Page 90 of Enemies

“You’re leaving?” I ask quietly.

“I have to talk to the police. Leni texted to say it can’t wait until morning.” He dresses quickly and competently, knotting his tie and adjusting it. Every motion is as smooth and natural as how he moved inside me moments ago. “I’ll be back before you wake.”

The wave of anxiety sneaks up on me, settles into a vicious knot in my chest. I press a fist to my ribs under the sheets and silently count each shallow breath. “Promise?”

His gaze flicks to mine.

I’m not the woman who needs anyone’s assurance. But now, in the dark, after what happened tonight... I’m not ready to be alone.

Whatever he sees on my face has him crossing to me, pressing a soft kiss to my lips.

“I promise.”

Then he’s gone.

21

RAE

I’ve had a lot of sleepless nights. I was prepared for this to be among the worst.

But when I roll from my back onto my side, the first thing I notice is warm, golden light.

The soreness creeping into my awareness is the second. The spot between my thighs aches, but so does my face.

I blink my eyes open to see pale curtains waving in the breeze from the half-opened window, beckoning me into the world.

The scent of Harrison King lingering on the pillows makes me want to press my face into the covers.

But he’s not here.

I sit up. There’s no clock, but judging by the light, it’s late. I reach for my phone on the bedside table to see if he’s texted.

He hasn’t.

But there’s another slate of messages.

Callie: WTF is going on?

Followed by a link.

Confusion crowds into the worry as I click the link she sent, waiting for the article to load.

Feminist DJ Caught with Businessman She Trolled: Was It All a PR Stunt?

It’s by the reporter I met in person here in Ibiza. I barely have time to process that before the photos load.

The first is of me in the booth at the club last night. It’s my wig, along with my gold dress, and I look powerful. It’s the kind of shot clubs want for their promotions, that makes people groan they missed out on the hottest party and line up for next week’s tickets.

The second photo is darker and harder to make out.

A woman, seated on something dark and out of frame, her dress high enough to expose her legs. Legs wrapped around a man in an untucked dress shirt, his dirty-blond hair and sharp bone structure visible in profile.

His hand is fisted in her hair, the other on her hip beneath the edge of the gold dress, just visible beneath the jacket wrapped around her shoulders.

They could be fucking. He could be deep inside her the moment this image was taken, his grip on her helping him chase his release.

Except they’re not, because they’re us. Harrison and me in a moment I never imagined being captured by another person. But the photo was taken last night at the club.

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