Page 71 of The Accident

I accept the call, propping the phone against a bottle of shampoo.

His face fills the screen, all angular bone and masculine stubble, the oceanic blue of his eyes even more intense in bad office lighting. There’s a city skyline behind him, but I can’t tell if it’s real or a Zoom background.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, the word surrounding my heart like a soft blanket.

I wipe my nose, realize I must look wild—hair a dripping mass, eyes unfocused, skin flushed from heat.

“Hi,” I say, and my voice comes out dreamy, half-melted.

Trevor clocks the look instantly, and one eyebrow goes up just a millimeter. “You enjoying yourself?”

“Very much,” I say, and I mean it. I arch my neck, letting my head loll against the porcelain edge, and hope he can see how relaxed I am.

“Good,” he says, but there’s a twitch in his jaw that means this is about to turn. “I forgot to mention it last night, but there’s a real estate broker coming by today, in twenty minutes actually. To look at the penthouse. It’s been booked for weeks and it’s too late to reschedule. He’s probably already on his way.”

I blink, the fog of pleasure thinning a little. “In twenty minutes?”

“Yeah. Shouldn’t take long. He’ll just walk through, take some notes, maybe a few pictures. Standard stuff. But I wanted to let you know because obviously, a stranger’s going to be walking through our home.”

My heart shudders because he just referred to the apartment as “ours” and I smile with utter joy. Then I nod, still half-wet, half-wild, fully naked under the water.

“Sure, I’ll get out so he or she doesn’t find me en flagrante in the master bath.” I have to suppress a laugh.

Trevor must see it in my eyes. He gives a smile.

“Definitely make sure he doesn’t see anything, Kayleigh,” he says, with a gentleness he reserves just for me. “Just smile and be polite. He won’t linger. I’ll be home soon enough.”

I nod again, this time with more certainty. “No problem.”

“Great. Thanks, baby.” He pauses, the silence stretching just long enough to make it intimate. Then: “I’ll see you tonight, sweetheart.”

The call ends.

For a moment, the room is silent again, but the silence is different now. The old calm is gone because damn, I have to get up. I lay back in the water, staring at the candle flame, and try to imagine how a normal person would handle this.

A normal person would get out of the bath and put some clothes on. That’s what I have to do.

With a sigh, I climb out of the bath, the air sharp on my skin. I wrap myself in one of Trevor’s towels—so thick and heavy it feels like a weighted blanket—and stand in front of the vanity mirror.

I take inventory. My body is pink and shining, flushed from the heat. There are more bruises than I realized: one on my ribcage, a couple on my inner thighs, the perfect print of a massive hand at my left shoulder. My hair is a mess, but a good mess. My lips are still red and pouty, and my eyes look huge, innocent and yet now with a womanly air that wasn’t there even a few months ago.

For a second, I think about putting on make-up, but then decide against it. The broker doesn’t care what I look like, and even if he does, I’m not here for him.

I towel-dry my hair, then blast it with Trevor’s Dyson for a few minutes. It comes out fluffy, a little wild, but that’s okay. I pull on a t-shirt (one of Trevor’s, because it smells like cedar and power and him) and a denim skirt that comes to the knee. No bra, because my nipples are too sore and I like the way the fabric rubs against them when I move. I slip on a pair of ankle socks and stare at myself in the mirror one last time.

Fresh-faced, a little flushed, hair wild, body still humming from the bath. Not the look of a professional personal assistant, but it’s fine. It’s just a broker.

I walk to the kitchen and lean against the marble, waiting for the knock.

It’s strange how fast a body can shift from one reality to another. Last night, I was a sex doll. This morning, a spoiled pet. Now, I am the lady of the house, responsible for nothing but being seen.

I hear the elevator chime, the slow tick of footsteps in the hallway, and I run my hand over my hip, feeling the faint ache of the bruise as if it’s a keepsake.

The knock comes, sharp and official, and for a moment I think about not answering. I could pretend I’m not home. But I don’t want to disappoint Trevor. Besides, he said he wanted to sell to buy something more family-oriented, and a smile wreathes my face as I remember the words. Maybe with me. Maybe a bigger house with a garden for our shared children.

That does it. I square my shoulders, take a breath, and open the door with a practiced smile.

To my shock, it’s Evan Fine, the handsome bachelor from the auction.