The weekend passed in a haze of sore muscles and careful avoidance. Elena kept to the library mostly, curling into one of the leather chairs with books she barely read, the words blurring as her mind drifted back to that moment — the weight of his hand, the sting, the shame that pooled hot in her belly.
She saw him once. Sunday evening, as she was coming down the grand staircase, and there he was at the bottom, crossing toward his quarters. Their eyes met for half a second. He nodded once, nothing more, and disappeared through the door.
Her ass still ached when she sat wrong. She pressed her palm against the memory and hated how her body responded.
Monday morning arrived with the same gray light. She dressed in one of the blouse and skirts he'd chosen — charcoal gray, fitted, professional — and went to his study for the morning briefing. He was already at his desk, reviewing papers, and he glanced up when she entered.
"Morning," he said. Like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't bent her over his knee and spanked her until she cried.
"Good morning," she said, and took her usual seat.
They reviewed the week's calendar. Meetings, phone calls, and a charity event on Thursday she'd need to attend. He asked about Rossi Arts — any pending contracts, any issues with the transition. She answered. He nodded. Business as usual.
She spent the morning in his office, sorting through emails and making occasional calls. Every time she shifted in her chair, the faint ache reminded her. She told herself it was just physical. That she wasn't still thinking about the way his hand felt, heavy and controlled, or the heat that had pooled between her thighs.
By afternoon, the lie felt thin.
After dismissing her from the afternoon check-in, she walked back to her room, tired and distracted, already thinking about the bath she'd take before dinner. She pushed open the door and crossed to her desk to grab her phone.
Four missed calls. Five texts. All from Lisa.
She unlocked the screen and the notifications flooded in.
"Girl, where are you?"
"Hello??"
"Did you fall into a well?"
"I'm calling the police. Actually."
"OK, now I'm just bored. Call me."
Elena smiled despite herself. She hit the call button and put the phone to her ear.
“No cults. Just… a new job. It’s very demanding.”
“Demanding how? Do you have to wear a sexy secretary costume? Please say yes.”
Elena’s free hand instinctively clutched her half-open uniform together. “It’s a normal uniform, Lis. Very professional.”
Lisa laughed, the sound familiar and painful. “Booorrrring. Anyway, I’m driving up to Las Lona this weekend! I’m coming to see you. You sound weird. Are you eating?”
“I’m fine. Yes I’m eating. You really don’t have to—”
“I’m coming. Are you still at your apartment? Send me the address.”
Panic, thin and cold, trickled down Elena’s spine. “I’m… not at my apartment. The work is so urgent that my employer has me staying at the manor. For efficiency.” She quickly added those last two words, then realised how ridiculous it sounded.
The line crackled with Lisa’s impressed silence. “A manor? Elena Rossi, you secretive little minx. Who is this guy? Is he young? Is he disgustingly rich?”
“He’s my boss. Liam Thorn. It’s strictly business.” The words tasted like ash.
“A rich, single boss with a manor. This is the plot of every good book I’ve ever read. I’m meeting him! I’ll bring wine. We’ll have a party.”
“Lisa, no. It’s not like that. He’s… very private.”
“Then he’ll love me, you know I’m a delight. Ask him. Pretty please? For your best friend who worries about you turning into a corporate drone?”
Elena closed her eyes. The thought of Lisa’s sharp, observant eyes in this house, on her, on Thorn—it was a disaster. But the thought of saying no, of cutting off this one tether to her old life, was a deeper kind of ache. “I’ll… ask. No promises.”
“That’s my girl! Text me tomorrow. Love you!”