pay?"
I shot upright. The blanket slid to my waist. My body still ached everywhere, but I didn't give a shit. My brain started doing math at warp speed—whiskey at that trashy place cost twenty bucks a glass. And last night, with me playing big spender, those people had to have drunk...
I counted on my fingers. Twice. Still couldn't get it right. The number just kept swelling until my vision went gray, and I flopped back onto the pillow.
I was screwed.
Next month's rent wasn't paid. The utility bill still sat in my mailbox. How did one night of sleep turn me into broke garbage?
The more I thought about it, the more it stung. I pulled my knees to my chest and cried, fat tears dropping onto my legs.
It was misery.
Blowing my savings was bad enough. Worse? I had apparently slept with my boss again, loud and proud.
If he came looking for money, what the hell was I supposed to give him—air?
I couldn't stop myself. I cried harder.
Then the mattress dipped beside me. Warm breath brushed over me.
"What are you crying for?"
Artyom had just gotten out of the shower. His robe hung open at the throat, showing his collarbone—and the clean bite mark on it. My bite. Still faintly pink.
His hair was wet. Water dripped off the ends, slid into that hollow at his collarbone, and traced down the lines of his chest. He tilted his head at me, a lazy smile tugging at his mouth.
"Was I not good enough last night? You are gonna leave me a bad review?"
The second he said it, my heart sank even lower.
I looked up at him, face twisted. "I don't even have money left to pay you."
He went quiet for a few beats, then laughed. "I told you I am not a male escort."
He reached over and wiped my tears with his thumb. It tickled my cheek. "But sure. Call it customer service."
Seriously? That kind of deal existed?
I sniffled and nodded. "Well. At least you have a conscience."
That got a real laugh out of him.
He leaned over me, bracing his hands on the mattress on either side. The robe fell wider open—narrow waist, the hint of abs under the fabric. A bead of water rolled from his collarbone down his chest, glittering in the morning light.
"Since you already lost the money, I took the hit. I even threw in a freebie."
My heart skipped. With a face like his—magazine-cover perfect—I hated how fast I folded.
But...
Jesus, look at me. The world was on fire, and I was still thinking about men.
I put my palm to his cheek and pushed him back, painfully reluctant. "No. I'm gonna be late for work."
Artyom froze.
He straightened, rubbing his forehead. "So that is it. You only care about money."
Yeah. I did.
You weren't the one counting pennies, boss. Of course you didn't get it.
I collapsed back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling like it was my empty bank account next month.
"Oh, wait." I propped myself up again and looked at him. "Last night, when I said I was buying drinks—did all the cash in my wallet go to alcohol?"
Even if it was hopeless, I had to ask. I stared at him, clinging to one last thread of delusion—maybe he got some VIP discount. Maybe I hadn't ordered that much.
Artyom's brow twitched. He spoke slowly, like he enjoyed it. "Yeah. It all got charged. You were short, so I covered the rest. I took it out of your next paycheck."
My head rang.
The sound spread from deep inside my ears, like someone flicked a glass and the vibration kept bouncing around my skull.
My mouth fell open. I couldn't even cry.
Impulse was the devil.
I swore I was quitting drinking.
Artyom dipped his head close to my ear, voice low, pleased like he'd pulled one over on me. "Aren't you going to work?"
Working with no paycheck was torture.
I dragged myself off the bed, dead inside.
The moment my feet hit the floor, I bent to grab the clothes scattered from last night. A coin slid from my pants pocket and hit the wood with a sharp, bright ping.
It rolled twice and stopped.
Then a second. A third. A few more, scattered around my feet.
I froze, staring at the little pile of loose change.
Morning light caught the edges, real shine, like a spill of melted gold across the grain of the floor.
It wasn't a hallucination.
I crouched, hands shaking, and picked them up one by one. I counted twice—no more, no less. Exactly the same amount that had been in my wallet yesterday.
I looked up at Artyom.
He leaned against the headboard, smiling. "I put my change in your pocket yesterday. Give it back."
Give it back?
What fantasy world was he living in? Money that reached my hands was mine.
