Page 58 of The Accident

I quit my job to become his full-time sex slave.

And now, I want to see what Trevor will do next.

21

THE CHECKLIST GOES ON

Kayleigh

Istand at the stove in Trevor’s kitchen, my wrist turning the wooden spoon in slow, obsessive circles. The pan hisses and pops, little flecks of charred green flying up from the tangle of broccolini and lemon zest. Next to that, a salmon fillet is grilling in cast iron, skin curling and blistering. I know nothing about fish except that he eats a ton of it, that he likes it lean and salty, and that the fridge in this penthouse has more high-end protein than a Whole Foods delivery. The scent is sharp and clean, citrus cutting through the slick weight of olive oil. I taste the air, lick the inside of my cheek, and feel a thrill that isn’t just about being hungry.

The penthouse is silent except for the sound of the vent fan and the steady sizzle of dinner. Forty floors below, the city is a lattice of motion and headlights, but up here it feels like an aquarium: just me, the food, and the constant pulse of what I’m about to become.

I keep checking the door. I’m in a dress again - a white shirtwaist dress this time, because I didn’t want to look like I’m trying too hard, but I also want him to look at me and see the effort. My hair is still half-damp from a panic shower; I did a messy braid, then undid it because it looked too wholesome, and now it falls in loose, flowing waves over my shoulders. There’s nothing under the dress except a lace thong and the kind of bra that does more harm than good. I almost wore sneakers, but went with the low heels I picked up from my apartment, white leather with a strap so tight it leaves a groove in my instep. My face is bare, scrubbed pink, lips swollen from chewing the inside of them while I cooked.

Every minute I wait, my nerves wrap tighter. I taste-test the vegetables and burn my tongue, then pour myself a shot of water in a wine glass and drink it in gulps, hoping it will make my heart slow down. It doesn’t.

The elevator chimes. Three floors below, then two, then one. I wipe my hands on a bar towel and try to look busy, but when the door swings open, I’m standing right in the middle of the kitchen, like a rabbit caught in the spotlight.

Trevor stalks into the kitchen—no hurry, no wasted motion, coat slung over his shoulder, black hair slightly damp from the walk home. His shirt is white, collar open, sleeves rolled just enough to show a trace of muscle on his forearms. The trousers are dark and perfectly fitted. I catch a glimpse of his shoes, black and Italian, but they’re scuffed at the heel in a way that makes me weak. His face is tired, maybe, but not in the way of most people—more like he’s powered by an engine that can never really shut down. His eyes go straight to the food, then to me, and something in his expression softens by half a millimeter.

“Smells good,” he growls, and sets his keys on the marble.

“Thanks,” I say, and my voice jumps an octave. “It’s just salmon and, um, some veggies. I didn’t know what you wanted.”

He circles the island, leans on the counter, and watches me stir. The kitchen is high-gloss everything—counters, appliances, even the backsplash—and the light throws tiny reflections everywhere, catching the sweat on my neck and the freckles on my arms.

“I’ll like whatever you cook,” he says. “I’m sure you’re excellent.”

I laugh. “Maybe you should wait to taste my food before giving me compliments.”

He grins, but doesn’t answer. His gaze lingers on the hem of my dress, then drifts up, taking in the full inventory. My heart does a painful double-flip, but I keep stirring, pretending I don’t notice.

“How was your day?” I ask. The question lands between us, domestic and almost wifely, and for a second I wish I could snatch it out of the air and take it back it because why did I ask that? Why did I make it sound like we’re an established couple in a loving relationship, when actually, Trevor’s a billionaire asshole who’s forced me to become his sex slave?

He shrugs, but the line of his jaw is stern. “We’re ahead of schedule. Counterpoint’s going to IPO next year, and the team’s already celebrating like it’s over. A lot of hand-wringing from legal, but that’s expected.” His eyes flick back to mine. “It’s always a fucking shit show.”

I nod, like I understand, but the truth is, I don’t. I barely grasp what Counterpoint even does—something with artificial intelligence, machine learning, and the word ‘platform’ used as both noun and verb. What I do know is that it pays for this penthouse and all the food in the fridge, and that Trevor works more hours than anyone I’ve ever met.

He watches me taste the veggies again, and then says, “And you? How was your first day of indenture?”

The word makes me flush, but I try to play it cool. “Pretty good, actually,” I say. “I got a lot done.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Like what?”

I look at the stove, then back at him. “Um, I did most of your list.”

His smile gets sharper. “Which parts?”

I swallow. “I quit my job at The Fig Leaf. Angela was really nice about it, but I think she thinks I’m running from an abusive boyfriend. But I didn’t tell her about you or anything.” I say this last part fast, in case he’s worried about security or whatever.

His eyes crinkle with amusement. “Great. I thought you’d give at least a week of notice.”

I swallow. “I told her it was urgent. She understood.”

He nods, and the look of approval is so potent I almost drop the spoon. “Good. And the rest?”

I take a shaky breath. “I moved my stuff from my old apartment here. Some of it, anyway. There wasn’t a lot. But the closet in my bedroom here is too small, so I put some of my clothes in the one off the kitchen.” I pause, then force a laugh. “Hope that’s okay.”