Chapter 19
Laurel
“Laurel, are you listening?”
I glance up to find Tate watching me, looking concerned.
“Sorry. I think I’m coming down with something.”
“Oh no. I heard there’s a cold going around.” He takes a step away from me like he’s worried I’m contiguous. “Think you’re up to presenting to the board?”
“Yeah.” At his look, I straighten my shoulders. “Yes, Tate. I am.”
“Good.” He pauses. “You seem happier.”
That makes me freeze, but I recover quickly.
“I’m really proud of Lust, and I think the other models will do just as well.”
He doesn’t press the issue, which I’m thankful for. Mostly because I am not sure how to explain that I look happier because I’ve been sleeping with the CEO. Repeatedly. In multiple states. And offices. Stairwells. Trucks. Apartments. Elevators. Conference room floors…
So instead, I smile like a professional and try not to sway on my heels.
The truth is, I do feel awful.
My head aches. My throat is scratchy. My skin has that too-hot, too-cold feeling that means my immune system has packed a bag and fled the country. But I’ve worked too hard on this presentation to let a stupid cold take me down.
“Ready?” Tate asks.
No. Absolutely not.
“Yes.”
He opens the boardroom door. Every chair is full. There are shareholders around the long table, a few senior executives along the wall, Dante near the windows, Owen looking like he’s about to personally audit everyone’s posture, and Sin at the head of the table.
My stomach does something ridiculous.
Then I remember where I am. And who he is. And who I am supposed to be.
I walk to the front of the room, set my laptop down, and smile.
“Good morning. Thank you for making time. Today I’ll be walking you through the final launch strategy for the Sins line, with a focus on Lust’s market positioning, projected retail performance, and cross-category expansion.”
My voice comes out steady. Thank God.
The first slide appears behind me, and I start with the data. Retailer interest from Amsterdam. Preorder projections. Consumer feedback. International buyer notes. Press language. Feature comparisons. Sensory design differentiators. Launch timing.
I know this product. I know every curve, motor, material choice, pressure point, packaging sample, and very unfortunate early prototype that died in the lab with a sound no adult toy should ever make.
By slide four, the room is listening. By slide eight, one of the board members leans forward.
By slide twelve, Owen has stopped looking like he wants to object on principle. By slide fifteen, Dante is smiling.
And Sin?
Sin doesn’t move.
He sits at the head of the table with one hand resting beside his notebook, his gaze fixed on me like I am the only person in the room.
It steadies me.
I talk about Lust not as a novelty item, but as a flagship product. I explain why the line works because each model has a distinct identity, not just a gimmick. I show how Envy can follow as a natural companion release, then Pride as a separate category expansion with a more luxury-driven approach.
Questions come. I answer them. Margins. Production risk. Quality control. International compliance. Retail training. Marketing sensitivity.
I answer everything. At some point, I stop feeling sick. Or maybe I just stop caring.
When I finish, the room is quiet for one terrifying second. Then Dante starts clapping. Tate joins him. Then someone else. Then the entire room.
My face goes hot. Oh no. Applause. My worst enemy.
I glance toward Sin before I can stop myself. His expression has changed. Barely. But I know him now. I know what that slight softness around his mouth means. I know what it means when his eyes warm and his jaw loosens like he’s holding back something he wants to say.
He’s proud of me.
My chest tightens so fast it hurts and I look away before anyone can see it on my face.
Tate catches up with me after the meeting, grinning like he personally birthed the product line.
“You crushed that.”
“Thank you.”
“No, really. That was…” He shakes his head. “Damn, Laurel. That was boardroom murder, but in heels.”
I laugh, then immediately regret it when my throat scratches.
“Put that on my review.”
“I might.”
“Please include the heels.”
“Obviously.”
By the time I get back to my office, the adrenaline is fading, and my body remembers it’s under attack. I close the door, drop into my chair, and press the heels of my hands to my eyes. Everything hurts and I just want to go home and get in bed.
My computer pings. I lower my hands and look at the screen.
It’s from an unknown sender.
Subject line: Confidential Opportunity
I almost delete it. Then I see the company name in the signature preview. Sex Activity Pro. I sit up straighter. Sex Activity Pro is a direct competitor. They’re sleek. Well-funded. Aggressive. The kind of company that makes beautiful products and steals talent with terrifying efficiency.
I open the email. By the time I finish reading, my fever has either spiked or my entire career just shifted sideways.
