The Feature

IV

TW: This chapter contains brief mention/themes of SA.

"Stupid fucking thing," you hissed, resisting the urge to throw your phone across the room.

You'd tried everything; iCloud backup, memory restoration, you'd even downloaded recovery software online, but nothing had worked. It was all gone. Deleted, vanished, just like your career was going to be.

You knew, deep down, that even if you could recover the pictures and voice recordings, that you weren't going use any of it. You wouldn't. But panic had made you desperate, left you sitting at your desk at home, pressing random buttons and scrolling through articles online about how to restore deleted files.

There was a part of you that didn't even care about the feature anymore. You just wanted to hear his voice; the way he said your name, how he laughed, the growl that spilled out of him in anger.

Sorry to disappoint you, Quinn. But you don't get to fuck your way out of this one.

It had hurt; the things he'd said to you, the assumptions he'd made. But what hurt more was the fact that you understood why he'd made them. And as you looked down at your phone, you wished you could erase last night from your mind, as easily as he'd erased the evidence of it.

It was Sunday, almost 3pm, and Dan's instructions were looming over you like a heavy raincloud. Not only were you supposed to be halfway through writing the feature by now, but you were also supposed to be preparing to have his hands on you, his cold desk on your bare skin.

You wondered if that was the real reason why Benedict refused to finish the interview; if he thought deleting it all and leaving you with nothing to write about somehow nullified the deal you made with Dan. After all, he'd asked you not to sleep with him before you left. But why? Why did he care?

You groaned, picking up your phone and wandering around the living room as you plucked up the courage to click on Dan's number, finally giving in and pressing it to your ear with a deep, shaking breath.

"Hello?" he answered.

"Dan, hi it's Quinn. I was wondering if we could meet today?"

"It's Sunday..."

"I know."

"Can you not just email me?"

"I'd rather speak in person."

"Someone's eager..."

You rolled your eyes. "It's about the Benedict Cumberbatch feature."

"And you can't talk about it over the phone, why?"

"I just..." you closed your eyes, holding back your frustration. "Can I stop by wherever you are? I swear it'll be quick."

"Okay, if you insist. I'm at home."

"Thanks. Send me the address, I'll be there asap."

You left your flat quickly, getting into your car before his text even came through. You typed the location into your maps app and drove in silence, too anxious to even turn on the radio.

You pulled up to a swanky apartment building, tall and sleek with mirrored cladding and glass balconies on every floor. Very fitting, you thought. Just as flashy as him.

He let you in through the intercom and you barely took a breath as you rode up to his floor in the lift, playing out what you were going to say in your head, nothing sounding right, even with practice.

"I've seen more of you over this past week than I have in the entire year you've worked for me," he said as he opened the door.

You gave a distracted laugh and walked past him into the flat, glancing around at the muted colours and clean lines, like a showroom - no character.