Page 90 of The Art of Ruin

I open my mouth, ready to argue properly, to push back the way I usually would, and then I just… don’t.

Because the truth is, I don’t have the energy for a full debate, and part of me knows exactly how this ends anyway.

“Fine,” I mutter, turning away again. “Stay nearby. Just—don’t come in unless I ask.”

“I’m not an idiot. When I see a woman naked, it’s because she wants me to. I don’t have to sneak peeks at my employees.”

“Debatable on the idiot thing, and I’m not touching that other comment with a ten-foot pole,” I call over my shoulder, pushing the bathroom door open before he can respond. I hear his deep chuckle all the way through the annex.

The heat hits me the second I step under the water, steam curling around me, softening the edges of everything in a wayI hadn’t realized I needed until now, and I can’t stop the moan that leaves my lips.

For a moment, I just stand there.

No moving, no rushing, just letting it soak in, letting the warmth settle into muscles that still feel tight and heavy, like they haven’t quite forgiven me for the past couple of days.

God, that feels so good.

I rest my hand against the tile, closing my eyes, and for a few seconds I let myself just exist in it, not thinking about what comes next or how long this will last or whether I’m pushing too far.

Just… this, pure heaven.

I lift my face to the water, soaking my hair, and reach for the shampoo. I pour more than I need into my palm, lathering my scalp until suds run down my back. My mind drifts to Adriano’s comment about seeing a woman naked, and I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to have that intense gaze of his focused on me. My nipples bead at the thought of his hands running over my skin, soothing, stroking. When I first met him, I remember thinking he was the hottest man I’d ever met. He still is, but he also felt untouchable. Like a priceless piece of art, beautiful but cold. Now he feels closer, and that’s the thought that snaps me out of my lust-induced fantasy about my boss.

Fuck, I need to remember who he is to me. Lines have blurred, and they need redefining.

Conditioning my hair is where it starts to feel like work again.

It’s such a normal thing, something I’ve done a thousand times without thinking, but halfway through I can feel it—the strain in my arms, the way holding them up for too long starts to pull at everything else. My blood pressure is dropping a little too. I can feel it happening.

I pause, letting the water run over me, catching my breath in a way that feels disproportionate to what I’m actually doing.“Seriously?” I mutter, tipping my head back slightly, equal parts annoyed and tired.

This is the part I hate.

Not the pain, not even really the exhaustion, but the way it lingers, the way it makes everything just a little harder than it should be, like I’ve been downgraded to a less efficient version of myself, and I’m expected to just accept it.

I finish slowly, breaking it up into stages instead of pushing through, because I know better than to rush it, as I’ll pay for it later.

Still, by the time I’m done, I can feel it again—that low, familiar fatigue settling back in, not overwhelming, just… there.

Present.

Waiting.

I dry off, get dressed, move through everything carefully, and by the time I get to my hair, I’m already regretting leaving it until last.

I plug the dryer in anyway.

It starts fine.

For about half a minute.

Then my arm starts to ache.

I switch hands.

That’s worse.

I stare at myself in the mirror for a second, damp hair sticking to my face, patience wearing thin. “This is ridiculous,” I mutter, trying again, slower this time, pausing between sections, like somehow that’s going to make it less annoying.