Page 70 of Their Arrangement

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I clicked.

Couldn’t read it.

Tried again.

Realized I’d been holding my breath.

The chair creaked as I stood.

I didn’t excuse myself.

Didn’t ask.

I walked.

Too fast.

The corset pinched with every step. The garter tugged at my thighs. The lace between my legs was wetter than it had been an hour ago.

And I hated how much of it was still want.

More eyes tracked me.

A throat cleared.

A muttered, “She’s going to cry.”

I turned left.

The private bathroom was at the end of the hall.

I reached for the handle.

Shoved the door open.

Slid the lock shut behind me.

And dropped to the floor like my knees had finally surrendered.

The tile was cold. Clean. Too clean. No echo. No witness.

I pressed my back to the wall. Let the porcelain chill seep into my spine. My heels dug into the tile.

I was wearing lingerie someone else chose.

A corset that wasn’t just tight—it was possessive.

I couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think.

I reached back, fingers clawing for the ribbon.

Silk threads. Tight boning.

My arm twisted. I stretched. Higher.

Couldn’t reach it.

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