Page 138 of Sexting the Boss

Then Nina spots me.

Her lips curve just slightly—not a smile. More like ahm, interesting.

And just like that, the talking stops.

Damien turns, following her gaze. His eyes lock with mine.

I don’t move. Neither does he.

For a second, none of us say a word.

Then Nina glances between us like she’s reading a page in a book she already knows the ending to.

I hate that my heart is pounding. I hate that I feel like the outsider.

Damien takes a slow step toward me, expression unreadable. My pulse thunders in my ears as I plant my feet where I stand, jaw set.

“Well,” Nina says lightly, adjusting the strap of her designer bag. “This explains a few things.”

I don’t answer. I can’t. I’m too busy trying to figure out if I’m supposed to throw a shoe or laugh hysterically.

Damien glances over his shoulder at her, then back at me. “Sasha?—”

“Don’t,” I say, holding up a hand. “Don’tSashame right now.”

He stops, arms hanging loosely at his sides. “It’s not what you think.”

“Oh? Because from where I’m standing, it sure looks like you’re having a secret garden moment with your ex-girlfriend in the middle of Versailles.”

Nina snorts, completely unbothered. “Still as dramatic as ever, Damien.”

“Still as unwelcome,” he mutters.

I raise a brow at him. “So…what is she doing here?”

He exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “She showed up uninvited.”

“Correction,” Nina says with a smile. “I showed up concerned. You haven’t returned any of my messages. I thought something had happened. Or someone.” Her eyes flick back to me.

I cross my arms. “You’re very subtle.”

“I try,” she says sweetly.

“Enough,” Damien snaps, stepping between us. “Sasha, go inside. I’ll handle this.”

I don’t move. “You’ll handle this?”

His jaw tightens. “Yes.”

I stare at him for a long moment. His tone is firm, his face hard—but I see it. That flicker in his eyes. Like he’s not mad at me—he’s mad at everything else.

Still.

I give him a short nod, turn on my heel, and walk away.

And as I head back toward the mansion, every step feels like a matchstick dragging across pavement. By the time I get back inside, my hands are clenched into fists, my chest tight, and I’m seriously considering rage-eating a croissant the size of my head.

Why was she here?

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