Page 147 of Sexting the Boss

I hit send and drop the phone on the comforter, then stare at the floor like it personally offended me.

Damien got what he wanted. That thought won’t stop circling.

I let him in—completely, stupidly, with my body, my thoughts, all of it. And now he’s just gone. No explanation, no goodbye, no “hey, sorry for storming off after I implied my ex could do no wrong.”

Maybe he did just want the chase. The challenge. The texting. The sex.

And now that he’s had all of it…

I roll over and bury my face into the pillow with a loud groan.

God, I’m such an idiot.

24

DAMIEN

The sun’sstarting to dip low, bleeding gold across the estate. I’m in my study going through the updates with Oleg and Roman.

Roman leans one arm against the window frame, sipping from a chipped mug that belongs in the trash but somehow survived ten years of loyal service in my house. He’s watching something below, a little too amused for my liking.

“I see your two women are getting along well,” he says.

I lift my head from the reports Oleg dropped on my desk and walk over, peering out over the estate grounds through the wide glass window that spans half the wall.

There they are—my mother and Sasha—walking side by side in the garden, just beyond the trimmed hedges, down the gravel path that winds beneath the flowering trees. My mother’s gesturing animatedly, and Sasha—wearing one of my hoodies like she owns the place—is laughing. Actually laughing. That light, careless kind she rarely lets loose.

My mother’s face is bright. Relaxed.

I can’t remember the last time she looked so content.

And it punches something in my chest I wasn’t expecting.

“Thought they might claw each other’s eyes out when you first brought her here,” Roman adds. “Considering how protective Ekaterina is of you.”

“Sasha’s not the clawing type,” I mutter.

“She’s the sneaking-around-in-your-bed type,” he says, tone too casual.

I glare at him.

“Relax.” He shrugs. “I like her. And your mother clearly loves her. Look at that—Ekaterina hasn’t smiled like that since before the fire at the vineyard.”

I grunt, unsure what to do with the knot forming in my stomach. Something tight and unfamiliar.

“How long’s she staying?” Roman asks, straightening. “You planning to tell her she lives here now, or…?”

I say nothing.

Because I don’t know the answer.

And I should.

I should’ve known the moment I brought her here two weeks ago, the moment I started making her sleep in my bed, touched her like I wasn’t dragging her into something dark and heavy and not meant for someone like her.

Oleg clears his throat, mercifully derailing the conversation. “We should brief her properly about Lev. Not just a name and a vague warning—she needs to understand the risk.”

“I already told her,” I say.

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