EMERY

I've always been good at strategy games. Think three steps ahead. Know what your opponent might do, might think. Despite his protests, I had a feeling Damon's reserve was fickle, capricious. He made it seem like his word was platinum, but it's not. It's gold. Malleable. Pliant. Weak, really. I knew that given the right circumstances, the right atmosphere, and the right spectators, he'd bend.

But what I foolishly didn't account for was his vindictive and cruel counterattack.

"Emery..." Damon's fingers swirl around my sex like they're conjuring a whirlpool, and I grip the base of his shaft tighter, my core pulsing from his calculated ministrations. He grunts under his breath, stacking his hand on mine and forcibly pushing it away. Fuck. "Why don't you tell Quinton all about your education and background, hmm? Since he seems to doubt your qualifications. "

Bastard.

When I don't say a word, Damon flicks my clit with his thumb, the pressure causing me to let out a whimper. Quinton casts me a suspicious look, his gaze flitting to Damon.

"She's a little shy sometimes," Damon rasps, adding a second finger inside of me, slowly stretching my pussy with every debilitating surging motion. With a devilish grin, he looks at me, pitching my clit as she adds, "Go on, Emery. Tell him."

"I—" It comes out a shaky breath as my walls clench around his pillaging fingers. "I have a degree in finance and economics from Brown..."

"Really?" Quin asks, impressed. "That's a good school."

"Tell him when you graduated," Damon orders, quickening his pace to a violent speed. My legs clench, face burning as I fist the long linen tablecloth, the only thing shielding our battle. I rein in a moan. "Emery..."

"Twenty-one," I whisper, spreading my legs further apart because I need him to go deeper. I need him to go faster. I need him to fill me up until I overflow, until I leak all over the fucking carpet. "I was twenty-one when I—" He curls his finger, tapping against my G-spot, and I rein in a gasp. "I graduated."

"What else?" God, I hate him. I can barely see, barely think, let alone talk. "Tell him about all those certificates."

"I'm also..." Damon slows down but still keeps a rhythm that activates all the cells in my body. "I'm a Certified Management Accountant, and a—" His thumb finds the desperate bundle of nerves again. In tortuous circles, he massages me, not quite fast enough to make me explode but enough to keep building the anticipation of inevitable detonation. "And I'm a Chartered Financial—" I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping to defuse the bombs. "Analyst."

"So you're a numbers girl," Quin muses, oblivious to dirty deeds being conducted under our table. Oblivious, or a good actor. I can't tell. I don't have the mental strength to discern his reaction. "Were you always drawn to the world of mathematics?"

"Yes," I breathe out, unable to filter my words as Damon continues to torment my insides, changing the course and speed the moment I'm close to release. "Numbers always made sense to me. I like things that make sense."

"A pragmatic woman," Quin hums, and I can barely see his face through my hazy vision. "Rare, in my opinion. I've always found the opposite gender to be more..." He chuckles to himself. "Idealistic in their approach to life..." He grins. I think. "And business."

My spine arches as Damon's fingers roam into unchartered waters, a place that hasn't yet been explored, hasn't yet been tainted with blinding pleasure. "How..." I swallow, blinking away the unfamiliar sense of rapture. "How sexist of you."

Quin's laughter fills my muffled ears. "You're funny, darling. I can see why Cavanaugh is so fond of you. Beautiful and bright."

"Yes," Damon chimes in, voice thick and low as Satan himself. "She's definitely a very special girl."

"I'm happy for you Cavanaugh," Quin muses. "See? I told you there were more fish in the sea." Damon's hand freezes, and all pleasure dissipates as he pulls out of me, glaring at Quin. "What? Am I wrong?" He cocks his head as I scramble to pull myself together, my heart beating out of my chest. "I remember how devastated you were when Alison left. I'm just saying—" He glances at me, the grin on his face monstrous and scheming. "It all worked out, right?"

Alison. She has a name. My stomach twists and I'm not sure why. It's not a competition. She's not my enemy. I don't even know her. It shouldn't matter. Damon and I are not a couple. We're hardly even friends. And yet, her name stings me, burns me, coats my tongue with bitter resentment.

