Page 91 of Triplet Trouble For My Billionaire Boss

I’d begged him. Actually begged him. Begged him to eat me, touch me, fuck me.

My grip on the sink tightens as shame rises in my chest, hot and heavy.

What kind of person am I to have enjoyed that? To have been so obedient, so eager? To have given him control so easily?

I shake my head, trying to push the thoughts away, but they cling to me like a second skin.

By the time I’ve changed into a loose pair of sweatpants and a tank top, the shame has morphed into something heavier, something that sits like a lump in my throat. My eyes sting, and I blink rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall.

Refusing to give in, just sit on the floor in a little ball and weep.

Just as I’m stepping out of the bathroom, the door to my bedroom opens, and Cole strides in, a tray balanced in his hands.

I freeze, my heart lurching in my chest as the shame amplifies and nearly makes me throw up. “What are you doing here?”

He raises an eyebrow, unfazed by my sharp tone. “Bringing you breakfast.”

I glance at the tray—fresh fruit, golden French toast, orange juice—and suddenly feel sick. “I don’t want any,” I say quickly, turning away from him.

“Youdon’t want to eat anything? Evelyn made French toast.” His voice is calm, steady. Too steady.

“I’m not hungry,” I say, my tone implying that I don’t want him there.

“You should eat a little anyway,” he says, still in the same patient tone.

“I said I’m not hungry,” I snap, my voice harsher than I intended, and I don’t know why.

The embarrassment heaps on. Why am I acting like a petulant child? I cross my arms over my chest and glare at him.

He sets the tray down on the small table near the window, moving with deliberate ease as if my irritation doesn’t faze him in the slightest. “You don’t have to eat all of it,” he says, turning to face me. “But you should eat something. You’ll feel better.”

The weight of his gaze feels like it’s pinning me in place. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to have this conversation. I don’t want him to see me like this—tired, embarrassed, barely holding it together.

With the memory of last night hanging over our heads. The way I’d acted with him—shameless and desperate. The things I’d said…

My cheeks heat, and I hug my arms tighter around myselfbefore I give in and start crying.

But he just continues to look at me with patience, and it’s irritating me. “How are you feeling this morning?”

His question throws me off balance. I glance away, unable to hold his gaze. “I told you. I’m fine.”

He exhales slowly, and the calm in his expression finally cracks, just a little. There’s a flicker of something—concern? Frustration? I can’t tell.

“No,” he says, taking a step closer. “You’re not.”

I bristle at his observation, the heat in my cheeks intensifying. It’s a wonder I haven’t burst into flames. “Yes, I am. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone.”

Instead of leaving, he steps closer, his green eyes searching mine. “Talk to me, Annie.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” I say, taking a step back.

I stiffen as he reaches for me, but his hand doesn’t touch me. Instead, he gestures toward the small sitting room off my bedroom.

“Come on,” he says gently. “Let’s sit down.”

“I don’t want to sit down,” I mutter, backing up a step.

“Just for a minute. I want to talk to you.”

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