Page 46 of Vivacity
He clears his throat. ‘I want exclusivity.’
I laugh. I actually laugh. He came upstairs after our little altercation, and his first reaction was to pull this thing out of his filing cabinet? You’ve got to be kidding me. ‘Hard pass.’
‘Why?’ He leans forward, gripping his armrests. ‘You can’t possibly be getting better orgasms elsewhere.’
I stare at him, at the memory in those grey eyes. Because I remember too, and it’s very fucking unhelpful. ‘It’s not about the orgasms.’ There’s no point in lying, after all. We both know that he fucks me like no one else can… when he wants to play ball, that is.
‘What is it about then? Money?’
‘No. Not exactly.’
I can’t exactly tell him that it’s really about my determination to ensure that I reserve a decent portion of my time and energy for healthier, more regulating relationships with people who’ve worked on themselves and aren’t the emotional equivalent of traumatised five-year-olds. It’s time to deflect. ‘What is it about for you?’
He stiffens further. I know this is hard for him. I’m sure he’s been hoping that I’ll just roll over and he won’t have to divulge any vulnerabilities.
But I’m not about to make it easier. He has to understand the parameters of this relationship, and he has to respect my need for space and boundaries. That’s the crux of it.
So I cross my legs and wait.
‘I need to have more… certainty with you. More control of the situation. I appreciate that I may have… jumped to conclusions down there, and I apologise, okay? But I find that things work best when I’m in the driving seat, and so I’m afraid I require that. Control, I mean. Over, er, you.’
I would like it noted here that I deserve a very shiny gold star for not laughing. Wow, this handsome, infuriating Eight would make a fantastic case study for an Enneagram course. Instead, I lean forward and attempt to engage on a rational basis.
‘Do you remember when I told you you needed a sub? That’s what a sub would give you. Full control. That’s not me. The only way you get me is as a free agent.’
‘I don’t want a sub. I’m not kinky like that. But I need more power over you,’ he insists. I wish he didn’t look so forlorn. He’s making this far harder than it should be, even if he is being an overbearing wanker.
‘Ethan.’ I interlace my fingers and rest them on my crossed legs. I feel like a therapist which, honestly, is what it seems I’m becoming for this guy. An unqualified therapist. ‘I say this with respect. You saying I should give you more control because you“need it” is like a heroin addict telling me I should give him more crack because he “needs it”. Do you understand?’
I mean, as messages go, it’s pretty hard-hitting, but sometimes you need to go for a blunt delivery. My instincts tell me anything less brutal would fall on deaf ears.
That said, his expression is blank. ‘I’m not an addict.’
‘No, you’re not a drug addict. But we all have our coping mechanisms, and yours, it seems, is control, and the feeling it gives you can become addictive. When you’re in the driving seat, as you said, you feel safer, and when you’re not, you feel unsafe. And none of that is shameful or problematic or your fault. Actually, it’s a really fantastic self-protective mechanism that your nervous system has developed. But the more unsafe you feel, the more and more you’ll want to control everything. Especially your relationships.’
I pause, because this is a hell of a mirror I’m holding up for someone who’s not remotely self-aware. ‘And my job isn’t to enable you. It’s to uphold my boundaries so that I can be well and regulated and able to function properly. It’s not to feed your excessive need for control.’
‘I don’t have an excessive need,’ he insists. ‘I just—I would like to know that we were exclusive so I don’t need to worry about sexual health issues, and also I’d like to negotiate that I get to go bare with you. The condoms are bothering me. Oh, and I’d like to be able to see you some evenings, for sex, if that’s an amendment you’re willing to negotiate.’
I sigh and push myself up to standing. This guy is gaslighting me less than he’s gaslighting himself. He hasn’t heard a single word I’ve said except forno,and it’s not his fault. It’s really not. Those bodyguard, or protector, parts are so firmly in the driving seat that he’s operating with very little sense of Self, and those parts will be working very hard right now to ensure that he doesn’t try to derail their agendas.
‘It’s a no, Ethan. I’m enjoying this job, honestly. The sex is great, and the work is interesting. But my take is that you’re in a very dysregulated place, with little to no interest in tackling that, and that makes it less enjoyable for me to spend time with you. I’m sorry, but it’s true. It’s important that I have the freedom to seek healthy relationships—and sex—outside of this.’ I pause and deliver my punchline. ‘And I’m heading to Alchemy tomorrow night with the seraphim, so there’s no way I’m negotiating any kind of exclusivity agreement today. Not on your life.’
CHAPTER 22
Ethan
Sophia may be off on what strikes me as an ill-advised and irresponsible night out tonight at Alchemy, but she’s here right now. A small part of me feels marginally guilty that I’m making her work a second consecutive Saturday, but a far larger and more forceful part needs to know she’s safe and here and within my orbit.
The sense of conflict between those two emotions has me wondering, for just a moment, if that’s what Sophia means whenever she bangs on about my ‘parts’. I’m damned if I’ll give her the satisfaction of asking her to elaborate on her psychobabble. I’d rather die.
We’ve moved from my study to the kitchen where we’re poring over the list of questions and issues that my initial meetings with the biggest Montague investors have yielded. Our aim is to go back to each party as soon as humanly possible with the answers they require, but some of their queries require serious number-crunching on our part. I have my Strategy team and my Finance Director on the case, but Sophia is helping me compile all the information in one folder, organised by theme, so we have it to hand.
The reception overall has been warm, I would say. It’s better than a tepid or outright icy reaction, but it’s not a foregone conclusion. Our success in persuading the most influential investors to swap their Montague Group shares for Kingsley Hotel shares will depend on our ability to forecast mega cost efficiencies… and to persuade them that we will execute on these once we get the keys to the Montague kingdom.
It’s a tough sell and, as war correspondents would describe it, a highly unstable situation on the ground. None of which is remotely appeasing to me. Of course, the more the investors smell value creation and the more they demand we slash costs between the two groups, the more the Montagues will dig their heels in.
In a word, messy.