"I suppose it did," Damon says, teeth gritted, but his words don't match his body language, his tone, his entire demeanor. And that hurts me. Stupidly, I feel hurt. A feeling I haven't experienced since I was a child. "Don't worry, Quinton, I'm sure you'll catch something that's worth keeping eventually."

Quin's eyes darken to a shade I've never seen before. "Unless someone steals it again."

I frown. "What?"

Damon scoffs, wiping the evidence of his actions on a cloth napkin, and discarding it. As if it were trash. "Let's not walk down memory lane, Quinton. We both know that time skews all stories."

Quin's lip twitches. "I agree. Time does skew stories, especially fables." His gaze darts to me, expression softening. "Perhaps this is why we seek the stories of others, little Emery. We can't stand to revisit the truth of our own."

"I've always found truth to be subjective," Damon says flippantly. "It depends on who's recounting the event."

Beneath the material surface of ego and competition, I'm beginning to see the depth of their past. Something happened. Something neither man wishes to blatantly discuss, or mention. It's off-putting. The once blissful sensation soaring through my body has turned to stone, grounding me in the truth of my reality. I'm sitting at dinner with two of New York's most powerful men. One of which wants nothing more than to see me submit, see me become his obedient little sex doll. The other... Well, the other's intentions aren't as clear, but I'm sure that they're equally as sinister.

"I disagree," I say after a long pause. Damon narrows his eyes at me. Quin lifts a brow. Clearing my throat, I continue, "The truth is rooted in absolute facts. Truth can't be subjective. It either is or it isn't. There's no grey area for truth."

"Spoken like a true accountant," Quin quips, shoulders relaxing. "But I must concur. I find those who twist the facts in order to align them with their own narrative are the worst type of people." He looks at Damon. "They're manipulative and evil, if I may be so bold."

Damon snorts. "That's rich coming from a man who makes a living selling drugs to the masses with side effects that cause the disease it's meant to cure."

Quin offers Damon a sly smile. "All of those facts are transparently advertised to the consumers, Cavanaugh. Try again." He glances at me. "He'll grasp at straws until the bitter end. It's one of his more endearing qualities."

"You seem to know each other fairly well," I muse, needing to solve the complex equation bickering before my eyes. "How did you meet?"

"Our fathers were friends," Quin answers to my surprise. "But—" Damon stiffens beside me. "But it wasn't until my engagement party many many years later that Cavanaugh became such a vital part of my life." He cocks his head. "Isn't that right, Damon? Do you remember that day?" He licks his lips. "Because I do."

Damon stays silent, but my skin coats with goosebumps as he stares at Quin.

"You were engaged?" I ask, frowning. It doesn't add up. Everything about Quin screams lifelong bachelor.

"Yes, I was," he says, a hint of sadness in his tone. He clears his throat. "That is until I found Alison in my bedroom with Damon's cock inside her mouth." My eyes widen but I don't have time to react as two servers approach our table with our meals. "Lovely. Right on time."

"Thank you," I mutter to the server who places a plate of ratatouille in front of me.

Despite the delicious smell, my hunger vanishes. I sneak a glance at Damon, his posture guarded and strained. Veins protrude on his hands as he grips his fork, digging into the Foie Gras. I open my mouth but no words come out. Shock seizes my own muscles and I struggle to pick up my fork. Quin savors his food with ease as if he didn't drop an infidelity-sized bomb on our table.

"How's your meal?" Quin asks Darla who slices her chicken breast with the side of her fork. She pops it in her mouth, giving Quin a satisfied smile. He chuckles. "Good." He glances at me. "Emery? Is everything okay? You've barely touched your food."

I swallow. "I'm not very hungry right now."

"Why not? It's important to eat." Quin purses his lips in a feigned thought "Most people are famished after an orgasm." My jaw drops as Damon grunts under his breath. Quin's lip curls into a smirk. "Unless Cavanaugh didn't let you finish." His antagonistic gaze bounces to Damon. "That wasn't very nice of you, was it?"

