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Even if it thinks it wants Kit.

We don’t always get what we want, and that’s fine. That’s life.

But at least now I know how to get what I need.

CHAPTER14

KIT

For the next couple days, I sign out of the portal as a consort. I stay focused on research and scheduling time with each team member to learn how they’re liking their jobs.

It’s not a huge shock to find out they’re all pretty happy.

There’s some mild irritation around cheesy jargon, and for events like the Dirty Dancing Brunch, but overall, everyone seems content. I don’t observe anyone feeling coerced or treated like sex slaves. On the contrary: most consorts seem honored to do the work they’re performing.

Gratifying.

Fun.

Hot.

Fulfilling an important public service.

Those are some of the comments from an anonymous survey I launched at the start of this week. I’m not surprised, but I’m pleased.

About that, anyway.

Seeing Eve feels like rubbing a papercut with salt. I deliberately don’t check her activity in the portal, but sometimes I see her around. Yesterday morning at breakfast, she sat chatting with three or four women. I walked past without making eye contact, but I heard the word “threesome” and giggles.

A few minutes later, I got a request for a three-way next week. The guest requested both Sybil and me, so maybe Eve put in a good word.

I wish I looked forward to doing it. Instead, I feel…empty.

I’m still feeling that way as I arrive for my meeting with Ashton Holyfield. The tall, silent billionaire stands with his back to the room, eyes fixed on some unseen spot out the window. His wide-windowed office overlooks a private, palm-lined beach, where a smiling couple holds hands as they stroll on the sand.

I clear my throat. “Mr. Holyfield?”

He turns slowly to face me, eerie blue eyes slicing the space between us. “Dr. Plier. I trust your work is going well?”

Again with the Dr. Plier?

Holyfield frowns when I don’t respond right away. “Is something wrong?”

“Please, call me Topher or Christopher.” My voice sounds more brittle than I mean it to. “Sorry to keep pushing the issue, but in this role, I’mnotDr. Plier.” Since I already sound like a dick, I keep going. “My father was a world-renowned cardiologist. A really good man who died of a stroke last year.He’sDr. Plier.”

It doesn’t make one lick of sense. I know that in theory. I have a damn doctorate. I’m Dr. Plier for most of my work.

But grief makes us weird sometimes.

“I see.” Something shifts in Holyfield’s eyes. “I’m familiar with gut-wrenching loss and I’m sorry. Truly. Please forgive me.”

“Already forgiven.” And now we’re off to an awkward start.

“Please, have a seat.” He gestures to the chair on the opposite side of his desk. He’s dressed up in fucking Armani, with a black silk necktie fixed at his throat.

I thought I’d dressed nicely in a button-down shirt and dark chinos. This guy looks like he’s on his way to a formal ball. Folding his hands on the desk, he regards me with a cool stare. “I’ve read the daily updates, but I haven’t reviewed your initial report.”

“It’s not complete.” That will take another few weeks. “But my preliminary findings after speaking with three-dozen consorts, and reviewing data from an anonymous survey, plus calculating the?—”