Fuck? I wanted to retort. Because I’d gladly give you some synonyms, facts, and hard examples of how to do it.

But I was too fascinated with the direction she was taking this—us—to interrupt her little speech. She had a point. That much was for sure. For the first time since we’d met, I let her express herself and speak her mind. Not only because she was rubbing her sleek pussy all over my thigh and I didn’t want to break the spell, but also because she needed it. Kid jumped out of a moving car five minutes ago to make a point.

Not a kid, I reminded myself. A woman, Trent. A woman.

“Sonder.” The word rolled between her luscious lips like an illicit proposition. She took my hand and pressed it against the swell of her ass, on the border between her thigh and cheek. Her warm flesh made the dull ache in the pit of my stomach disappear somehow, and the weirdest thing about it was that I hadn’t even noticed that it was there before. I didn’t squeeze nor withdraw my palm. My mind was racing, knowing this shouldn’t be happening, and again, I fired excuses at myself.

It was nothing.

We weren’t actually doing shit.

We weren’t kissing, or making out, or fucking, or sucking each other off. We were barely touching, even though it felt heavier and dense, even more than being completely naked in a room with a woman who already had a condom ready in her mouth.

“Sonder is the realization that each passerby has a life as vivid and complex as your own. I have a feeling you think you’re the only one to know hardship, Rexroth. It doesn’t sit well with me. Not at all.”

“Tough luck, sweetheart, because you’re working under me, and that’s the only thing you’ll do in that compromising position.” I dragged my hand from her ass to my pocket, making a teasing stop at her hipbone, brushing it with my thumb. She pushed into my touch and I denied her, not only to stay in control of my hands, but also because seeing her burning for me was a visual that could very likely set what few morals I had on fire.

“We’ve started on the wrong foot.” She ignored the gesture, but her goose bumps gave away her reaction. Her nipples were so erect they looked sore, in need of relief. “I apologize for mugging your mother. Can you apologize for bullying me? We can put all of this behind us. Start fresh. I’d like that.” Her voice was honest and soft, genuine.

But what Edie hadn’t realized was that the day I would stop giving her shit would be the day we’d be indifferent toward one another, because there was no way we could communicate inappropriately on any other level other than taunting. And hating. And despising one another.

Unfortunately for her, she was too much fun to loathe. I wasn’t ready to part ways with what we were, even if the relationship we were developing looked and smelled and felt like an incurable disease.

So, instead of being a grown-up and accepting her truth, I stopped her little lap dance by spinning and plastering her against my car. My hand was on her throat, which bobbed with a swallow, telling me that she was feeling the rush, the excitement of being at my mercy.

Fuck, Edie. You have no idea how merciless I could be.

I put as much weight on her as possible, enough for it to be intimidating, yet not painful. She could feel my erection, the ridges of my abs, my flexed pecs, and the way my sweat glued my shirt and skin together. I leaned into her mouth, knowing how much she wanted to be kissed, knowing I would never, ever give it to her.

“The only thing I’d ever apologize for is not getting to you sooner tonight. If I ever catch you spreading these legs for that tool, here or anywhere else, it’d be the end. Of you, of him, of everyone involved. As long as you hang out with my daughter—and that is what I expect you to do every Tuesday when she arrives at work with me—you’ll be celibate. You can grind yourself against the showerhead while you think about my cock inside of you, and you can play with your clit wishing it was my mouth, but no more fucking Bane, understood?”

She laughed and slid away from my touch and into the car, slamming her door in my face.

I walked around and resumed our drive, watching as she programmed her address into my navigator without answering me.

That was fine. I didn’t need her words. I needed her to understand.

Her jaw ticked, telling me that the message was received. Good.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT ME to find out about Trent Rexroth?” I dumped a pile of documents onto my father’s desk the following Monday morning, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand. I’d spent my entire Sunday surfing, avoiding questions about Trent from Bane and trying to convince my mother to get out of bed and have dinner with us. I made couscous (the microwaved kind) and lemon chicken (from Whole Foods), and even made a perfectly edible salad, all of which I ate alone, in front of the kitchen TV. I was twenty minutes into watching a gruesome episode of a reality cop show before I realized I was chewing to the images of criminals throwing bottled piss at police officers.

Guess you could say I was distracted.

The nagging ache between my legs reminded me that Trent had played with my feelings, my sexuality, and my mind. Most of all, his notion that he could do this to me—control me the way my father did—made my vendetta against him almost mandatory. I wasn’t a toy to be controlled and tossed from hand to hand. My father held a very particular power against me.

Trent didn’t.

He was about to find out that I was no pushover, even as I, in fact, let Jordan Van Der Zee shove me around.

