Page 11 of Pretending I'm Yours

“I quit, effective immediately,” I repeat. “To be specific, I walked out in the middle of a board meeting and told my assistant to pack up my office because I wouldn’t be back.”

“Holy shit.” Twyla leans forward, drink abandoned as her perfectly manicured nails drum against her desk. “You finally lost it. I knew you would, sooner or later. You’re too tightly wound for things to end any other way.”

I exhale a tight laugh. “I’m not tightly wound, and I didn’t lose it.”

She arches a challenging brow.

I drag a hand through my hair. “I mean, I don’t think I did. The what-the-fuck-did-I-do is setting in now, but at the time…I was calm. It suddenly became clear to me that I was done with it. All of it. With private equity and board meetings and maximizing profits at all costs.” I sigh. “The game doesn’t feel worth playing anymore. That part of my life is over.” As I say the words, a certainty deep in my bones assures me they’re true. “Now, it’s time to figure out what comes next.”

Twyla nods, her gaze sharpening with interest. “Hell, yes, my friend. This is how we level up! This is how we evolve and become the people we’re meant to be. Tell me everything.”

So, I do. I tell her about the hollowness that’s been growing inside me, a numbness that crept in so slowly I didn’t realize how pervasive it had become until I looked into the mirror in my private bathroom this afternoon and was shocked by the flat, empty look in my own eyes. I tell her how the moment sent me down a rabbit hole, struggling to remember the lasttime I felt truly excited about anything aside from my morning run, deepening the suspicion that this was more than my usual winter blues.

“I tried to power through the meeting, but I couldn’t,” I finish. “I had to go. Right then. At the time, it felt like there was no other choice. But now…” I huff out a tight laugh. “I should have stayed, given at least six weeks’ notice,” I admit. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I have everything I ever wanted—a challenging job, the money to take care of my people, power, safety, the ability to change the world for the better, but I’m still…”

“Bored out of your brilliant mind,” Twyla finishes for me. She rises gracefully and moves back to the bar cart beside the bookshelves. “You need that second scotch. Don’t fight me, just tell me if you want it on the rocks or straight up.”

“Rocks, please.” I watch as she pours a generous measure of the peat-and-woodsmoke scented liquid into the glass. “I kept thinking it was just the holidays. It’s two years to the day since I walked in on Erica with the doorman.”

“Don’t blame this on Erica.” Twyla hands me a crystal tumbler and perches on the edge of her desk, crossing her arms. “Catching her in the act was a gift from the gods. Fate was looking out for you that day, my friend. You were bored to tears in that marriage long before she started sleeping with the doorman.”

I wince. “I wasn’t bored.”

“Youwere,” she doubles down, as allergic to bullshit and lies as she’s always been. “A part of you realized you’d been tricked into marrying someone who wasn’t nearly as ‘perfect for you’ as she seemed.”

I frown, hating that she’s right. Erica played me from the beginning, but I was too naïve, too new to being a very wealthyman to realize I was being hunted like a trophy, not pursued by someone who truly cared for the person I am.

“I never liked what being with her did to you,” Twyla continues. “She took the shine out of your eyes. You were living a lie with her, Anthony. A posh, high society lie, but a lie all the same.” She takes a sip of her scotch. “And that’s not acceptable for someone like you. You need more than that. You’re like me. You need authenticity and truth and challenges that keep you on your toes.”

“So, what’s your prescription, oh wise one?” I gesture around her office. “Should I open a rival sex club across town? Give you a run for your money?”

“You could try, but I’d have to kill you.” She adds with a grin, “And you wouldn’t be good at running a club, anyway. You’re too American. You have to have at least a little French in you to excel at running a business based in hedonistic pleasure. That’s why all the best restaurants in the city are French.” She winks. “But I do have an idea for you. Your timing is perfect actually. It’s like Fate arranged for you to be here tonight. Maybe Fate loves you on Christmas Eve.”

My brows lift. “Oh yeah?”

“Yes.” Her expression grows thoughtful—and a little wicked—as she studies me over the rim of her glass. “I just had a rather fascinating meeting with a brave young woman looking for something…specific.”

My heart squeezes in my chest.

Velvet…

I’m not one to believe in fate or signs from the universe, but the fact that Twyla brought the girl up without any prompt from me has my latent superstitious side perking up and taking notice. Still, I have to play it cool. I don’t want to let on that I’m interested until I’m sure what Twyla’s getting at. “Oh yeah? And that concerns me because…”

“Because you need a project,” she says without missing a beat. “Something meaningful to keep you busy while you meditate on what comes next. Something that will prove to you that your brilliant mind excels at things aside from numbers and raising a bloodthirsty private equity firm’s bottom line.”

“You were a fan of that bloodthirsty firm when it helped you open a second location in London,” I remind her.

“Don’t change the subject.” She sets her glass down with a decisive click. “This is perfect. For both of you. You need a distraction and some fun in your dreary, all-work-no-play life, and she needs someone experienced. Someone safe. Someone who can show her pleasure without taking advantage.” She bites the edge of her lip, her eyes dancing. “And you happen to be exactly what she asked for.”

“What did she ask for?” The words are out—swift and eager—before I can remind myself to exercise caution.

Twyla exhales a victorious sound. “I knew it! I knew you would have noticed her on her way in. She’s a diamond in the rough, isn’t she? A stunning, unspoiled beauty, just waiting for the right circumstances to help her step into her power. Her passion…” Twyla leans closer, adding in a softer voice, “but she didn’t come here looking for a club membership. She came as one of my more…discreet clients.”

My brows shoot up. “She wants to hire a prostitute?”

Twyla lets out a hissing sound and swats lightly at my shoulder. “Escort, my friend! I work with escorts. Very high-class, accomplished, well-vetted escorts.”

“Escorts who sleep with their clients,” I shoot back.

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