Page 20 of The Rebel

‘We need to talk.’ He reaches over and closes my laptop, leaving me under no illusions it’s about work. Like I had any doubt after that cream incident.

‘Are you breaking up with me?’ I deadpan, increasingly confused by his changing moods.

One minute he’s all business and avoiding me, the next he’s staring at me like he wants to impersonate a caveman again.

‘I want you to hear me out.’

I nod my agreement but rather than his perpetual glower fading, his frown lines deepen.

‘This arrangement isn’t working for me.’

My heart plummets. I can’t lose this job. It means too much. The last cruel taunt that Casper flung in my face was that I’d never make it on my own, either in or out of the boardroom. He laughed at my dreams to open my own PR agency, one of the many reasons why I dumped him. He mocked me to the point I began to doubt myself.

Which is why I need to do a killer job on this campaign and hang my eponymous shingle ASAP to a prove a point, not just to the world but to the biggest doubter ever: me.

That’s what I hated most about Casper: he made me lose myself. I loved him blindly and threw myself wholeheartedly into our relationship, not realising until it was too late that he was sapping me mentally and emotionally. He liked to control everything, from where and when we ate to who we socialised with. He distanced me from my family, my friends, and I happily sacrificed so much because I thought he adored me as much as I did him.

It took me too long to figure out he wasn’t as emotionally invested as me and that I was yet another object in his perfectly timetabled life: it was time for him to marry and I was a convenient choice.

Though it wasn’t until he started belittling my choices and demonstrating an underlying cruelly dominant streak that he frightened me and I realised I had to escape.

Love doesn’t suit me. It made me give up too much. It made me lose confidence in myself and deep down I know that’s the real reason I won’t quit my job even though I yearn to.

Maybe I’m not as good as I think?

Casper sapped my confidence to the extent I doubt everything and it’s this residual lack of assurance that is keeping me tethered to Alf.

I want to move past it, which is why doing a stellar job on this campaign will go a long way to securing what I want most: to be a competent, admired, advertising professional ready to take on the world.

I hated the woman I became with Casper. A woman who’d never take charge of her sexuality, the way I did with Hart.

I felt so empowered after that kiss on the beach and later, screwing him in that cave. I like who I’m evolving into: stronger, bolder, in control.

Until this guy lays a finger on me and then I unravel.

‘Daisy, are you listening? I said this arrangement isn’t working for me.’

‘I thought you were happy with my work—’

‘It’s not that.’ The grooves bracketing his mouth deepen and I hear a muttered ‘fuck’ under his breath. ‘I can’t stop thinking about you. It’s distracting and affecting my work.’

Join the club, buddy.

I remain mute, curious as to where he’s going with this.

‘What do you think about a clearcut, short-term arrangement, where we indulge our passion?’

He sounds so formal, so old-fashioned, that I want to laugh. Some of my amusement must show on my too readable face because his mouth compresses into a thin line.

‘You find my proposal funny?’

‘Just the delivery. You sound like you’ve stepped out of the Austen era.’

The glower intensifies. He’s not amused. ‘Would you prefer if I said I want to fuck you every which way until you leave?’

Another wave of heat flushes my body. I’m too young for menopause but if this is what it’s like I’m not looking forward to it.

‘I prefer blunt,’ I manage to say, resisting the urge to fan my face.

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