17. Chapter 17 #2
A sound escapes me—a moan wrapped inside a whimper.
"That's it, baby. Let me hear you. Let me hear what I do to you."
He shifts the angle slightly and I gasp, hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging in.
"Right there?" His deep, gravelly voice is pure sin. "That's the spot that makes you lose your mind, isn't it?"
“Y-yes. Oh my God. Declan—"
He hits that spot again, and I cry out.
"So responsive for me," he groans, rhythm picking up. "So perfect. Do you know how fucking good you feel?"
Pumping into my willing body, Declan's mix of sweetness and filth has me losing all sense.
"So tight. So wet. Gripping my cock like you don't want to let me go."
"You don't ever have to let me go. This pussy belongs to me, sweetheart. And so do you. You're mine, Darcy."
I can't answer, can't form words.
I can’t stop myself. Tears prick at the edges of my eyes.
“Declan—"
“I know. I know, baby.” He slides his hand between us, rubbing my clit in a perfect rhythm. “You’re close. I can feel you.”
I want to say I’m more than close—that I’m on the very verge of being swallowed by a love that has no bottom and no exit.
Instead I moan, lost to the sensation of Declan’s thrusts—his touch, his words, his fixed stare pushing me over the edge until I come.
My orgasm rolls through me, and I feel him follow—his pace stuttering, breath ragged as he buries himself deep, muscles locked and tense, he comes hard inside me.
Before his breathing even evens out, he rolls over, taking me with him, and I settle against him instinctively, fitting myself to his side.
For a while we just lie there in each other’s arms.
I stay glued to his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow, and slowly raise my head.
"I should go home," I murmur into his skin.
“Absolutely the fuck not.”
"But—"
“You’re staying here tonight.” His strong arms tighten around me. "Tomorrow you can go home. Tonight, just stay."
I exhale, my notoriously argumentative mouth failing me—for once.
I'm too exhausted and he’s too warm, and for once I just want to pretend this is simple, that I'm just a woman falling for a man, not the dumb employee falling for her much-older boss—the man who controls her paycheck, her livelihood, her heart.
I press my face into his chest and listen to the steady thud beneath my ear, and for the first time in a long time, I let myself feel safe.
Hours later, I wake up alone.
Rain pelts the windows as I peek at the alarm clock.
Eight A.M.
It’s Sunday morning.
Declan’s no longer in bed.
There’s a note on the pillow next to me in his heavy, nearly illegible scrawl:
Meeting with Quinn. Back by noon. Coffee's ready. Make yourself at home. — D
I sigh and sit up, finally giving myself a real look at Declan’s bedroom in daylight.
A shame it’s as impersonal as the rest of the apartment.
Expensive furniture, sure, but no warmth. No photos, no knick-knacks. Nothing suggesting anyone actually lives here.
I get up and, within minutes, find one of his shirts and pull it on. The collared garment falls to mid-thigh and smells like his cologne.
Feeling exactly like a seventeen-year-old in her boyfriend's letterman jacket, I check my messages.
Three missed calls from Jessica and a text from Bria.
brIA: Girl. CALL ME. I have news about the gallery thing and also I'm dying to know how Mexico went
I should call her back. I should call Jessica, too. I should deal with my actual life instead of hiding in Declan's apartment. Instead, I open my email.
Twelve unread messages.
Most are harmless work stuff—vendor confirmations, contract updates—the usual.
Except one.
An email from Wyeth, sent at 11 P.M. last night.
Subject: TULUM PROJECT - ROLE UPDATE
My heart races beneath Declan’s open shirt as I click it.
Darcy,
Effective immediately, you are being promoted to Senior Coordinator, Tulum Hospitality Project. This comes with a title change, a salary increase (details attached), and full access to the Shaw Group partnership files for the Tulum acquisition.
You've earned this. Your work on the property assessment and vendor logistics was exceptional. Declan and I both agree you're the right person to shepherd this project through completion.
HR will process the paperwork tomorrow. In the meantime, I've granted you access to the shared drive. Welcome to the team.
— Wyeth
I read it twice, smiling wider each time, then screenshot it and send it to Bria with five exclamation points.
Sitting there, staring at my phone, I let the weight of it land—everything I’ve accomplished since moving to New York.
A promotion. A real one.
And it’s not because of who my father is, or because of who I'm sleeping with.
It’s because I'm actually good at this.
I earned it.
Funny, given where I came from. When you’re born to a narcissist, nothing’s ever really earned. Your whole life is one big disappointment; no accolade will ever be enough.
I was never enough for my father.
But for Declan, for Wyeth, for the Shaw Entertainment Group, I am more than enough.
The realization makes my chest squeeze.
The squeeze becomes a hard grip when I click the link to the shared drive.
The drive opens into dozens of folders, hundreds of files—everything organized by project, date, category.
And then I see it—three folders deep.
A subfolder labeled BACKGROUND - HISTORICAL CONTEXT. The one I wanted access to.
Inside are documents about Shaw Entertainment Group's history.
The early years. The growth. The nightclub operations.
And then, a file labeled: HOSTILE ACQUISITION ATTEMPT - 2001
My hand shakes as I open it. A timeline appears—detailed, annotated.
May 2001: Unidentified corporate entity begins acquiring Shaw Entertainment Group debt through secondary marketsJune 2001: Entity exercises debt covenants, forces early repaymentJuly 2001: Shaw unable to service debt, begins liquidating assetsAugust 2001: Company files for bankruptcy
I can’t breathe.
My body seems to already know what's coming, but my fingers keep scrolling, because I am a masochist and want the truth even though it will kill me.
There are more details—legal filings, court documents, bankruptcy proceedings—everything documented with clinical precision.
Then, at the very bottom, a note added by Wyeth last year with a March timestamp.
After two decades of investigation and considerable legal expense, we've finally identified the corporate entity responsible for the 2001 acquisition attempt: Cole Capital Management, a private equity firm specializing in distressed commercial real estate acquisitions.
Principal: Richard Cole
Current status: Active, operating out of Miami, FL
I stare at that name as if not blinking will make the text vanish.
It doesn’t.
It won’t.
The truth doesn’t just evaporate because you want it to. This truth is plain as the words on the screen.
My father.
He destroyed the Shaws, initiated Thomas Shaw’s bankruptcy—the cascade that led to the heart attack that killed him.
My father is responsible for Thomas Shaw’s death.
And I’ve been sleeping with his son.
The phone slips from my hands and lands on the bed, and I sit there in Declan’s apartment, wearing his too-big shirt, in the life I've rebuilt—realizing exactly how badly I've fucked this up.
Now I have two choices.
Tell Declan the truth—who I am, who my father is, what I've discovered—and watch him realize everything between us has been built on a lie.
Or walk away before he finds out.
The options make my already uneasy stomach queasy; nausea swirls in my gut.
I try to quell the churning with deep breaths, but I can do nothing, think nothing, say nothing.
I can only ruminate on the job I've earned, the man I love, the father I can't escape, and the choice I have to make.
A thousand years pass before I finally get up.
Leaving the shirt I borrowed from Declan folded on his bed, I write a note on my way out.
Had to go. Talk soon. — D
With my tail tucked firmly between my legs and my heartbeat in my throat, I leave.
Because I'm Richard Cole’s daughter after all.
And we're very good at running.