Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
I almost laugh. Instead, I reach for the edge of the table, my fingers close to his but not touching. “You don’t have to—” I start, then stop. “Thomas, you don’t have to compare yourself to some random clickbait influencer. I’m the one who recorded you without your permission. It was my mistake, not yours.”
He’s silent for a beat, then two. He picks up his glass, turns it between his hands. The blue light from the window outside pools in the base, catching and refracting so it looks like he’s holding a tiny world in his fist.
He says, “I know. But I also know you’re not the only one with secrets.”
I freeze, the cold working its way up from my fingertips. I wait, not daring to breathe.
Thomas reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out his phone. He unlocks it—six digits, fast and practiced—and slides it across the table, the screen up. The display is split, nine little squares in a grid. Each one is a live feed from a different room, all identical in palette: pale marble, chrome fixtures, walls so white they look blue in the night. My brain stutters, then fills in the blanks.
It’s his penthouse. Each camera is a different angle—living room, kitchen, bedroom, the little alcove off the foyer, even the master bath. In one, Mrs. Olsen moves through the kitchen, wiping down a counter. In another, the curtains are drawn tight, but the room is still visible, the faint shape of a bed in the gloom.
I stare, then glance up at Thomas. He watches me, jaw working.
His voice, when it comes, is so even I almost miss the strain under it. “The building requires a security feed for its insurance. My personal insurer also requires a security feed. And with the art collection and everything, it’s pretty standard, honestly. If something ever goes missing or is vandalized, we’ll have footage from months past. It’s not even reviewed unless there’s an incident.”
My mouth is dry. “So—”
He meets my eyes, holds them. “So, yes. Every time you were there, there’s footage. Maybe not high-def, maybe not even clear, but it’s there. I should have told you. I should have thought to check. I didn’t.”
For a second, I can’t process it. My mind cycles through every moment in those rooms—every time I lay on the rug, or cooked in the kitchen, or fell asleep on the couch with him next to me. Every time we touched, or kissed, or made love with the lights on, with the windows open. I want to be angry, but I just feel hollow. Mostly, I feel stunned.
I look at Thomas, and the apology is already in his eyes, raw and unguarded. I realize that this is why he called me here—not to shame me, not to call me out again, but to level the playing field. To admit he’s as guilty, or more.
A hot, thick wave rolls through me. Tears rise, sudden and sharp, and I try to blink them away, but one escapes, sliding down my cheek before I can catch it.
Thomas starts to reach for me, then stops, hands going white-knuckled on the phone. His voice cracks, just once: “I’m sorry, Andie. I should have told you from the start, but like you, I forgot. I’m so used to having the cameras on, that I forgot about them. I generally never watch the footage either. I forgot I even have the app on my phone.”
I breathe in, shaky. Then, before I can talk myself out of it, I reach across and close my hand around his. His skin is warm and dry, the hand so much bigger than mine that I could lose myself in it.
I say, “It’s okay. It’s fine. I mean, it’s not fine to record us during sex without my knowing, but I know you forgot.” The words are thick, full of tears, but true.
He lets out a long, slow breath, and the tension leaks out of him all at once. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I fucked up mightily. I was literally the pot calling the kettle black, accusing you of videotaping us when I was doing the exact same thing.” His thumb slides over the backs of my fingers, tracing the knuckles, the little bones. “But I want us to do this right, Andie. No more secrets. No more games.”
I nod, and the last of the tears fall. I don’t bother wiping them away. “No more hiding,” I say. “Ever.”
He nods, then leans in, just a little. “May I?”
I close the distance, letting him kiss me. It’s not wild, not desperate. It’s soft, slow, the kind of kiss you could build a life on. When it ends, I press my forehead to his, and we just stay like that, the world shrinking down to the size of this booth, this moment, this promise.