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My brain knows I should be happy with all the positive changes around the property, and on some level I am. I just hate that I wasn’t able to make the much-needed investments on my own, without any help from the devil. Worse, it’s impossible for me not to associate the visible changes in the property with the private humiliation Dex has put me through. While a belting and blowjob may not have cost me money, his damn consequences are costing me something more valuable—my dignity.
But my core clenches with a sick sexual ache every time I think about being on my knees, his cock choking off my breath—and, well, that’s the worst betrayal of all… and that’s all on me.
The sharp knock on my door forces me to wipe my face of all emotion. “Come in,” I call when I’m finally composed.
Peter pokes his head in. “Sorry to disturb your office time, but a courier just dropped off an envelope for you at the front desk. I signed for it. I hope that’s okay,” he says, pushing the sealed envelope through the opening in the door.
My first instinct is to refuse the delivery. Nothing good has come by courier in weeks.
“Thanks, Peter,” I finally say, moving close enough to accept the envelope.
“Of course, Ms. Belov.” As soon as he closes the door, I throw the delivery onto a stack of paperwork on my desk. I spend fifteen minutes valiantly trying to focus on more important tasks that need my attention, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t put it out of my mind.
“Oh, for crying out loud. Don’t be a baby,” I admonish myself.
Ripping open the end of the pouch, I pull out a familiar looking stack of papers on the distinctive letterhead of my husband’s loan shark. With each sentence I read, my pulse increases until I finally drop the paperwork like it’s on fire.
They need more money. A lot more money.
I swear if Tristan were to somehow come back to life, I’d have absolutely no problem killing him all over again. I’m furious that he was so careless and even more upset that I have absolutely no idea what the insane payment schedule is on this jumbo loan.
Dex said he was going to take care of it, so why are the letters still coming? He needs to spend less time trying to do my job and more time finding whoever is behind this under-the-table loan and make it just go away. But, even as I think it, I have to acknowledge he has very little motivation to make the payments stop since me needing his money is the biggest leverage he has over me in our situation.
So, who else can I call to help me? My lawyer and accountants came up empty handed. I asked my head of security to check into it as discreetly as possible, but Mike Jenkins hasn’t been able to locate who is behind the loan either. Hell, for all I know this is one big scam.
For the hundredth time, I contemplate going public. I could sue. Take them to court to force the lender’s hand into producing contracts that Tristan may have signed. At least then I’d know the full scope of what I’m up against.
I’m just not sure I can bear the public humiliation.
Then again, I’m not sure I can handle much more of Dex’s brand of private humiliation either.
Whether I like it or not, I’ll have to take the newest demand to Dex, but I’m not going to ask for money again. He promised to help get to the bottom of who is behind the loan and make it go away and while I don’t usually approve of his less-than-legal methods, in this case, I don’t really care what he does to make this nightmare go away.
Unable to focus on work, I grab the evil envelope and head to the elevator. As much as I hate the idea of another round in his office on the thirteenth floor, better there than in the penthouse where it will be much harder for me to escape him when our business is done.
When I arrive, his office is empty. So is the boardroom where I assume he holds meetings with his guests.
“Are you looking for Mr. Cohen, ma’am?” A housekeeper pushing her cart asks from down the hall.
“Yes. Do you know if he’s in the hotel?”
“I believe he and Mr. Z have gone up to The Rooftop for lunch, ma’am.”
The Rooftop. His den of criminal elite.
Also, a public venue that will prevent Dex from introducing any of those dreaded consequences of his into our conversation.
“Thank you,” I reply, waving at the housekeeper as I head back to the elevator.
Before I can second guess myself, I use my master key to take the elevator up to the secret floor my guests think has been closed for good. As I step off the elevator, I take a deep breath.
Time for our next battle.
Chapter Seventeen
DEX
“Gentlemen, we are back in business,” I say, drawing on the cigar one of my rooftop guests brought from his trip to Cuba. “We’re still ironing out some kinks, but the thirteenth floor is operational, The Whitney has been getting a much-needed facelift, and The Rooftop will be open for all of your needs—whatever they may be.”
