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I collect The Heir’s mail and the three larger items that were delivered late yesterday evening by courier before taking the service elevator to the twelfth floor. The brunette Olivier brought home last night is standing at the resident’s elevator waiting for it to slowly make its way up.
She catches my eye. She appears neither well-fucked, nor happy about it. Her expression is annoyed at first, and then appreciative as she gives me a once-over.
“Good morning,” I say curtly.
“Good morning,” she purrs. “Long night?”
“Went by like clockwork.”
There are about twenty standard questions doormen get asked. Long night is at the top of the list. I have pat answers and short scripts to address all FAQs. No one here gives a shit what I have to say about pretty much anything except the traffic or the weather.
“See you around,” she says as the elevator arrives, and I lift my hand to knock on 1204.
I give her a final nod as the door in front of me opens.
“Finally,” The Heir says.
He’s not naked, so that’s new. I try to hand over his shit, but I’m not quick enough. He’s already walking away, leaving me forced to either follow or set his mail down in the foyer and go.
I do the thing least likely to get me in trouble and take a few steps inside. “I can’t find my scissors,” he calls out. “Help me.”
“What happened to go fuck yourself?” I mumble, not making a move to help. I’m not going any further into this penthouse than I have to.
His head snaps around. “Excuse me?”
“I said I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
He’s high. It’s more than obvious. His eyes are glitchy and wild. His cheeks burn bright. “The kitchen, you idiot. The knife block like I told you. Weren’t you just here?”
“With all due respect?—”
“Oh, cut the shit, asshole.” He storms right up to me, looking like a caged animal ready to snap at the bars holding him in. “Do you even know who I am?”
“Yes, sir,” I say in a low voice. Deadly low.
“Then help me find my fucking. Scissors.”
Inside me, the thread snaps. He’s too close. His tone is too disdainful. I’m too close to the edge to trust myself not to strangle him.
William knows I’m here. I’d never get away with it.
The woman at the elevator saw me.
And yet—something inside me comes loose. I shove my handful of his things into his chest, backing him up a step.
He gasps, catching them at first, and then, meeting my gaze again, he drops them on the floor and charges me with one hand raised. It meets my cheek with a harsh crack.
Did he just slap me?
Instinct takes over. I catch his wrist as he tries to retract his arm. Using a move I learned in high school wrestling, I twist him into a half-nelson chokehold. Fucker. I slam him into the nearest wall and breathe heavily against his neck. “What did you just call me?”
“I called you a fucking asshole,” he barks.
“Before that.”
He’s gasping for air, and I flex my biceps, putting even more pressure on his throat. He taps the wall, but this isn’t a fucking game. Not to me.
“You called me an idiot. Remember that, you rich bitch?”