I smiled sweetly while my fingers flew, stuffing the coins into the hidden space inside my bra.
"Then come take it."
Artyom's eyes narrowed.
Barefoot on the wood, he walked toward me, slow and sure.
The sunlight behind him outlined his shoulders and back in a thin gold edge, tapering down to his waist—like a knife still in its sheath.
"Willow." He stopped in front of me. "Meat that walks right up to my door? If I don't take a bite, I'll only regret it."
I blinked.
I barely had time to form a comeback before his mouth came down on mine.
And suddenly it clicked.
He hadn't grown a conscience. He hadn't been generous. He had left bait on purpose—just to watch me bite.
And I had.
The thought spun through my head, and before it could turn into anger, his hand slid along my waist and tucked in close. His palm pressed warm skin. His thumb dug into the dip of my lower back.
His kiss deepened. Our breath tangled, hot and fast.
Wait. Wait.
My ass still hurt. That bone-deep, wrung-out soreness from last night still lived in my body, and if he went at me like that again, I was going to end up face-down at my desk just to type.
And if my clothes came undone, all my money would spill out.
I had to stop him.
I dodged back and put my hand on his chest. Not hard—just enough to make space. "No."
I said it like I meant it. "I'm going to work. I love my job."
Artyom let me push him off, his hand lifting in the air for a second before dropping again.
He tilted his head, pure helpless frustration. "You go to work to keep your boss happy. Instead of taking shit at the office, you could just—"
He lowered his head, trying to close the distance again.
My eyes went wide. I had heard that exact kind of line from Tom.
Was he seriously trying to... what, keep me?
"No." I shoved at his chest again, firmer this time. "I'm going to wash up."
Artyom exhaled, like I was impossible.
"Willow. With willpower like that, you would succeed at anything."
Then, a beat later, his eyes narrowed, gaze dropping to my chest—more specifically, to where the coins sat.
He stepped in again, smile not reaching his eyes. "You are scared the money will fall out, and I'll take it, aren't you?"
Damn it. He saw right through me.
I didn't answer. I lifted my chin and slipped past him into the bathroom.
As the door shut behind me, I heard his low chuckle—quiet, but it scratched at something inside me.
At the sink, I washed up fast. Then I went to move the coins back into my wallet—only to realize, after tearing through every pocket, my wallet was gone.
That was weird.
What kind of thief stole only a wallet?
A thief with a very specific hobby, apparently.
When I walked out, Artyom was already ready, leaning in the doorway like he'd been waiting.
He wore a dark gray custom suit, sleeves pushed to his forearms. A Patek Philippe sat on his wrist, flashing cold in the morning light. Every trace of laziness was gone from his face—he looked like he'd never even heard of lust.
God, he looked good.
I should've waited before hiding those coins.
A flicker of regret hit—if I ever got to sleep with a man like that again, how much would it cost me next time? Penny-wise, pound-foolish. Perfect.
"Ready?" Artyom asked, lazy again.
I nodded and followed him downstairs. A black Maybach sat steady at the front of the villa. The driver opened the door with practiced respect.
I climbed in, clutching the edge of my skirt. Cool leather and the clean scent of him—cedar, faint and sharp—wrapped around me.
Outside, the city slid backward. Streetlights, trees, passing cars. Frame by frame across the glass.
Inside the cabin, it was quiet enough to hear each other breathe.
Then my phone vibrated.
I glanced down. "Ella" flashed on the screen.
Her name hit my chest like a rock dropped from a height—heavy, dull, making it hard to breathe.
Ella wasn't my real sister. She was my mom's daughter from her second marriage.
My parents had divorced when I was little. Neither of them had wanted me. Before I turned eighteen, I had bounced between two families like a burden nobody claimed.
Ella had grown up adored—pretty, spoiled, entitled to everyone's attention. Me? I had been the stranger who barged into her life, took up a bedroom, a plate of food, a mouthful of air. Nobody had wanted me there.
It rang three times. I didn't answer.
Artyom turned his head, looking at me, calm. "You aren't going to pick up?"
I forced a smile. "I am."
My finger didn't move.
