Twenty-Seven

Ididn't read much growing up, not because I disliked it, but because my father required it. Idle time was wasted time, in his opinion, and every moment of my day was allotted for personal betterment. Reading. Writing. Piano lessons. Dance lessons. Language tutors. Fucking mixology.

Objectively, I know I sound like a brat for loathing these opportunities, but my father's agenda made them miserable. Because all the betterment? It wasn't for me, but for some guy. Wife training, in so many words.

My father never had a son, which meant I needed to land the kind of man he'd never be able to raise himself. Hence, the regency-style boot camp. If my father knew where to get a piano forte and an embroidery hoop, I'm positive they would have appeared in the living room overnight and I would have been one step closer to embodying the unsympathetic other-woman in a Jane Austen novel.

Camming was the first step to undoing my father's oppression, but tonight, attending the Cavendish Waits anniversary party, I am everything he always wanted: beautiful, subdued, and ready to be some guy's arm candy.

My dress is floor-length but still problematic—problematic because Lander is struggling to resist touching me, and as a result, he looks furious. His fists are balled and he's standing darkly on the other side of my bedroom and watching me put on my earrings with the calm of Mount Vesuvius deciding Pompeii has finally gotten on its last nerves.

"You shouldn't have bought me this," I finally say when I turn around to face him and find him clenching his jaw.

"Disagree," he replies, not removing his eyes from my waist. "I should have bought you this ages ago, in every color in existence, and then hosted a gala every week so you'd always have somewhere to wear it." His gaze flicks up to mine. "Do you like it?"

"I love it."

He sighs. "I was worried you'd say that. Now I can't rip it off you later without feeling like an asshole."

"Please," I reply, admiring how devastating he looks in a tuxedo. "With you dressed like that, I'll never give you a chance to rip this dress off. I'll be stripping down and begging for it the minute we get home."

His groan in response has me strongly reconsidering my timeline.

Lander holds up his phone, snaps a picture, and then swipes. When he's done, he slides his phone into his pocket and holds out his arm, motioning for me to join him.

"What was that all about?" I ask as we head to the elevator.

"Texted my shopper. Bought you a backup for the one I ruined."

I stop in my tracks, brow furrowed, trying to make sense of what he just said.

Glancing back, he winks. "Clairvoyance, baby."

The Renwick Gallery is located a stone's throw from the White House. An after-hours invitation to any Smithsonian Museum is always magical, but it's not the acres of sculptures that captivate me tonight. Instead, the man on my arm commands all my attention.

After half an hour at the event, I've come to several obvious conclusions.

The first: Lander's coworkers are simultaneously terrified and in awe of him, as if he's the endless expanse of outer space. I've overheard his calls; he's certainly capable of intimidation. Tonight, however, they admire him with captivation, nodding along as he regales them with effortlessly hilarious stories about mishaps jogging around the Tidal Basin, traveling through Europe with Dalton and Everett, and even hibachi.

The second: Lander can charm anyone. Literally anyone. Seeing him in action now, I recognize how na?ve I was to think I wouldn't let him into my life. Over twenty minutes, he beguiles a partner's trophy wife, a first-year associate's boyfriend, a paralegal's awkward (and likely stoned-off-his-balls) fiancé, and a waiter who ensures both our drinks are replaced post-haste throughout the night.

The third: It kills him to pretend I'm not a camgirl.

"I think if we tell a couple people, you'll feel better about it," he suggests halfway through the night as we work our way along the length of a dessert table.

"Nope."

"You're not even going to consider it?" he protests while plopping a profiterole on his plate.

"I've considered it endlessly. In fact, I've spent three years considering how desperately I'd like to avoid conversations like this, and it was only the overwhelming appeal of your huge, magical dick—"

"God, you're the best."

"—that persuaded me to even associate with you. Why do you care so much anyway?"

"Because you love what you do and you're exceptional at it. I don't even get to gloat about you. Do you know how difficult that is for me? Being humble and not gloating? It's practically criminal of you to ask me to do this, Valeria." Lander throws out his lower lip in a fake pout.

You're exceptional at it.

After the stream a few days ago, I scrolled through the mountain of chat messages. There was the occasional confused message, a death threat or two, but Lander was right: There were literally hundreds of comments talking about how blissed out I looked during the stream. When I told Lander, all he could do was praise me. That praise had me walking on air.

"You've endured worse," I reply when I join him at the other end of the table and kiss him. "You had to study for the bar at some point."

