Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 103124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
The man in the dark suit stares at me from the opposite end of the corridor. His eyes black as night, his expression sharp and tight. There is no light in this man, and I’m sure that what lies beneath his rib cage is a heart just as dark as everything else about him.
But it’s the rage I feel emanating from him that terrifies me. A cold, dark rage.
And all of it is for me.
I shiver, knowing I’m in danger.
I want to flee, but I’m rooted to the spot, frozen by fear. His dangerous expression sears my skin like he’s just set fire to me.
What happened to you? I say the words, but my mouth doesn’t move.
And then he’s gone, and I’m running through the olive plantation where I grew up in Italy, laughing as the boy I love chases me to the lake at the end of the property. We discard our clothes as we run and dive into the tepid summer water, breaking the surface as we laugh. When he pulls me to him, his erect cock brushes against me, and my body heats with longing. He places perfect wet kisses along my neck and up to my mouth, making me want all of him. My nipples tighten to peaks as they brush against the hard muscle of his chest, and a new wave of longing spears through me.
It’s the shrill of my phone that rips me from my dreams and pulls me back into reality. Eyes still closed, I fumble for it on the nightstand.
“Hello?” I mumble, my head murky.
“Bella, it’s Harry.”
My eyes flick open.
Harry is my boss at the gallery.
“Harry?” I look at the clock. It’s 7:32 a.m., so it’s lunchtime back in London. “Is everything okay?”
“I’m sorry, Bella, but this couldn’t wait.” I hear the tinkle of ice against glass and picture him with a scotch in his hand. “Look, I don’t really know how to tell you this.” More ice tinkles as he takes a sip. “But I’m going to have to let you go.”
It takes a moment for his words to register.
I sit up, suddenly fully awake.
“You’re firing me?”
“That’s such a dreadful term, but yes, I suppose that’s what I’m doing.”
I push my bed hair out of my face. “But why?”
“Look, it’s not you. Honestly, you’re lovely, and your work is impeccable. It’s the budget. You see, we need to free up some capital, and well, you were the last hired.” More ice tinkling. Harry is self-medicating with scotch while he delivers this fatal blow, and I’m starting to think I might need some ice tinkling of my own. Five o’clock or not.
My mind scrambles. “I thought you were happy with my work, and I’ve brought in some big deals in the past six months—”
“And if it were up to me, we’d never let you go. But this has come from the top, Bella.”
As the realization that I’m losing my job sets in, my stomach drops.
I clutch my phone to my ear. “I’ll be back in London tomorrow. I’ll come see you, and we can talk.”
“There’s really nothing to discuss, I’m afraid. As of today, you no longer work for Ulvaeus Gallery.” Harry is a nice guy, somewhere in his sixties, regal and old school, but not a stiff upper lip. He’s kind and generous, and this will hurt him.
“I’ll need to collect my things.” I sound dazed because I am. This has come out of nowhere. Last week, Ulvaeus offered me a promotion and an extended tenure to stay in London. Now they’re kicking me out the door.
“No need, I’ll have Lizzie pack up your belongings and deliver them to your home address. Or now that this has happened, will you be staying in the United States?”
No.
I love my life in London.
There will be another gallery.
“I really am sorry, Bella. This has come as quite the shock.” Harry sounds crushed. There is no more ice tinkling, so I assume he’s consumed his three fingers of scotch.
“When I get back to London, can I call you, Harry?”
Maybe this can be sorted over Devonshire tea at the bakery down the street from the office. Surely if we put our heads together, he and I can figure something out. If not, at least I get to say goodbye to my friend.
“I suppose that would be lovely,” he says resignedly. “Anyway, I must dash. Safe travels and all that.”
He clicks off the call, and I’m left sitting in bed, staring at my phone, dazed and confused.
I’ve just been fired.
But why does it feel like that’s not the worst thing that will happen today?
Unemployed.
It hardly seems real.
I want to call Imogen, but she’s on a weekend away with a model she met at work, a very sexy Brazilian with rock-hard abs, biceps of steel, and a monster cock, and she won’t be back until tomorrow. Don’t try calling. I’ll be too busy riding the rocket launcher between his thighs to answer.