My father looked up from his laptop, rubbing his chin with his finger pads. Today, he wore a pale gray suit and a light blue tie, both of which had been tailor-made and purchased during his brief business trip a week ago. Which gave away the fact someone had ordered it for him.

A mistress, no doubt.

He was hopping on a plane that afternoon, flying to Zurich for a week. It was the third time he’d visited there in three months, which led me to believe he had a new shiny toy to play with. Whether he was really going to Zurich, I didn’t care. I was just happy he’d be gone for six days.

“Smart kid.” He clucked his tongue in approval.

Screw you, I answered inwardly. He was right. I was his little shadow puppet, ready to entertain every time he sent a flicker of light my way.

My father collected the documents I gave him and tucked them into a drawer he locked, considering my answer.

“Let’s start off by finding out whether he takes his laptop and iPad home with him, or leaves them at the office. The floor is wired at the reception, outside the bathroom and in front of the elevators. Having a camera in your office is a personal choice. Look for cameras on his ceilings, walls, or embedded in his furniture. Also, I want to know how many electronic devices he has with email and internet connections. And how often he uses them. If you can get your hands on one of them—bring it here.”

Wow, that was incredibly specific. And here I thought he’d give me the benefit of the doubt and wasn’t sure if I’d cave. He obviously had a detailed plan.

For the millionth time, I silently swore that the minute I untangled myself from the messy business with my father, I would throw him out of my life and lock the door behind him for good measure. I didn’t want to depend on anyone for my happiness. But my father had this ability to pull at strings and use his power and connection to hurt people who didn’t see eye-to-eye with him.

Potential sacrifice, the words echoed in my head. Oh, how the tables have turned.

“Doable.” I nodded. Trent’s PA, Rina, had emailed me earlier that morning notifying me that I’d spend the majority of Tuesday with Luna and Camila. We were going to go to a local zoo and would catch lunch with Trent at The Vine. The idea of spending time with the girls—both of whom I liked—was nothing short of thrilling. But coming face-to-face with Trent after humping him, as he’d bluntly put it, was disconcerting.

Good news was, I was sure I’d have access to his office at some point tomorrow. “I want my visiting limitations dropped. I want to see Theo on Saturdays and every other Wednesday, and I want to spend my holidays with him.” My voice held a bleeding edge. Jordan waved a hand, his head already buried in a contract he’d retrieved from the printer by his desk. “That’s fine. Tell Max to sort it out.” Max was my father’s PA. My mother had demanded Jordan stop hiring women as assistants in the hopes it would get him to stop cheating with his employees. Yeah. Fat chance, judging from his erratic schedule and sparse visitations to our house.

I made my way outside my father’s office, his voice halting me in place.

“And Edie?” I turned around slowly, examining him behind his titanium desk. He looked so smug. Like he owned the world. Like he was immortal. Fool.

“Just a friendly reminder as your father, your employer, and the man who holds your future in his hands—don’t double cross me. Trent Rexroth is a smart kid, but he is nothing compared to me.”

I closed the door on him, keeping my twitching mouth from opening and spitting out the truth Father never wanted to hear: Trent Rexroth was more than smart. He was devilishly brilliant. But that wasn’t going to help him in this battle because I made him weak.

Weak where it mattered.

Weak where he left me aching.

And in his weakness, I’d find power.

And use it.

Not because I was vengeful or angry, but because I wanted to save Theo and my mom.

Not because I was a bad person, but because I needed to be good to the ones who depended on me.

I stole his iPad.

The ease with which I did it was both exhilarating and baffling, considering he’d already caught me thieving.

I’m sure he was surprised I joined them without a fight—I cornered Camila in the break room and casually told her I’d been invited by Mr. Rexroth and would be tagging along, which wasn’t a complete lie—but true to his detached reputation, Trent had acted like I was his daughter’s annoying friend. In other words: he completely ignored me.

All throughout lunch, he was busy lavishing Luna with attention, cutting her food, talking to her about their plans for the weekend. He was wearing sharp, navy slacks and a crisp white shirt, his sleeves rolled up to elbow-length. The snaking veins and strong muscles on his forearms were meant to slam a girl against a wall and make her praise the Lord like a born-again Christian. I wasn’t a particularly sexual person. So it definitely caught me off guard when I had to excuse myself and go to the restroom, bracing against the sink in front of the mirror and shaking my head. I tried to make the idea of him crashing me against one of the cubicles, yanking my skirt and underwear down and eating me out from behind, dissolve before my body caught up with my dirty thoughts. I even went as far as convincing myself that wanting to have sex with Trent Rexroth was just a quiet protest against my father. Those forearms, though. I knew they’d haunt me at night, cut me open the next time my toes curled in pleasure. Imagining his strong arms grasping me would serve as a match to ignite the dormant desire sitting in the pit of my stomach. I washed my face with ice-cold water. F-o-c-u-s.