“Arya. Arya Roth.”
There was a pause. I could hear Christian in the distance, laughing. People congratulated him in turns. The scream lodged in my throat rolled an inch upward, toward my mouth.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Roth.” Claire’s voice turned cold. “He’s not available right now. May I suggest you make an appointment to speak to him? You can call his secretary. Same number, but her extension is seven-oh-three.”
“Look, I—”
She hung up.
I stared at my phone. For the first time, I truly felt unhinged. I couldn’t anticipate my next move or trust myself not to do something I would regret. Overflowing with rage, I yanked out the key Christian had given me for his apartment—shortly before getting in my pants again—and called an Uber.
Why had he given me the key, anyway? Oh, but the answer was clear—to taunt me. To make me look for my book. To watch me sweat for it. I’d always been a game to him.
Well, guess what, I was going to get the book that he’d stolen from me. Even if I had to rip his entire preppy apartment to shreds. I would not leave without it. And his only chance to pry that book out of my hands would be if I had to smack him with it on my way out.
The entire journey to Christian’s house, I read through the headlines on my phone.
Dick Move: How Conrad Roth Lost Everything because of That Pic.
Court Orders Wall Street Tycoon to Pay 200 Mil!
Roth in Hell, Conrad!
The media was having a field day. At first, I skimmed through each article to see if my name was mentioned in any of them. Once I realized I was mentioned in virtually all of them, I stopped checking. Media-management expert. Ha! Christian had just handed me my ass in that department, and he’d done a brilliant job at portraying me as an idiot. Jillian continued calling and texting, and so did my mother, whose worst fear had come to life—she was now broke and penthouseless. After such public humiliation, I should hope also newly single.
The Uber stopped in front of Christian’s place. I darted out, passing the receptionist and doorman briskly—appearing as if this were my natural habitat—and made my way up to the apartment. I unlocked the door and stepped in. His scent immediately seeped into my system, taking root. Shaved wood, fine leather, and male. Only it no longer brought me pleasure. Now, I wanted to purge it from my system.
If I were a handsome, highly intelligent sociopath, where would I hide a book?
I tried the kitchen drawers first, yanking them open one after the other, flipping their contents to the floor. Utensils flew out, spilling on the expensive parquet. I then moved to the cabinets, emptying them, too, then ripped the couch pillows from their base, unzipping the cases to see if the book was inside one of them.
Moving on to the stylish, meticulously organized pantry, I dragged my arms across the shelves. Condiments, protein powder, and spices rolled down to the floor. I flipped furniture upside down, emptied the cabinets of all the work files he kept at home, and—fine, this was a bonus—shattered some delicate china that didn’t necessarily need to be broken. When I was completely certain the book couldn’t be found in the living room, I moved to his bedroom. I started off by ripping some of his designer suits, not because I thought I’d find Atonement inside them but because I considered the act highly therapeutic. Afterward, I stripped his bed of the sheets, which still smelled like us, and looked in his nightstand drawers and even under the bed.
I’d swung my body back up, about to proceed to his en suite bathroom, when something compelled me to look back down. I frowned when I noticed the bump on his parquet. A slightly jagged floor tile, oddly out of place. This seemed completely out of character for Christian, who lived and breathed perfection.
Bingo.
I stretched my arm under his bed, using my fingernails to pry the tile open. My nail polish chipped, but the more I inched the tile out from its neighbors, the more I knew I was onto something.
With a snap and a clunk, followed by a ragged sigh escaping from my mouth, Christian’s secret place was exposed. I patted the space under the tile, unable to peer into it from my angle. My heart dipped with disappointment when I felt a manila envelope. I removed it nonetheless, in case there was something else hiding under it. Indeed, there was. I could feel it. The delicious, firm thickness of a hardcover. I pulled it out, feeling childishly relieved, even after everything that had happened today, because I’d finally found it.
Grabbing it, I rolled away from the bed and hugged it to my chest before opening the book in the middle and giving it a hearty sniff.