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Nico Conti.

My boss.

The man whose name people barely dare whisper.

Still young for the reputation he’s built. Only twenty-six and feared across Atlantic City.

The man who looked at me across his desk and asked if I could handle pressure.

The man who—

My throat closes.

I stare at the curtained window in front of me, my vision going slightly blurry, because if I turn my head, I’ll see him. I’ll confirm it. I’ll make it real in a way my brain can’t handle right now.

I swallow. It hurts.

My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my ears.

What did I do?

My face burns even though I’m alone in my head. Even though he’s asleep.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t help. The memories keep pushing in anyway—his voice, my body reacting like it didn’t belong to me, the humiliating fact that I didn’t fight the way I thought I would. The humiliating fact that my body did things my mind is trying to deny.

The fact that I liked it. A lot. And want more.

I want to rewind time. I want to climb out of my own skin. I want to undo last night so badly my chest aches with it.

How could I do this to myself?

And with him.

Of all people.

I feel sick.

My gaze drops to the sheets, to the edge of a robe tossed over the chair, to the faint blue tint in the glass on the nightstand that reminds me of the bath. My stomach lurches again.

I need to get out of this room.

The room where—

No. Don’t.

I force myself to take a breath through my nose. In. Out. Slowly.

I try to focus on logistics because emotions are dangerous right now. If I let myself feel too much, I’ll start shaking. I’ll start crying. I’ll start falling apart, and I can’t fall apart when a man like Nico Conti is behind me.

What happens now?

What happens at work?

My stomach twists harder.

Work.

The office. The desk. The routine. Him in a suit, calm, cold, and controlled. Me with a coffee in my hand, asking if he needs anything else.