Page 17

Rachel walks into my office like she just got back from a very exclusive, very illegal wellness retreat for your nervous system and your G-spot.

Her blazer’s crisp, but her smile is feral. There’s a slight limp in her step, which I try very hard not to notice. Her cheekbones are practically winking.

She sits down, smooths her hair, and drops this gem:

“So. I slept with him.”

I blink. “Matt?”

She nods. “And Emily. Oh my God. ”

There it is. The tone. The “I just got emotionally rearranged by a man who reads exactly one book a year and it’s always The Art of War ” tone.

“He was—” She exhales like she just climbed something. “—so confident. Not cocky. Not performative. Just in charge. ”

I raise a brow. “In what way?”

“In the he picks you up and sets you down where he wants you kind of way.”

I nearly drop my pen.

“And not in a creepy Fifty Shades way,” she adds quickly. “More like... strategic competence. Like he was ten moves ahead, but also somehow reading me in real time?”

My left eyebrow is now trying to defect from my face.

“He didn’t ask what I liked,” she continues. “He found out. ”

My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

“He flipped me,” she says, and I don’t even know what that means, “but gently. And then—this is the part that kills me—afterwards? He just leaned over and smirked like a man who knew exactly what he’d done and would maybe do it again later if I was good.”

I choke slightly on my own oxygen.

“He said—” she lowers her voice—“‘I’ve been thinking about doing that since the café.’”

I actually black out for a second.

Rachel is glowing like a woman who just got a TED Talk delivered into her pelvis. I’m doing mental gymnastics trying to not picture the scene.

“My legs shook, ” she says. “Like cartoon Bambi. I had to sit down in the bathroom after just to recalibrate.”

I nod slowly, like that’s a completely normal response to postcoital alpha dominance. My notes page just says Flipped?

Rachel giggles. “He even did that thing—where he keeps eye contact while he... you know.”

“Oh, I do not know,” I say too fast.

She grins. “He kissed me after like it wasn’t a reward, it was a promise. And then—get this—he got up and said, ‘I’m getting you water. Don’t move.’”

I snort. “Okay, that’s too much.”

She shrugs. “It worked.”

Of course it did.

He’s one of Adrian’s .

I try to keep my face neutral, but internally?

There’s a fire drill in my brain. Sirens, flashing lights, an intercom voice yelling “THIS IS NOT A DRILL. YOU ARE CURIOUS ABOUT THE ENEMY.”

Because now I’m wondering—what if this is what Adrian’s been teaching? Not lines. Not games. But actual embodied confidence, mixed with just enough Boyfriend Experience to make a woman question all her past standards?

I do not want to know if Adrian Zayne can flip a woman gently.

I do not want to imagine him saying “Don’t move.”

I cross my legs. For no reason. Just... atmosphere control.

Rachel sighs blissfully. “I just didn’t know it could be like that. Like I wasn’t being handled—I was being claimed. ”

Okay.

Cool.

Super healthy reaction I’m having.

My internal monologue sounds like a Whatsapp group for emotionally compromised podcast hosts:

What if your nemesis has great hands?

Are you allowed to despise someone’s values but still... investigate their technique?

EMILY DO NOT GOOGLE ZAYNE TACTILE METHODS.

I force a smile. “Sounds like he’s done a lot of growth work.”

Rachel nods. “That men’s group thing? Whatever it is? I think it’s working.”

I just nod and swallow.

She tilts her head. “You’ve been really quiet. Are you okay?”

“Of course.” My voice jumps an octave. “Just... collecting data.”

Because that’s what this is. Not jealousy. Not projection.

Research.

Very respectable, platonic, unthirsty research .

Rachel hugs me goodbye. I close the door and whisper to the empty room:

“I am in so much trouble.”

Because now I’m not just thinking about Adrian’s methods.

I’m thinking about application.

And that is a road paved with extremely bad decisions.