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She’s caught off-guard. “What?”

“Which knife would you use?”

She searches my face, then her eyes narrow.

“The big one,” she says.

The chef’s knife.

“Good choice,” I say.

She frowns. “You’re unhinged.”

“Yes, I suppose I am.”

Our gazes remain locked on one another, then she adds, “I repeat, I am not having sex with you. I’d rather sew up my vagina with steel wool than sleep with you.”

“That’s quite the description.”

“It’s true.”

I step closer. Close enough that she has to tilt her head back to see my face, and I can see the rapid flutter of her pulse in her throat.

“I take what I want, Sunny.” My voice is low. “But I will never take that from you.”

Her lips part on a breath she didn’t mean to let out.

I hold her gaze for one more second. Then I step back and head for the door.

“You’re leaving?” she asks, surprised.

“I have work to do.”

“Tonight?”

“And every night. I’m very rarely in the penthouse. You might want to find a hobby. Goodnight, Sunny.”

I don’t look back.

I take the elevator down to my office, close the door, and sit at my desk.

I pull open a file and start reading. The words blur. I read the same line four times but retain nothing.

I hope the fucking capos are happy.

16

SUNNY

He’s gone. Again.

My husband has a habit of walking out mid-conversation. I should be happy, but it’s infuriating, especially when I want to yell at him.

Noticing the bottle of champagne on ice on the kitchen counter, I pick it up and work the cork with both thumbs until it pops.

I drink straight from the bottle, one hand pressed against the counter and the other holding it to my lips as I chug.

The bubbles fizz into my sinuses, and I cough as champagne dribbles down my chin.