Tall, probably six feet in her heels, slim ankles, her short skirt covering, but only barely, mile-long legs, expensive black dress—cocktail attire that wasn’t appropriate for the afternoon—clinging to perfectly shaped hips, the deep V at her neck showing off her small, pert breasts.
I lifted my gaze up to ruby-red lips that seemed natural, though I could see she wore lipstick. I looked up farther to her rich, brown eyes, perfect cheekbones, dark brown hair that was pulled back in an elegant bun.
She was icy, put-together perfection.
Maxim’s type.
The complete opposite of me.
My chest twisted tightly, painfully at that realization, and an emotion much like envy began to churn in my stomach. I so seldom thought of myself in relation to the women I sometimes caught fleeting glimpses of. Never really thought of myself as a woman. I realized then, I wasn’t, not really.
Maxim liked me enough, I supposed, probably felt sorry for me, but what he felt for me was nothing like he felt for her. He felt nothing like the desire I did, didn’t want me like I wanted him.
The woman gave me a knowing smile and then glided toward the elevator, every step perfect, every click of her heel against the floor only further underscoring my own inadequacy.
I turned, watched her as she stood in the elevator. As I watched her, I mentally assessed myself, thought of the leather sandals, knee-length denim shorts, and loose scooped-neck T-shirt that I wore.
Thought of the body that was inside of them.
Legs long, especially given how short I was, but sturdy and not thin, hips far too wide, cleavage for days, but breasts not perky, pert like hers had been.
An average thirtysomething woman. My chest clenched again with the stupidity of the thoughts I sometimes let myself think, the ones that guided my hands over my body as I pretended they were his.
My disgust with myself was palpable, and I had turned, intent on going back to my room, but stopped myself.
Seeing him now would be good. I’d be able to see the satisfaction in his eyes, know who had put it there, and know more than ever that it would never be me.
Ten years should have been enough. I didn’t know if I’d ever understand what Maxim and I were, but by now, I should know what we were not. If he’d wanted me, he would have acted.
He hadn’t, so he didn’t. I needed to accept that, get the stupid thoughts out of my head that still made me hope otherwise.
I moved toward his office, feeling lower than the ground but resolved. I needed to see him, needed to be reminded, no matter how much it might hurt in the moment.
I knocked softly and then opened the door after he’d said enter.
When I glimpsed him, my heart, which had been in my stomach, dropped even lower.
He sat behind his desk, face icy, distant, but his eyes on me. He wasn’t beautiful, but he was perfection, strong, controlled, commanding.
Everything I wanted.
Everything I could never have.
Some of that hurt I felt hardened in my stomach, didn’t exactly become anger, but it did add a charge, a wildness that I didn’t usually feel.
“What are you doing standing there, Senna?” he asked.
Having him ask me that, knowing who’d just left, hardened even more of that hurt. I lifted my gaze to his face, saw his expression was stoic, almost blank like always.
Still, I searched it for some sign of difference in him, something that told me anything. Had he enjoyed her? Had he, for even a second, thought of me?
I saw nothing, and that absence sent me spiraling over the edge of reason.
“Your visitor? Was that business?” I said, voice low, tight with anger I tried not to show him, hurt I’d sworn I would never show him. That anger, that jealousy, was mine to carry, and my pride stung at the idea of Maxim knowing about it. But despite my best efforts, my emotion was apparent.
To the undiscerning eye, it would have looked like Maxim had no reaction to my question. But my eye was discerning, and I had spent a great deal of my life studying him. So I saw the change, the slight flare of his nostrils, the way he momentarily thinned his lips, the way his jaw twitched. Only once, but once was enough. He was irritated. At my question or the emotion with which I’d asked it, I wasn’t sure.
“Asking questions about my business, Senna?” he said after he’d regained his composure.
I, however, had not regained mine.
“Is that what you call it?” I said, feeling reckless now as my gaze locked with his.
“Something on your mind, Senna?” he asked, his voice dripping with menace and warning.
I didn’t care.
“I know what you do with them,” I said.
“You know what I do with them?” he said, mimicking my words, giving me an opportunity to walk them back, an opportunity to let this go.