But after months of missteps and drunken pity parties, I learned how to cope with it. I learned how to breathe again. And in the past four months, I rediscovered my smile in a man who scowls through every emotion.
As much as I bitch about Trace being cryptic and impersonal, I’m magnetically drawn to his confidence, his strength. He challenges me, pushes me, and I need that. Because I’m not without shortcomings.
He wanted to see the basement. I should’ve showed it to him. Hell, I should’ve cleared out the space a long time ago. But he didn’t ask me to do that. He didn’t ask me to get rid of anything, not even the seven-hundred pounds of steel and chrome sitting in the dining room.
Cole might’ve been my favorite smile, but once I discovered the emotional depth in Trace’s scowl, I realized I love it more than any smile. Cole’s charming, animated personality won me over instantly. Contrarily, Trace’s strict, reserved nature makes me appreciate how deeply sensitive he is beneath the suit.
All Trace wanted was reassurance that my heart didn’t belong to another man, and I didn’t give him that. If anything, I reinforced his doubts.
I really fucked this up.
But I have a plan to unfucktify it, and by plan, I mean a slight chance of success based mainly on hope.
He wants all of me? That’s what I’ll give him—the honest, barefaced, take-a-leap-of-faith answer to his question. Because he was right. I have a choice to make. A decision between the past and the future.
I choose the future. I choose Trace. And tonight, I’m going to tell him I love him.
When his driver picks me up for my three o’clock shift, my stomach twists into knots. I recognize this feeling, this vulnerability. I’m opening myself up, letting Trace in. He could make me blissfully happy. Or he could crush me beneath his shiny shoe.
At the casino, I let the restaurant staff know that I’m leaving early tonight. In the four months I’ve worked here, I’ve never taken time off. But waiting until midnight to talk to Trace is out of the question.
For five hours, I dance on the stage, wrapped in the moving beam of light. Every table in the dining area is filled, and the usual crowd gathers outside the glass walls. Some are just passing by and pause to watch me before meandering on. Others linger through several songs, their eyes fixated on the swing of my hips, hypnotized.
My dancing has a similar effect on Trace. He watches me every night, if only for a few minutes as he passes through the dining room or from afar when he makes his rounds on the casino floor. But I haven’t spotted him once tonight. Neither in the restaurant nor the gaming area. By the time eight o’clock rolls around, my mind is a spinning tunnel of doubt.
“She’s incredible,” a man says from one of the tables as I slip off the stage. “Unbelievably beautiful.”
“I come here just to see her,” another man replies from across the aisle.
I slip by several more compliments and dodge two propositions on my way out. Down the hall, I duck into my dressing room and spend the next hour showering, spritzing, and primping. Then I step back from the full-length mirror and scrutinize the result.
A silver strapless dress hugs my body from chest to upper thighs. The color makes my gray eyes look metallic and glitters against the gold in my hair. Matching stilettos complete the outfit. No panties or bra—I’m optimistic like that.
Frosted lip gloss, cheek blush, and smoky eyeshadow defines my face, and my hair ripples in voluminous beach waves around my arms.
I look pretty hot, but not overly made up. I also look like I’m seconds from hurling, but I can live with the nerves. What I can’t live with is chickening out.
“Go get him, Danni.” I square my shoulders and head out onto the gaming floor.
A small wristlet holding my phone and cash swings from my hand as I walk from one end of the casino to the other. Trace has been missing all night, but the cameras in the ceiling remind me that he might be watching me on his laptop.
I add a sexy sway to my hips on my way to his private elevator. When I started working here, he gave me a passcode to access the offices on the 30th floor. I’ve never tried to enter his residence alone. I assume he’s in his office, but I push the button for the penthouse on impulse.
The 31 illuminates, and my breath catches. As the elevator begins its climb to the top floor, I consider pressing 30 and stopping by his office first. But curiosity holds me immobile.
Why is his penthouse unlocked? He’s either there or the passcode he gave me unlocks it. I’ve had that code for four months.
I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you.
Excitement buzzes through my veins, eradicating any lingering nerves. I love this man and his perplexing, mysterious ways. I love him, and I can’t wait to tell him. And kiss him. And… Holy shit, I’m totally getting laid tonight.
When the elevator opens on the penthouse floor, my thighs clench, and my blood hums wildly. I step out and breeze past the kitchen, dining room, and living room, searching, craning my neck, and starting to sweat. There’s no sign of him, and the silence is unnerving.
I enter the hallway, and the end is illuminated by the light in his bedroom. Maybe he’s in the shower. Maybe he’s waiting for me in bed, naked, and fully erect.
Grinning like a fool, I quicken my gait. The click of my heels sound my approach, but that’s not the only thing I hear as I reach the open door.
Heavy breaths.
A low moan.
My heart freezes in my chest, and I stumble on the threshold.
The bed is perfectly made and vacant, but I know he’s in here, and he’s not alone.
Sharp pain ignites behind my eyes as I follow the panting sounds to the sitting area by the fireplace.
Bent over the arm of the couch is a woman with long dark hair, her face pressed against the cushion and her hips skyward, held in place by the man standing behind her.
The man I chose.
The one I love.
Agony stabs my chest, ripping the air from my lungs and shaking my knees violently. I grip the door jamb to keep myself upright, frozen in horror, nauseous beneath waves and waves of horrendous pain.
He’s arched over her, his chest covering her back and his trousers around his thighs. They’re angled toward the door, both wearing suits, with her skirt ruched to her waist. I can’t see his dick, but it’s clear he’s buried inside her. He’s not thrusting, not moving. Because he’s staring right at me.
I thought he was detached before…
It’s like I’m looking at someone else. There’s no expression on his face. Nothing. No scowl. No hint of lust. Just…emptiness.
How could he do this? Everything he said was lies. He’s just a player. A liar. And I fucking fell for it. Hard.
I cover my mouth as heaving breaths break free from my lungs.
The woman stirs, wriggling her hips against him as she lifts her head and brushes the hair from her face.
The flawless face of Marlo Vogt.
Her eyes find mine, and she gasps. Her complexion pales. She reaches back to shove at him, her other arm yanking her skirt down. Embarrassed.
Not as embarrassed as I am. My skin burns with humiliation, disgust, and anguish.
I hurt so badly blackness dots my vision and strangles my throat. My feet stumble backward, carrying me ungracefully into the hall, turning, and running toward the elevator.
I feel like my insides are tearing, separating, and bleeding out. Like I’m grieving.