Then came the sight that melted my knees into jelly.

A woman, bent over on Trent’s desk, her scarlet hair spilled across her shoulders like fire, one cheek pressed against a stout stack of documents. He was standing behind her, fully clothed, pounding into her while squeezing the back of her neck like he’d done to me the day he escorted me to my car after he’d caught me pickpocketing. Like an animal.

I wanted to move. Knew that I needed to, fast. But I was overwhelmed by everything—my being caught, them being caught, and the realization that I was about to catch on fire with jealousy. I was glued to my spot, unable to tear my eyes away from the scene in front of me. I didn’t have to make myself known. I was standing right in front of them, choking the doorknob with my grip, mouth comically agape. My heart parachuted, making my stomach roll in both agony and thrill.

Trent’s eyes locked onto mine, his hips rolling forward as he showed me how he fucked. Thrusting, moving, demanding. He twisted the tresses of her burgundy hair between his strong, long fingers. And he watched me. Watched as if it was me bending for him, taking him in. I returned his gaze.

“Van Der Zee, you’re here just in time for the eight o’clock show.” His indifferent tone was a contrast to the wild act he was performing for his audience. Me. “I know what you’re looking for, and it is in my pocket. Word to the wise—this game is played by two. If I finish before you make yourself scarce, I will chase you. And I will catch you. Which means that you will sing for me, Edie. You will tell me exactly what your father’s fixation is with me. So, leave.”

This was the part where any sane girl would run for her life. Take his advice, turn around, and make an escape. But I was coming to terms with the fact that maybe I wasn’t completely sane, and that I was undeniably not a smart girl where Trent Rexroth was involved. I dropped my eyes, scanning the woman. Her wide eyes told me getting caught wasn’t her kink, and yet she kept grinding against him. Horror and embarrassment leaked from her features. She looked back at me like she knew me. Like she recognized me. But that couldn’t be true. The redhead looked to be older than Trent, which put a thorn in my gut, twisting painfully. If seasoned was his favorite flavor, he had nothing to look for in me.

Not that I want him, anyway.

My gaze snapped back to Trent. His eyes fed me lies I was tempted to believe, even from him. They told me I was the seed from which everything beautiful grew in this world. That I was air and water and art. That I was the woman he wanted to sleep with. They were naked of everything life had tainted him with and sent raw goose bumps down my skin.

The jealousy. The unbearable green monster felt like it was sucking the logic out of me. I needed to react, even if I had no way of explaining what I was doing there in the first place.

“You wanted me to catch you,” I said quietly, my voice barely quivering. He was still going at it, one of his hands digging into the flesh of her waist as he thrust so hard into the woman, the heavy oak desk moved and scraped along the granite floor. She closed her eyes and moaned. He didn’t acknowledge me with an answer.

“You’re twisting our game,” I added, my hold on the door relaxing. I was still on guard, but my make-believe nonchalance leaked into me, giving me courage.

“I’m making it interesting.”

“You’re cheating,” I said. I didn’t know why. Maybe because it stupidly felt like it. Like he was mine somehow, even though I had no reason to believe that.

“You cheated first.”

“How?”

“With Blondie.”

“Blondie is just a friend.”

“Yeah, well, Sonya is just a fuck.”

I swallowed, my eyes darting to the woman on the desk. She looked too lust-crazy to care about the exchange anymore, and I briefly wondered if this was what being a “proper” adult felt like. My father was indifferent. Trent was indifferent. His friends were. Everyone on this floor was. And the only person who did care about love—my mother—had lost her mind in the process.

Trent’s lover’s cleavage was exposed, the top half of her conservative navy dress unbuttoned, and she was moaning so loudly, her eyes rolling in their sockets, there was no doubt the objectification was mutual with these two.

I hate you, I mouthed, feeling my sweaty hand slipping from the handle. It was directed at both of them. I wasn’t counting on Trent to hear me. It was more of a private declaration. Then again, I forgot that Trent lived with a person who made him scrape for words and beg for sounds.