Page 11 of Bitter Arrangement

That’s a pleasant surprise. Mr. Fong is allegedly the head of an important Taiwanese cybersecurity firm that Dad’s planning on hiring in the near future for the family. I expected someone old and nerdy.

“Mr. Fong, this is my daughter, Riley,” Dad says, gesturing toward me.

“Please, call me Jeremy.” He smiles at me and shakes my hand. I’d guess he’s no older than thirty with dark, slicked-back hair, good cheekbones, and a charming smile. His suit is modern, slim, and fits his muscular frame very well. “It’s nice to meet you, Riley. I hope you don’t mind if your father and I talk boring computer business all night.”

“And I hope you don’t mind if I offer my unsolicited opinions on everything.”

He beams and pats my hand. “I’d like nothing more.”

Dad gives me a warning frown before ushering everyone into the dining room. I head into the kitchen to fetch everyone drinks, since my role is half hostess and half server for this evening. It’s annoying, but it beats hanging around in my room feeling miserable.

At least Jeremy’s charming and funny. He’s not really my type, but I can appreciate his confidence. He sits across from my father and discusses numbers and services with the ease of a man who typically gets what he wants. I chime in a few times, mostly out of boredom, and because Dad’s not going to correct me in front of a stranger.

About halfway through the meal, though, my phone vibrates. I frown down at the screen. It’s a text from an unknown, strange number.

I made a mistake a few weeks back.

That’s all it says. I frown, not sure what the heck to make of that, until I realize I’m being rude and excuse myself. Neither man really notices when I leave the room.

Who is this?

The number responds right away.

I deleted the footage of you in my bed. But don’t worry, my thief, my pillow still smells like your shampoo.

My heart starts beating rapidly. I have to pour myself a glass of wine, and my hands are shaking as I drink it. My god, the implications of that text rattle through my brain. I knew he was recording—it was a security system after all—but for whatever reason, it never occurred to me that he might keep the footage.

I have to take a minute to decide how I’m going to reply.

Riley: I’m glad you got rid of it. That’d be weird if you had porn of me on your computer.

Alexan: Is it porn if it was made for me?

Riley: More like madebecauseof you. What would you do if you hadn’t gotten rid of it?

Alexan: Watch it over and over. Stroke my cock and think about your little mewling moans. You sound so fucking cute when you’re debasing yourself in my bed, little slut.

Holy fucking shit.

I stare at the text, mouth hanging open.

This isn’t what I expected tonight. I figured I was in for a really boring meal filled mostly with talk about contracts and payments.

Not some random steamy sexting.

Riley: Is this a booty call right now?

Alexan: I was just thinking about you. And smelling you.

I’d call him creepy, but that’s exactly what I’ve been doing too.

Riley: Want to know something? I’m wearing your shirt right now.

Alexan: Show me. Right now.

My stomach does flips, and I’m smiling to myself as I go into the bathroom. I take a quick selfie, hate it, delete it, take another, and another until finally one looks good enough to send.

Alexan: Looks like you really are mine already.

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