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466 pages, Kindle Edition
First published March 3, 2026
I’m still scrutinising the shorn edges of the china handle when he saunters off, whistling to himself with the lack of fucks that only a second-born son has to give.
Can she really be as liberated as she purports to be? Can sex, in all its guises, truly be as natural to her as breathing?
Or is she still somehow enchained in the Stockholm syndrome of her servitude to a sex club? Does she still, in some unfathomable way, believe herself in servitude, and what does that make me? A guy who preys upon the lack of value she places upon her own body, except that this time I’m not even bothering to pay for the privilege?
It must be nice to be able to afford morals.
My face twists with distaste. I want her; of course I do. I’m only human. I’ve thought of little else but fucking Ivy since she left on Sunday. But the idea that she believes me capable of tracking her down at her place of work in an attempt to bundle her off to bed is loathsome. Loathsome.
It’s critical that Ivy knows how I’m feeling, that I leave her in no doubt as to my reluctance to take this path I’m supposed to follow. To drink from the poisoned chalice that calls itself duty.
‘But I want you to know how much it hurts,’ I tell her. ‘I don’t want you, for a single second, thinking I was able to walk away freely. I want you to know that if I had a single say in the matter, I would choose you. Every single time.’
And I’m almost undone, almost, except—
Wait.
It’s with excruciatingly poor timing that my prefrontal cortex chooses to come back online.
‘You have got to be fucking kidding me,’ she says quietly, slowly, and so ominously that I’m actually scared, even while a small part of me perks up at the thought of having a frank conversation with her for once in our lives.