The screen went dark. Then lit again. Ella's name jumped back up, stubborn, like a reminder—some things didn't let you hide.
I stared at it for a few seconds. The car rolled onto a bridge, and sunlight broke through a gap in the clouds and flashed off the window, making my eyes sting.
I took a breath and answered.
"Hello, you fat pig—" Ella's voice slid through the speaker, as nasty as ever. "Why the hell did you take so long?"
"I was busy." I kept my voice even, nails digging into my palm. "What do you want?"
Ella snorted. "Busy? A fat pig like you? Busy doing what?"
The air in the car felt like it locked up.
Artyom didn't say a word. He just shifted, looking out the window.
I didn't know if he had heard her. I lowered my voice anyway. "So what is it?"
"Mom's birthday. Come back." Ella yawned. "Honestly, you're basically an outsider. I don't even know why she bothers inviting you."
She didn't wait for my answer. The line went dead.
When the screen went dark, my face fell with it.
Those words—fat pig—kept drilling into my ears, buzzing.
I didn't know if Artyom had heard it. I prayed he hadn't.
Because it was ugly. Ugly enough to make me want to crawl into the ground and never come back up.
I didn't dare turn to look at him, but I felt his gaze land on me.
It wasn't heavy. It wasn't forceful. It was warm, steady—like a quiet spotlight, focused and patient, like he was waiting for me to speak.
Please. Don't look at me like that.
I was used to Ella's cruelty. But Artyom was different. The quieter he waited, the more I felt like a flipped-over bug, legs in the air, exposed.
In front of him, I wanted to be perfect—if only for a second. Just enough to not look so pathetic. Not like some used thing that had been returned too many times.
I squeezed the red crescent marks in my palm and pointed toward the next intersection. "Drop me off up there."
"Why?"
"Because we're..." I trailed off, unable to find the right word.
What were we? Boss and employee? Sugar daddy and hired dick? None of it fit.
I went vague. "If my coworkers see us coming in together, it won't be good. It will look bad for you. You're the CEO. Rumors will hurt your reputation."
After I said it, it felt almost ridiculous.
We weren't some shameful secret. And yet, deep down, I was scared—scared of all the looks, scared people would say his taste sucked, that he'd lowered himself to someone like me.
He didn't answer.
I stole a glance. All I caught was his tight jawline. No emotion.
A long time passed before he finally said, "Fine."
The car stopped at the corner near the office building. I pushed the door open and got out like I was running from a fire. I didn't even manage goodbye.
Only after the car drove off did I lean against the wall for a moment, then drop my head and walk toward the entrance.
?????
At my desk, I couldn't focus.
Tom didn't come after me again. He even detoured around my cubicle when he passed.
I let out a breath—he had probably misunderstood my situation with Artyom and didn't dare mess with me now. But the calm didn't make me feel better. I stared at the proposal on my screen all morning and didn't absorb a single word. The cursor drifted from folder to folder, never clicking.
My head was a mess.
One minute it was Ella's voice. The next it was Mom's birthday.
More than any of that, it was Artyom's blank face—and the faint scent on him when he held me last night.
I had to be sick.
My brain felt stuffed with cotton. Nothing came clear.
At noon, Jessica walked by with a coffee. She stopped hard at my desk, like she'd misstepped. Her wrist tipped just a little, and the coffee poured right onto my shoulder.
"Oh my God!" she yelped, loud enough to make a few coworkers look over. "Willow, I'm so sorry. I'm such a klutz."
Coffee ran down my blouse, warm and sticky, like humiliation that didn't need words.
Jessica dabbed at me with napkins, but she dropped her voice. "You should thank me. The coffee will cover up the slut smell on you."
Normally, that would've crushed me. Or I would've snapped back.
But I just looked at her for two seconds, said, "Okay," and turned back to the screen, staring through it.
Jessica didn't get what she wanted. She rolled her eyes and clicked away on her heels.
I watched my blurred reflection in the monitor—deep copper-red curls messy, shadows under my eyes, a lost look staring back.
I touched my face and couldn't tell anymore whether my life had gotten better than before... or just more fucked up.