He laughs. "My best friend is an investment banker. I popped some Adderall, studied like a motherfucker for a week, and listened to ‘Seven Nation Army' by the White Stripes for thirty minutes outside the testing center. Passed on the first try."

"War stories from the bar?" someone interjects over my shoulder.

I turn to see a tall, poised older man with a petite, stunning woman on his arm. Between his fitted tux and the enormous emerald cut diamonds in her ears, it's clear this couple is expensive.

Lander greets them with a handshake for the man and a kiss on the cheek for the woman before he ushers me forward. "Valeria, this is Frank and Alyssa Cavendish. Frank, Alyssa, this is Valeria Fuentes."

Now that I know their names, it's obvious these are Dalton's parents. Frank is big like his son and still bears the same youthful, boyish good looks. Alyssa, like Dalton, has a bright smile she simply can't compress. And, like Dalton tends to be, both are a little bit (a lot) drunk.

"So this is the woman who had you moping at my dining room table," Frank comments while he shakes my hand. "I see she came around."

I shoot a look in Lander's direction. "You've been talking about me?"

"Whining, actually," Lander clarifies. "Nearly wailing at the Cavendishes' original ceilings."

Frank rears his head back and laughs before squeezing Lander on the shoulder. "Funny, right? He's so funny."

"Shockingly so," I agree, not a hint of facetiousness as I take in the expression on Lander's face. He's practically eating me alive with his eyes.

Yes, it was an excellent idea for him to buy me a backup dress.

"He does a phenomenal job reeling it in," Frank goes on. "Composed, serious, and cutthroat. That's the Dawson blood in his veins."

"You don't think Lander can be himself and still be successful?" I ask, furrowing my brow. "His coworkers seem to love him. He made one laugh so hard, she spat Riesling onto a litigation specialist."

Immediately, Frank narrows his eyes in response to my words. The way he's eyeing Lander makes me wonder if I just outed him somehow.

Lander, never one to break a sweat, takes a bite of a berry tartlet, chews, swallows, and says, "Don't worry, Frank. It's networking. Some people laugh at anything."

His response placates Frank enough for a pat on the back before he pulls Lander closer to discuss a client.

Alyssa turns her attention to me and we talk about their upcoming trip to St. Michaels, where Lander, Everett, and the Cavendishes are headed next weekend for their annual weeklong getaway. Apparently, the woman is single-handedly sustaining the luxury cookie dough industry in the greater DMV region and consistently bakes over two hundred cookies every year. Just like that, I think I've figured out who taught Lander how to bake.

We leave just shy of eleven, and for the first few minutes of the ride home, Lander is uncharacteristically quiet. My heart sinks. All I wanted was to survive the night unscathed, but he watches the passing monuments instead of me, making me suspect I screwed up somehow.

It would sting more if I didn't see this coming a mile away.

When I reach over and take his hand, he gives it a gentle squeeze. "Frank insists I bring a sounding board to these firm events," he mentions, breaking the silence.

Confused, I look over at him. He's still staring out the window.

"I'm young, so for people to see me as a viable option for partner, I need to look mature. Respectable. A sounding board is the person I bring so I have an outlet to be myself, I guess. Usually, I bring Dalton." He sighs. "You looked so pretty tonight, I guess I got carried away. I don't typically act that way at work."

"Approachable," I fill in. "Happy."

Lander nods. He still won't look at me. "It's all a lie," he goes on. "The worst part is, it's so effective." He finally faces me. "Everyone is afraid of me."

"I'm not."

"You asked me to lie about you," he reminds me softly.

My hand tightens on my skirt. The timbre of his voice is unsteady, and now, what I demanded feels monstrous. Lander isn't allowed to be his true self, and I forced him to throw another lie into the mix.

"I'm sorry."

He doesn't pretend it's fine—he wouldn't pretend with me. He squeezes my hand, and his eyes move over me, tracing the lines of my face, lowering to my body, following my curves.

We don't speak for the rest of the drive. When we arrive at the Halcyon, Lander leads us to my condo. When we walk in, he sinks to his knees and balls up handfuls of my beautiful dress in his fists. His breath is hot against my bare pussy, and he brings me to the edge, stopping abruptly when I'm so close that I nearly barrel over. Then he hoists me in his arms and violently rips my dress open along the seam.

In my bedroom, he doesn't bother to shed his jacket as he looms over my naked body. He simply pulls out his angry erection and climbs over me, fucking me down into the tattered remains of silk.

"Never—" Thrust. "Ever—" Thrust. "Ask me to lie about you again, Valeria." THRUST. I come so violently, my throat runs sore from crying out in sick, twisted ecstasy.

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