Page 80 of Duplicity

Maybe he’s pissed off that I’m leaving him in the lurch and he’s taking it out on me. Maybe he’s freaking out that his solidly transactional no-strings-attached office sex is turning into pianoduets and daytime naps. I don’t know, and to be honest it doesn’t matter.

Because you know what? He’s right. He may not be communicating his emotions in the most evolved way, and his entitled, dismissive behaviour may be hurting me more than I care to let on, but the guy is right to pull back, to redraw his boundaries. God knows, one of us has to.

So yes. I’m determined to view this trip as a forced reset, a chance for us both to regroup. When I return, my daughter will be in possession of a shiny new, fully functioning pulmonary valve and I’ll be in a position of greater strength. Once I have a better idea of the cost of her ongoing medical needs over the next few years, I can set myself an end date for this job and stick to it.

And I vow to myself that I’ll exercise more agency next time. I’ll choose a position that doesn’t involve me selling my soul. I won’t even tolerate dickheads like my previous boss, Dean. I’m done with being at the mercy of power-hungry guys at every level of management.

There’s only today to get through. I dress carefully. I’m sure Brendan will want his fill of me before I go off on leave, and why shouldn’t he? I wear a flirty little pale blue fit-and-flare dress and some of his favourite white lace underwear, and I go to work prepared to service my boss in whatever way he requires today. In my mind, his treating me like a whore this week is my penance for lying to him. For using him to secure my daughter’s future.

It’s just one day. I can handle whatever he gives me.

‘I’ll miss this while you’re gone,’ Brendan comments, but his tone is idle, borderline disinterested. Which would be fine if we weren’t in the position that we’re in right now. As it is, I’m lying in my underwear on the carpet in his office as he straddles me, his huge body braced above me, his thick thighs in their fine wool trousers bracketing my head. With one hand he pins my wrists above my head, while he uses the other to feed me his dick.

I don’t answer him because I can’t. My mouth is too full of his dick, my focus entirely on not suffocating and not choking. From here, he looks evil and powerful and foolhardy: a dangerous combination.

‘You’re very good at it, you know,’ he continues, his tone callous. ‘If you do a truly excellent job of making me come then I promise I’ll fantasise about it when I’ve got another woman in this exact position next week.’

It’s the most backhanded of compliments, and it stings, humiliates, just as much as he intends it to do. I hope he considers himself lucky that my mouth is too full to answer him.

He pulls out slowly and groans before jamming his dick so far down my throat that I audibly gag. Even through my blind, teary panic, I register how gorgeous he is. He’s right, of course. He can have as many women as he wants lying here for him next week, sucking his dick when I’m not here to entertain him. But with the jealousy comes disgust that he would be as tasteless as to ram that point home right as he’s ramming his dick home inside my body.

He’s lashing out, going on the attack like a hurt little boy, and it makes me despise him. God knows, it’s occasions like this that underscore just how fully we seraphs earn every penny of our money.

‘Don’t think I’m going to make you come,’ he’s saying now, seemingly fascinated with the sight of his dick disappearing pastmy lips. ‘I have a plan for you later. If you want that orgasm, you can have it. Just remember, love, beggars can’t be choosers.’

Ain’t that the truth, mister.

Ahead of the International Green Building Summit, Brendan has organised a Friday afternoon working lunch at the office for some of his bros (his word) at competing firms. The theory is that, every now and then, they get together to shoot the breeze, bitch about some of the biggest contractors, and share trade secrets which I imagine include which government officials have palms they can grease and other equally shady topics.

I just hope his bro-lunch improves his personality. While his aggressive blow job earlier seems to have taken the edge off his foul mood, it could use more help. I really don’t like this churlish, sulky side of him.

He meant what he said about bros. When his business associates file into the large meeting room down the corridor from his offices, there is not a single female-identifying professional among them. Sullivan Construction may talk the talk on diversity and equality, but it seems that at the upper echelons of this industry, the old boys’ network still runs like clockwork.

I leave them to their silver buckets full of champagne and endless platters of Nobu sushi—no coffee and dried-out sandwiches for these big hitters—and settle at my desk. I’m intent on ensuring that I’ve done everything possible to make this handover as smooth as possible for Elaine.

The strategy team is still putting the finishing touches to the high-tech slideshow that will accompany Brendan’s speech, but I’ve been working with them on compiling a briefing document for Brendan with answers to the most likely questions he’ll field.

I’ve also spent a large chunk of my time liaising with our in-house PR team to fill his schedule of press interviews and with our Commercial Director and her team on prepping him for meetings with various European governments who may be keen to commission Sullivan for overseas projects.

It’s a lot, and it doesn’t assuage my guilt about leaving Brendan in the lurch for the biggest event of his year, even if I tell myself that the majority of the work—and skill—lies in the pre-event organisation. By the time he rocks up at the conference, he should be fully prepped and ready to smash it.

After a couple of hours, I take a call from the console in the meeting room. It’s Brendan. ‘Come through for a sec, will you, love?’

‘Sure.’ He shouldn’t really be calling melovein front of his mates, but it’s not an uncommon term of endearment, so hopefully it’ll slide. I stand and grab my notepad and pen, heading down the corridor to the meeting room. I hear them before I see them—a rowdy, unintelligible jumble of male voices. And when I open the door, the odour of booze hits me. It smells like a brewery in here. The table is littered with empty champagne bottles and remnants of food, and most of the men have ditched their jackets and rolled their shirt sleeves up.

‘Here she is!’ Brendan shouts. ‘The woman of the hour.’ He leans back in his chair at the head of the table and grins at me. He looks gorgeous, if pretty dishevelled, and I smile back at him.

‘Come here, come here!’ He beckons me over in an exaggerated manner and I go to him. ‘Guys.Guys.This is Marlowe, myverybeautiful assistant, who’s also incredibly competent ateverythingshe does. Isn’t that right, baby?’ Heclamps a hand to my bottom, and I freeze. What the hell is he doing?

There are disorderly catcalls at Brendan’s crude words. I feel like a stripper who’s been booked for a stag party. I stare down at him, willing him with my eyes to rein it in or let me go, but his grin has turned dark, and there’s a callous expression on his handsome face now.

‘Did you need something?’ I ask, hoping the stiffness of my tone tells him how low my tolerance level for this shit is.

He pretends to consider. ‘I don’t know. Do we need something? I knowIneed something. I always need something from you, but you don’t care, do you? You’re buggering off for two weeks.’ He squeezes my bottom before sliding his hand down the back of my thigh. When he finds the hem of my dress, he burrows underneath it and moves his hand upwards. My entire body goes still, and there’s a flash of heat across my face and neck.

‘Brendan,’ I hiss.

‘What? Like I said, you’re fucking off for a fortnight. I think you owe me. Who here thinks this pretty little lady owes me?’

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