They want me and not just for a lateral move.
For Vice President of Product Innovation.
I’d get more money and have more control over my team.
My own team. Even though they’re based out of Amsterdam, they’re willing to let me work remote, or there’s a relocation option.
And at the bottom, one sentence that makes my stomach drop.
Your work on the Sins line has positioned you as one of the most exciting voices in pleasure product design. We would welcome the opportunity to discuss how your vision could shape our next era.
I stare at it. Then read it again.
A laugh bubbles up, thin and disbelieving. I should be thrilled. But. I’m also suddenly, violently aware that I have no idea what my future looks like anymore. Because two months ago, this would have been easy.
Now my first thought is Sin.
I print the email because apparently I need paper evidence of my existential crisis, then grab it from the printer and head toward his office.
I tell myself this is professional. He’s my boss.
This is a potential conflict. He should know a competitor is actively recruiting from his launch team.
That’s all. It’s absolutely not an excuse to see him after he looked at me like that in the boardroom.
His office door is slightly open. I lift my hand to knock. Then I hear a woman laugh. It’s familiar in a way that makes my stomach tighten before my brain even catches up.
Jenna.
Through the opening, I can see part of Sin’s office. Jenna’s inside sitting on the small sofa near the windows, legs crossed, a cream coat folded beside her. Sin stands near his desk, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of water. Bare left hand.
Does she know he left it at home? Does it hurt her the way it thrills me?
That thought makes shame rush through me so fast I almost sway. Instead, I bump the door. Jenna looks my way, her gaze meeting mine. There’s no reason for me to feel caught.
I’m holding a work email and I’m fully clothed, for once. Still, my face burns.
Sin turns. The moment he sees me, something flickers across his expression.
“Laurel,” he says.
I clutch the paper tighter. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were busy.”
Jenna smiles. It’s polite. “Mason was just telling me about the presentation. Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” I say.
My voice sounds normal. A miracle.
Sin’s eyes drop to the paper in my hand. “Did you need something?”
Yes. You. Or a lobotomy.
Maybe soup.
“No,” I say too quickly. “It can wait.”
His gaze sharpens. “Are you sure?”
No, I’m not sure of anything. I’m not sure why seeing Jenna in his office feels like being slapped. I’m not sure why I want to cry. And I’m not sure why my skin is burning hotter now.
“I’m sure.” I force a smile. “Excuse me.”
I leave before either of them can stop me.
By the time I reach my office, jealousy is already eating me alive. The kind I have no right to feel.
She’s his wife. She’s allowed to be in his office. I’m the one who doesn’t belong.
My office tilts slightly when I step inside and I grab the edge of my desk.
“Oh, that’s fun,” I mutter.
My body answers by sending a wave of chills down my spine so violent my teeth nearly chatter. Definitely the flu, then. Or karmic punishment. Honestly, it could be both.
I sit down and try to answer an email but the words blur. I try to drink water. It tastes like pennies. I try to stand again. Bad plan.
The next thing I know, Opal is in my doorway.
“Boss? You okay? I heard something.”
I gesture to where I knocked over my purse. “Stay back. I think I have the flu.”
She marches right in, presses the back of her hand to my forehead, and immediately recoils.
“You have a fever.”
“I figured.” I say as I reach for my bag.
The Sex Activity Pro email sits on my desk, folded once, forgotten under my notebook. Or maybe I leave it there on purpose. I don’t know. My brain has become soup.
I don’t remember her calling a cab for me, but the next thing I know I’m at my apartment. I make it inside, kick off one shoe, then the other, and collapse on the couch without taking off my coat.
I wake up to knocking.
At first, I think it’s in my dream. Then it comes again.
I groan into the cushion. “Go away.”
“Laurel.”
My eyes open. Sin?
I drag myself off the couch and shuffle to the door, wrapped in my coat, one sock on, hair probably looking like woodland creatures nested in it during the commute.
I open the door.
Sin stands in the hallway holding a pharmacy bag, a paper bag from the deli down the street, and the expression of a man who is deeply unhappy with the state of the universe.
He steps inside without waiting for an invitation.
He sets the bags on my kitchen counter and turns back to me. “Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”
“I told Tate.”
“Tate’s not me.”
“No, Tate is single.”
His mouth tightens. Even feverish, I know I hit something tender.
I close the door and lean against it because standing is hard and I have become eighty-seven years old in the last six hours.