Page 94 of Thor

The implication was clear, and rage flashed hot through my veins, temporarily overwhelming the shame and fear. That he would reduce what Thor and I had to something tawdry—that he would take something pure and twist it—made me want to slap the smug expression off his face.

"I'm a certified public accountant with seven years of experience," I said, my voice deadly quiet. "I managed complex portfolios worth millions of dollars. My personal life is irrelevant to my professional qualifications."

Phillips laughed, the sound grating against my nerves like sandpaper.

"Your 'personal life' involves dressing up like a toddler for one of the most dangerous men in Ironridge. You really think anyone's going to hire you after seeing these? Half the business owners in town have these photos on their phones by now."

Nausea rose in my throat. The room felt too hot, too small. I couldn't get enough air. The walls of my carefully constructed life were crumbling around me, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

Slowly, I stood. My legs felt unsteady beneath me, but I forced myself to stand straight, to maintain what little dignity I had left.

"I appreciate your time, Mr. Phillips," I said, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounded, "but I don't think this position is right for me."

His laugh followed me as I turned to leave. "Good luck finding someone who'll hire you now!" he called after me. "Maybe the Kings need a babysitter!"

I didn't respond. I didn't look back. I walked through the reception area with my chin up, ignoring the receptionist's curious stare. Only when I reached the stairwell did I allow my composure to slip, gripping the railing so tightly my knuckles turned white as I descended to the parking lot.

The heat hit me like a wall when I stepped outside, but I barely felt it. My mind was racing, cataloging the damage. He must have just googled me and found the pictures. Maybe someone at Prestige had leaked them? If Phillips could find those photos, then anyone could. Every potential employer. Everyone I'd ever worked with at Prestige. My professional reputation wasn't just damaged—it was obliterated.

I made it to my car on autopilot, fumbling with the keys three times before managing to unlock the door. Once inside, I sat perfectly still, staring through the windshield at nothing.

It was over. All of it. Everything I'd worked for. Everything I'd built. All gone because someone had leaked those photos. Because I'd trusted Thor with the most vulnerable part of myself. Because I'd let myself believe I could have both worlds—the professional success and the personal fulfillment.

I was a fool. And now I was paying for it.

Isatinmyrentalcar—a ten-year-old Civic that smelled faintly of fast food and someone else's cologne—and stared at the steering wheel like it might offer answers.

My Audi was still, presumably, in Thor’s garage. I’d get it back some time, but no doubt I’d sell it as soon as I got it. I needed cash, especially as it felt like my last hope of employment in this town had evaporated like morning dew.

Something broke inside me then. A dam I'd been desperately shoring up for days finally cracked, sending a torrent of emotion rushing through me. I slammed my palm against the steering wheel once, twice, then couldn't stop. My hands curled into fists, pounding against the cheap plastic as sobs tore from my throat.

"Fuck!" I screamed, the word exploding from me with such force it hurt my throat. "Fuck, fuck, FUCK!"

Every blow against the wheel was punctuated by a sob or a curse. I cried for my lost career, for my shattered privacy, for Amy's treatments hanging in the balance. I cried for the sacred trust that had been violated when those photos were leaked. I cried for Thor, for the look of betrayal on his face in the park, for the loss of the one place I'd felt truly safe to be myself.

My hands stung. My throat ached. Tears and snot ran down my face, but I couldn't stop. Months—years—of carefully controlled emotions poured out of me in a frenzy of frustrated rage.

"Seven fucking years," I sobbed, my voice ragged. "Seven fucking years of perfect work, and they just—" I couldn't finish the sentence.

My phone rang, cutting through my breakdown. I ignored it, too far gone in my grief to care. It stopped, then started again almost immediately. On the third ring, I grabbed it with shaking hands, ready to scream at whoever was interrupting my meltdown.

The screen displayed "Memorial Hospital." It was the fourth call today.

I wiped at my face with the sleeve of my jacket, smearing tears and makeup across the cheap fabric. I couldn't ignore them anymore. Amy was receiving treatment right now. If they canceled it because of non-payment . . .

I took a deep, shuddering breath and answered.

"Hello?" My voice sounded like I'd been gargling broken glass.

"Ms. Wright? This is Linda from Memorial Hospital Financial Services. We've been trying to reach you urgently."

I closed my eyes, leaning my forehead against the steering wheel.

"I know. I'm sorry." The words came out in a cracked whisper. "I lost my job and the insurance. I'm trying to figure something out for Amy's treatments." My voice broke on my sister's name. "Please don't stop them. I can sell my car, maybe get a loan—"

"Ms. Wright," Linda interrupted, her tone gentler than I expected. "That's not why we're calling."

I blinked, confused. "It's not?"

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