Thorns in Bloom A Contract of Secrets and Revenge

I ran like a cornered mouse spotted by a cat, panicked and blank-minded, stumbling onto the brightly lit main road.

Only then did I realize my hands had been clenched so hard they'd gone numb.

The gleaming "Fox Group" sign loomed ahead. I steeled myself, smoothed the wrinkles on my clothes, and walked barefoot toward the entrance.

People make reckless decisions when they're desperate.

I walked and wrestled with myself at the same time, trying to figure out how to get inside, how to talk my way into staying one night.

The stairwell was out of the question now. Derek had probably torn through everything I owned in a rage.

What was I supposed to do tomorrow?

My head was so full of how to survive the next few hours that I didn't notice the group of people walking toward me.

"Thelma Summers?"

My head snapped up at the sound of my name.

"It really is you?"

Of all people, it had to be Benedict Fox.

I swallowed hard, scrambling for an excuse, but my mind came up empty.

What came out instead was, "Benedict, help me!"

He moved fast, pressing his hand over my mouth and giving a slight shake of his head.

My heart went cold. Right. No one saves you but yourself.

But the next second, I was pulled into his arms.

He was so tall. His long coat wrapped around me from head to toe.

He was so warm. His heat seeped through my thin clothes and settled against my skin, and something in my chest thawed, just a little.

His voice rumbled above my head, low and magnetic.

"It's getting late. Let's wrap up tonight's livestream here. The rest of the evening belongs to me and my new girlfriend."

The crowd around us began to disperse.

Once everyone was gone, Benedict took off his coat and draped it over me. It was so long it covered the tops of my feet.

"Let's go."

I followed him. My bare feet made soft slapping sounds against the floor with every step.

A few paces in, I heard quick footsteps behind us.

His assistant set a beautiful pair of heels on the ground in front of me.

"Mr. Fox asked me to find these the moment he saw you."

"He keeps women's shoes in the car, all different sizes. You're a size seven, right?"

Wait. How did he know my shoe size?

A flash of memory cut through me: my sister's pretty feet. Could he still remember her size?

"Put them on. The floor's cold."

Benedict crouched down, lifted my foot, his movements practiced, like he'd done this a hundred times before.

He slipped my foot into the shoe.

His hands were warm too.

So this was how a man could treat a woman.

But for some reason, that effortless tenderness, so polished it felt rehearsed, sent a faint chill through me that I couldn't quite name.

In the car, a paper bag sat on the passenger seat.

"What's this?"

He didn't answer, but he didn't stop me from looking.

Inside was a to-go cup of warm ginger tea.

"You were running around barefoot for a while out there." He kept his eyes on the road, not on me. "Drink some. Warm up."

I didn't know how to react. This man seemed like an entirely different person from the one I'd met in the CEO's office that morning.

"Thank you."

He gave a quiet hum.

I drank the tea slowly, one small sip at a time.

The warmth of the ginger spread from my stomach into my limbs.

But what struck me more was the temperature of the tea itself. Not too hot, not too cool. Just right.

As if someone had timed it perfectly.

I didn't know how to begin talking without shredding what was left of my dignity.

That afternoon I'd been sitting across from him, bold as anything, pitching him on how I'd boost the commercial value of his "contract girlfriend" arrangement.

And now, just hours later, here I was: disheveled, panicked, a complete wreck outside his building.

What lie could I possibly tell that he'd believe?

"That wasn't the livestream account for the contract couple thing," he said, his tone easy. "If you're chasing clicks, you don't have to go this hard."

I looked at his profile. There was the trace of a smile, but I couldn't tell if it was mocking or teasing.

"I didn't do it on purpose." Honesty was all I had left.

"Ms. Summers," he began, slow and measured, "I've had a few women in difficult circumstances come through this arrangement. You're the only one who dared to pitch me on business value the same day she signed."