Page 93 of Their Arrangement

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One message.

WOLFE:

You want to be wrecked?

Next time—I'll leave fingerprints where he was never allowed to look.

I cried.

Because I’d never be clean again.

Because now that I’d tasted him?—

I would never stop starving.

12

CLOE

I didn’t sleep.

Not really.

I left Wolfe’s bed just before dawn—legs sore, throat raw, skin aching in places no one had touched. I dressed in silence. Didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Because if I had… I might’ve begged.

He let me go.

I think that hurt more than if he hadn’t.

I walked home barefoot. The heels didn’t make it through the hallway. The city felt colder than usual. Or maybe I did.

By the time I got inside, my body felt hollow.

I stripped in the dark. Stood under the shower until the water went cold. Sat on the edge of the tub with my knees pulled to my chest.

I couldn’t cry.

I didn’t have it in me.

But the ache between my thighs wouldn’t fade.

And the message he’d sent still echoed in my bones:

Next time—I’ll leave fingerprints where he was never allowed to look.

I wore my hair up.

Tight twist. Not a curl out of place. No ribbon this time. No softness. Just clean lines and an exposed neck and the ache of self-control threading through every strand I pinned into place.

My makeup was minimal.

No foundation. No blush.

Just bare lips and mascara thick at the corners to make my eyes seem harder than they were.

The dress was simple. Black. Sleeveless. Ribbed knit that clung to my body in silence. The neckline kissed my collarbones, and the slit up my left thigh wasn’t obscene… but it was intentional.

No bra. No jewelry. Just a pair of red-bottom stilettos—loaned from Camille’s collection and never returned—that made every step sound like a countdown.

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