Page 11 of Vicious Seduction

“Good. Now that that’s decided. I’ll take this beauty and the two black ones to Faith at Chiara. They’ll make a perfect addition to the pitch for next fall’s collection.”

“Sounds good to me! I’m going to head home. I have a few more hours, and the navy silk blend will be done.”

“The one with the halter neckline?”

“Yes. That fabric you sourced wasperfect, almost black with a touch of navy sheen. It’s gorgeous.”

“This time, if you get a chance to wear it out, I better see a pic,” he chided me playfully.

That wasn’t happening because I had no reason to wear such a statement dress, but I saluted anyway. “Understood.” I gave Cosmo a quick hug. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Counting on it.”

I’d been incredibly lucky when I met Cosmo in design school. We were an excellent complement to one another, making for a remarkably functional business model. We designed together in late-night binge-eating sessions that left me exhausted yet immensely fulfilled. I did most of the actual sewing while he schmoozed and sold our designs to labels. After five years of busting our asses, we’d finally made a name for ourselves and even contemplated hiring an assistant.

The pride bubbling with warmth in my chest fizzled out as I thought about who I’d wanted to hire for the job. It would have been the perfect setup for my sister, but I never got the opportunity to tell her. She’d been gone for threemonths now. I’d spent every single minute of that time fighting to get her back, but the more time that drew on, the more I worried I’d lost her forever.

I descended the stairs to the subway, shivering as the suffocating helplessness that had been my constant companion for months wrapped me in its arctic embrace. Remorse and despair had loomed over me daily, making their presence known the most when I went home for the night because I should have moved out of the apartment with Jessa months ago. I tried not to show it, but seeing my roommate was a stark reminder of how horribly things had gone wrong. And once Jessa went to bed, the solitude of my quiet apartment, while providing the perfect sewing atmosphere, also denied me an escape from myself and the incessant thoughts that assaulted me day and night.

Was I doing enough?

Why hadn’t I made any progress?

What else could I possibly do?

I felt so fucking helpless, and I hated it.

I slumped in my seat on the subway train home. My vision blurred with watery regrets as I stared at the dirt-speckled floor. I’d tried so hard to make good choices and be a decent human being, yet I’d fallen damn short of the mark. Maybe it was defective genetics. An insidious selfishness that manifested itself no matter how hard a person fought to overcome.

I had to wipe my eyes when the tears broke free.

What I wouldn’t have given to go back to the beginning of summer and do it all again. Life wasn’t like the movies, however. There were no do-overs. I could only move forward and try not to make another mistake—especially not an enigmatic, disarming mistake with eyes so piercing they thwarted all my defenses.

Oran was the worst sort of mistake and a distraction I couldn’t afford. One missed opportunity could be the difference between life and death. I had to stay focused on my mission or risk hating myself forever.

I almost dropped my phone when it vibrated in my hand, startling me from my thoughts.

Unknown: It sure is a waste, Lina

What?

I didn’t give my number out often, so a text from an unknown number was unusual. And it had come from someone who knew my nickname. The only new person I’d met recently … it couldn’t be. How would he have my number? If not him, then who? Not one person came to mind.

Getting the text when I’d already been thinking about him was too fitting. He felt omnipresent like that—saturating my thoughts and senses. I was just telling myself how important it was to steer clear of him, and there he was, luring me back in. The curiosity. The intrigue.

I wasn’t sure what the text meant, but it sounded like something he’d say. Something to keep me off-balance and guessing.

Telling myself it was just a text, I typed out a response.

Me: Who is this?

Unknown: Wrong question.

The authoritative response sent a thrill of awareness down my spine and out to my fingertips.

I was right. Oran was texting me.

I wanted to ask how he’d gotten my number, but I knew his answer already.Still the wrong question. I could have blocked him. I should have. It was the logical thing to do, but responding to him wasn’t so much a decision as a compulsion. Ineededto know what he’d reached out to say. Needed to feel the heady rush I got from his attention. I’dbeen in such a dark place for so long that I craved his spotlight.

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