He noticed. He knew what we were doing—

Damon stands up abruptly, tossing his napkin on his plate. "We're leaving."

Quin rolls his eyes. "Always so dramatic, Cavanaugh." He sighs. "When did you get so sensitive?" He flicks his blue eyes at me. "Are you also offended, little Emery?"

Offended? No. Embarrassed? Maybe. But mostly I'm curious as to why Quin played along the whole time. For my benefit? His? Surely it wasn't for Damon's.

"Don't answer him," Damon demands, grabbing my hand. I fumble standing up, but I don't argue, I don't protest. I know when to keep quiet. And right now? When Damon's on the cusp of losing his shit? It's time to keep quiet. "Let's go."

"Toodles!" Quin calls out, chuckling as Damon storms out of the restaurant, dragging me behind him. "We'll have to do this again soon!"

The valet brings Damon's car around and we drive silently for fifteen agonizing minutes. I keep my eyes on the road, not bothering to start a conversation. A part of me doesn't get it. He's a man that is all. Wealth, charm, confidence. And yet, around Quinton, his curated image glitches. Given what I've seen, Quinton was correct. Damon is sensitive. I wonder if he's always been like that, or if this is a manifestation of trauma and pain.

"I know what you must be thinking," Damon says in a rough tone, finally cutting through the charged air in the vehicle. "But it's complicated." I keep my mouth shut, facing him as he sighs. "I knew... I knew Alison before Quinton. I—"

I frown. "Do you think I'm judging you for fucking his fiancee?"

Damon looks over at me briefly, eyes narrowed. "Aren't you?"

I tilt my head. "Am I really in a position to judge your actions? Anyone's actions? This might come as a shock to you, Mr. Cavanaugh, but I don't care about your past. I only care if that past ends up affecting the present." I pause. "Does it? Does it affect the present?"

Damon swallows. "Alison is no longer a part of my life. She hasn't been for three years."

"What was she to you?" I ask bluntly, the question burning my tongue as it leaves. It doesn't matter. It shouldn't matter. I hate myself for asking, and it's not me that's curious, that's dying to know just how meaningful this woman was to him, it's my heart, this stupid fucking heart that won't stop battering against my ribcage in anticipation for the response.

"She was..." Damon glances over at me, his eyes soft and fragile as he skims my face. Unease tugs at my stomach. I don't like the way he's looking at me. "She was everything..." Pain flashes across his face. "Until she was nothing." His jaw clenches. "I lost her, Emery, and I... I refuse to lose you."

His raw emotion pricks at a foreign part of my heart and I can't tell whether it's pleased or disappointed at his confession. "I think we need to clarify something," I whisper, realizing that I am indeed a surrogate for a failed attempt at happiness. "I am not Alison—"

"I know that," he snaps, but I cut him off.

"Let me finish." I hold my hand up. "I am not Alison. I don't want you to look at me and see her. I'm not her replacement. I'm not her substitute. Whatever kind of relationship you had with her, do not expect that of me." Damon opens his mouth but I can't let him interrupt me, I need to draw a line, a line that'll serve as my last source of defense against his potential destructive powers, "I want you, Damon, I do, but do not mistake my attraction for affection. If that's the kind of relationship you're looking for, then you'll be greatly disappointed."

"I understand," he says with a solemn nod. "And that's okay. For now, it is okay." He reaches over the middle console, taking my hand in his. "I will take whatever you can give me."

What he doesn't know, is that I am giving him everything I can. He thinks my well is deep and rich and lush with love and loyalty and devotion. But it's not. It's never been. In order for the water to reach the rim, the well must be filled, replenished, and maintained. My well's been dry my whole life. Only recently, have I noticed enough water to be able to take a sip. If I drink too fast, it'll be empty again. And that would be devastating.

"As for this contract," I add, glancing down at our clasped hands that somehow fit together so seamlessly, "I'll review it this weekend. I can't promise you I'll sign, but I'll review it."

He gives me a weak smile. "That's all I ask."

For the rest of the drive back to the condo, I wonder what it feels like to care about something so much, that it hurts when it's gone.