Page 103 of A Forgotten Promise

“So you think it’s a mistake?”

“Not necessarily. But escalating the war between the two of you might not lead you to your trust fund.”

I sag on to the mattress. “This is such a fucked-up situation.”

“The sooner it’s over, the better. You need to get away from him and finally focus on yourself.”

“Yeah.” I smile sadly. “I better go get ready. Love you.”

“Love you, too. Good luck tonight, and don’t spare any details tomorrow morning.”

You need to get away from him and finally focus on yourself.

The irony is Corm has been encouraging me to focus on myself. He’s been caring for me in his own roundabout way. Plus we had mind-blowing sex.

And yet… we still end up on opposite sides of the barricade. Life was easier when I hated him.

Now?

A part of me wants another glimpse of the man who cares and encourages me—and delivers the best orgasms—but a part of me can’t even look at him because of his games.

The man is utterly infuriating. But more infuriating is that I don’t hate him as much as I used to. Goddammit.

And don’t get me started on the bomb his mom dropped. Yes, there is curiosity cruising through my veins, but there is also a stupid—and quite selfish—sense of dejection. I shared my fears with him, and he never even eluded to the turmoil of his situation.

I take a shower, blow-dry my hair into loose waves, and apply minimal makeup. The whole routine takes less than forty minutes, but the task itself gives me some sense of purpose.

Maybe taking care of myself is the first step in self-discovery. On a whim, I pick the red dress and call an Uber.

As soon as the car pulls up in front of the club, my stomach constricts with both excitement and dread.

I’ve never been to a sex club, and my curiosity is piqued. Corm hasn’t come home for a few nights now, so I assume he’s here.

But there is a part of me that hopes I won’t find him. It makes no sense, because if I don’t find him here, then I have no ammunition to fight for the stupid marriage.

He’d better be here, because I fucking have had enough of this dependency on other men. In any case, I hope his people will report to him where I am. Shit. What if he doesn’t come even then?

I shed the thought and get out of the car in front of an unassuming residential building. It’s a brownstone like so many others in Chelsea. What the hell? Did I get the address wrong?

The soft glow of the streetlamps reflects off the wet pavement while a light drizzle kisses my face. New York is having fun with the April weather.

Okay, showtime, before I look like a wet puppy. I square my shoulders and take the few steps to the front door, half disappointed I’m probably at the wrong address.

The door swings open. “Good evening, ma’am. Isn’t the street quiet today?” a man in a tuxedo greets me.

“I prefer it a bit more crowdy,” I respond with the code Cal gave me.

He steps to the side and lets me in. My heart beats so fast and loud, I wonder if he can hear it as I step into a tiny, dark reception area.

“Welcome to The Velvet Room.” A young hostess dressed in a red corset and dark flared pants smiles from behind a sleek black counter. “May I have your phone?”

“My phone?”

She draws her eyebrows together, still smiling. “No phones are allowed here. Is this your first time?”

How am I going to take pics of him? Goddammit. “Yes, my first time.”

I breathe in and out, calming my nerves. Not that the intake of oxygen does anything. I hand her my phone.

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