The Playboy's Wicked Revenge (Major editing In Progress)

12: Use to

Sia

I walk when I’m overwhelmed.

When thoughts get tangled and my chest gets tight, I walk until my legs ache and my brain numbs out the noise. It’s my only form of escape that doesn’t require permission.

Today, I’ve been walking for over an hour.

My flats ache against the pavement, Mu palms clammy, I've circled the same block three times. Down the block. Across the lane. Circling the café where I’ll never sit with him. The city keeps moving around me, unaware that I’m unraveling by the seams. My shoulders are tense, and the fabric of my blouse sticks slightly to my back. The strap of my bag cuts into my skin. I haven’t had anything since last night.

But it’s not hunger that’s making me feel hollow.

It’s him.

The memory of his mouth. The feel of his hands. The way he looked at me like he knew he owned something I hadn’t even meant to give away.

And yet, I liked it. That’s what scares me most.

Eventually, I stop walking.

Because I have to.

Because the office is a looming truth I can’t outrun.

When I finally step through the glass doors and into the cool, too-clean air of the lobby, the clock behind reception reads 9:45 a.m.

Damn it.

I rush to my cabin, fingers wrapped tightly around my bag strap like it might anchor me to something. I’m about to drop into my chair—quiet, unnoticed—when there’s a knock.

Xander’s secretary stands there, crisp in beige, holding a notepad. “Mr. Black would like to see you. Now.” she says, voice neutral.

Would. Not wants. Always formal. Always cold.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

My hands are clammy. My feet feel too loud on the polished floor as I walk down the hall. With each step, the memory of that elevator kiss presses tighter against my ribs like a bruise. My heart pounds against the base of my throat.

His door is slightly ajar. I raise my hand to knock—but it doesn’t land.

A hand shoots out. Grabs my wrist and pull me inside with a force that strtles a gasp out of me

The door shuts behind me with a soft, definitive click.

My back hits the wall a second later—not hard, not painful, but purposeful. He cages me in with his arms, each one braced on either side of my head, his body close enough that the scent of him—clean musk and spice—wraps around me like a net.

I flinch.

He doesn’t touch me, not directly. Not yet. But his presence is overwhelming, like gravity. His jaw is tense, his eyes unreadable.

I drop my gaze to the floor.

My voice cracks before it fully forms. “S-sorry. Late… I-I mean, am I—”

He doesn’t raise his voice.

He doesn’t need to.

“Sia.” His tone is low. Smooth. Dangerously Calm, But there’s a thread of steel under the silk. “Look at me when we’re talking.”

His face is so close now that I can feel the whisper of his breath against my cheek. Every inch of me tightens. My body is frozen, suspended in something I don’t understand.

“I-I… l-late am…” I stammer again, flinching at how pathetic I sound . I still can’t meet his eyes.

I can feel his eyes narrowing, He waits one beat.