Fuck.
With an exasperated sigh, I throw the covers off my body and lurch to the side, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed and planting my feet on the floor.
That was a mistake.
My stomach lurches with the movement, and now that I’m upright, the full extent of my hangover is readily fucking apparent.
I bury my face in my hands, my palms meeting the rough stubble there.
I haven’t shaved since last Thursday.
I feel like shit.
I will probably never feel good again.
The air in the room is stale and close, and the drinking and lack of showering hasn’t done anything to improve it.
Another knock at my bedroom door.
“Mr. Pierce…” It’s Sarah, my city housekeeper. Her voice sounds concerned, urgent.
“Just a second,” I snap back, my tone harsh, and then I stand up, my legs wobbling underneath me.
Somewhere in this mess is a t-shirt. I find it crumpled near the head of the bed and put it on, not bothering to cover my boxers with pants. It’s Sarah out there, not the Queen of England.
By the time I get to the door that leads to the rest of the penthouse, my head feels like there are jagged spikes being driven into it from every angle.
This is not a very promising start to the day.
Whatever day it is.
Yanking the door open, I reveal myself—and am instantly blinded by the light streaming in from the hallway.
“Shit,” I cry, throwing a hand up over my eyes. “Can you turn that off?”
There are muted footsteps as Sarah retreats down the hall, and then I hear the click of the switch being flipped. Behind my palm, the hallway darkens. I lower my hand and watch Sarah come back down the hallway, her round frame broken up by a crisp white apron.
She tilts her head back to look at my face, then purses her lips.
“You need to get out of that bedroom, Mr. Pierce.”
I roll my eyes, a movement I regret immediately. It throws me off-balance and sends another bolt of pain through my head. “Go away, Sarah.”
Sarah has raised six children, so she’s not about to take my foul attitude at face value. Her no-bullshit demeanor is why I hired her to come around three days a week.
“Unlikely,” she replies, pushing her way past me and into the bedroom. Seconds later, the space is flooded with sunlight as she snaps open the shades and flicks on a lamp in the corner. “This room is filthy, and you’ve been wallowing in it for two days.”
“How do you know?”
She gives me a look like I’m an idiot, then begins picking up the clothes strewn across the carpet. “I came Friday. Do you remember?”
I narrow my eyes, trying to recall any detail about Friday. What comes to mind is Quinn.
We had a meeting scheduled for 10:00 that morning. Once she left, running out of my apartment like I was some kind of serial killer, I stayed up the rest of the night, alternating between feelings of devastation and terror.
What if Quinn went back to her apartment and told Carolyn everything?
What if she told Pierce Industries everything?
Those thoughts were incessant, unyielding. As soon as I convinced myself that she wouldn’t—Carolyn wouldn’t believe her over me, and of course my father wouldn’t—the whole damn circus would start over.
Why the fuck did I expect a different reaction from her?
Why did I ever think that what we felt for each other—that powerful, wild current running between us—would override a lie of that magnitude?
For the rest of the night, there was nothing to do but wait.
Finally, I decided to proceed as if nothing had happened. We could work things out at the meeting, in a relatively neutral location.
I showered and dressed, chose my favorite suit—a charcoal summer-weight piece made in Italy—and had Louis take me to the Pierce Industries building.
In the office I was my usual charming, slightly cutting self, joking with the secretaries, sitting through update meetings, but I was burning up inside the entire time, feeling the life bleed out of me with every memory of Quinn’s hatred, her terror.
At 9:30, I had just texted Louis to bring the car around to head to her office for our meeting, when my office phone rang.
“Christian Pierce.”
“Hello, Mr. Pierce. I’m calling from Ms. Campbell’s office. Unfortunately, she’s no longer available for your meeting this morning.”
Disappointment floods my chest. “Did she give a reason?” I said into the receiver, my voice hitching just enough to be embarrassing.
The guy on the other end of the line didn’t mention it if he noticed anything. “She called in sick early this morning, sir. I see from her schedule you have another meeting next Wednesday. Would you like me to reschedule for Monday?”
“No,” I said sharply, then reminded myself that none of this was the assistant’s fault.
It was mine.