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While I wait for Doug to return from lunch, I text Ella, wanting to plan a date for later today. Lately, I’ve felt her grow distant. Earlier this week, she ditched a date with me to attend a happy hour with stockbrokers and hedge fund managers, most of them men. She said it was networking, but what am I? Chopped liver? I can get her whatever job she wants, fund a small business, or support a life of leisure. I’m open to whatever she wants to do, but I want her to be mine while she’s doing it. This bullshit arrangement isn’t normal. It’s not practical. It’s infuriating.
Last night, as we lounged on the couch, I caught her scrolling through a real estate website, her eyes fixated on listings in Brooklyn. I can’t allow her to move to the other side of the East River, leaving me behind in Manhattan. The mere idea is soul-crushing. I couldn't bear the thought of not seeing her every day. I’ll have to move with her and that long commute will kill me.
I'm not sure what's happening, but I have a feeling she's plotting her escape. Despite my attempts at communication, it felt like she was actively avoiding any serious discussion about our relationship. And every time I worked up the courage to tell her how much I love her, she quickly changed the subject.
A knot of anxiety twists in my stomach as I send another message to her. But fifteen minutes go by and there's still no response. Another ten minutes tick by, and when I finally muster up the courage to call, it goes straight to voicemail. My mind races with thoughts and doubts—is there someone else? Did she meet someone at the club and start a secret relationship behind my back? Is that why she avoids talking about love?
I take a deep, shaky breath and try not to picture my Ella wrapped in the arms of another man. The mere thought is incomprehensible. My insides boil with rage, my blood pressure rising with each step I take toward Doug March's office. My initial plan was to wait until the end of the day and have security forcefully eject him from my building, but I refuse to let all this anger go to waste.
Thirty minutes later, I find myself sinking into my desk chair, relieved to have a moment of peace after giving Ella’s father his walking papers. He didn’t take it well and the arrogant jerk insisted he did nothing wrong, but couldn’t refute the evidence against him. My solace is short-lived and interrupted by the chaos and commotion of Douglas March’s forced removal. The scene is like a whirlwind of chaos and drama, with bystanders craning their necks for a glimpse of the spectacle. My heart races with adrenaline at the excitement unfolding before me, but I am content to simply observe and enjoy the show from the comfort of my seat. I should have taped it for Ella’s viewing pleasure, but I’ll have to describe it to her later. We have a lot to discuss.
Chapter 16
Ella
“What do you think of this?”I hold up the black lace teddy against my torso and imagine what it will look like later tonight. I turn to Gale, who’s always had a better eye for fashion, awaiting her honest opinion. The price tag taunts me, reminding me of the years spent pinching pennies and the guilt that comes with splurging on something so frivolous, something only Grant will ever see.
“It will look stunning on you, Ella,” Gale exclaims, her eyes scanning the racks of lingerie with enthusiasm. She carefully plucks out the most ostentatious and provocative pieces, holding them up for me to see. "Grant has billions, why not indulge in something he can appreciate?"
“You’re right. Maybe if I distract him with something over-the-top sexy, he’ll confess his feelings before I humiliate myself by saying it first,” I confess, worried that my stupid games may drive us further apart. He spent the night tossing and turning after I showed him those Brooklyn listings and I fear I’ve made things worse by ignoring his texts.
“You can’t say it first, girl,” Gale warns, her voice laced with both concern and playfulness.
I hesitate, knowing she may be right. We're in the same boat, experience-wise, and her first real relationship isn't exactly traditional. But I can't help but wonder if this situation is different. Two men at the same time shouldn’t count as two relationships.
“What about these?” I ask, holding up a pair of black fishnet stockings and waving them in front of me. “This might create an interesting night.”
Gale's brows furrow with curiosity as she leans in closer for a better look. “What will you wear them with?”
A mischievous smile tugs at my lips, and I hold back a laugh. “Nothing at all.” I wink slyly. “I've got an idea.” The possibilities swirl through my mind, each one filthier than the last. Tonight’s special, and I want to ensure it’s anything but boring.
On my way, I stare at the many incoming and unanswered texts that Grant has left since the morning. His frustration is evident, but so is mine. I’m not cut out to be a sugar baby or mistress. Those women are elegant, sophisticated and able to compartmentalize their feelings to protect their hearts. I’m not that savvy. I’ve wanted Grant for so long, it’s becoming too difficult to pretend I’m in a friends-with-benefits situation. Grant Whitlock is my soulmate. I know he’s worried about the twenty years between us, but that means nothing to me. The heart wants what it wants.
Me: Hello Mr. Whitlock. I’ve been missing you all day.
Grant: Oh my God, baby. You are in so much trouble.
Me: I’ll make it up to you. I promise.
Grant: I’m on my way home. I’ll see you soon.
My heart races in my chest, a wild and uncontrollable beat that matches the adrenaline coursing through my body. I reach out to touch the screen, my fingers trembling with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. Tonight will alter the course of my life. I’ll either soar on cloud nine or be crushed into oblivion.
With only a few precious moments to spare, I hurry home and rush into the shower. The warm water cascades over my skin, soothing and refreshing as I scrub away the day. After drying off, I smooth on some scented moisturizer before slipping into my new pair of black fishnets. It's a daring choice, but as I stand in front of the mirror admiring the way the delicate fabric clings to my curves and accentuates my legs, a surge of confidence washes over me. With nothing else on but these fishnets, I make my grand entrance into the living room, hoping I don’t fall flat on my face and rip my stockings.
* * *
Grant:
There's no escaping the undeniable truth any longer. My heart belongs to Ella March. I can't pinpoint exactly when this realization hit me, but the past two weeks have only served to reinforce what I've always known deep down. She has consumed my thoughts and every inch of my being, like a sweet poison that I can't resist.
“Ella!” I call her name as soon as I walk in the door, eager to see her beautiful face and hold her in my arms.
As my eyes adjust to the dimmed lights, I hear Ella's voice, drawing my attention to the top of the stairs. The sun sets behind her, casting a golden halo around her silhouette and making it difficult to see what she's wearing. As I ascend the steps to the landing, my breath catches at the sight of her.
She stands before me, clad in nothing but a pair of black fishnet stockings, her body a work of art. The curves and lines of her figure are framed by the interwoven pattern, creating a stunning contrast. My eyes roam over her, taking in every detail—from the gentle slope of her waist to the swell of her hips.It's a sight both gorgeous and depraved, stirring something deep within me. This is the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen.
“Hello, Mr. Whitlock.” Ella beckons me closer, curling her finger seductively as I sprint up the stairs, stripping as I climb. By the time I reach her, my heart is beating so fast, I silently pray to live long enough to enjoy this gift.
