Page 4 of Parker

Chapter two

Parker Fashion House, Glasgow

Nicky

Parker Fashion sits tucked inside an old mansion in the west end of the city.

From the outside, it looks like a normal residential property, but inside is a shrine to all things fashion.

Here, they design and create exclusive outfits for the rich and famous, and nothing has a price tag below ten thousand pounds.

You will see their creations on the red carpet at every high-end celebrity event across the world.

Cameras are banned. Phones surrendered. Secrets stitched into every seam.

For the six years I was with Joel, this place was my second home.

I started by sweeping cuttings off the floor, all his mother would trust me to do.

But as the years passed, I became competent with a pencil, then a sewing machine.

My talent and love for design made me the most in-demand stylist at the fashion house, working with everyone from Oscar winners to royals.

Someone has locked the heavy iron gates, as usual. I swipe my entry card, and the pad flashes red. Access denied . Not surprising, but it stings. Finally, I press the buzzer. The phone rings, and Louise, the receptionist, answers.

“Welcome to Parker Fashion. Please identify yourself.”

I can imagine her sitting at her desk with a long red fingernail poised to cut off the unwanted visitor. The house allows very few people entry. Fashion is a ruthless business―competitors are always trying to steal each other’s ideas.

“Nicola Smith. I’m here to see Joel Parker.” I take a breath, steeling myself for rejection.

“Nicky? What are you doing here?” Her voice drops to a whisper, as if she doesn’t want to be overheard. “You know, Madam Parker won’t let you in here. Go home.”

“Just tell Joel I’m here, Louise. Please,” I plead, cringing at my whiny tone.

She groans. “Okay, hold on a minute, and I’ll try.”

The intercom goes silent. After a few minutes, the gates swing open. The security guard tries to stop me from entering the building, but Louise comes to my rescue.

“Joel said you have five minutes,” she whispers as she escorts me inside.

Joel said he would see me. This is a good sign. My heels click on the highly polished floor as I walk along the corridor to his office. It feels strange being an outsider here. This building has been such a huge part of my life.

I miss this place.

I miss my job.

I miss my life.

Upon reaching the reception desk, I see her.

Ebony Lin. Parker Fashion’s PR Queen. My ex-husband’s other woman.

Flawless in green silk against porcelain white skin, black hair twisted into a sleek bun, murmuring into her phone about visuals and public perception.

Her eyes skim me without stopping. I keep walking.

Today is not the day to be thrown in jail, and all I want to do is put a knitting needle between her ribs, one by one.

Standing outside his door, I run my fingers through my long dark curls and try to settle my nerves.

I styled my hair the way he loves it, and I’m wearing his favorite black business dress.

The material clings to my curves, showing off my figure, and gold buttons run from my ample cleavage to the hem, finishing a whisper above my knees.

The last time I wore this dress to the office, Joel stripped me down and fucked me over his desk like I was the only thing that could satisfy him.

He’d called it a ‘budget meeting’ for the Hollywood gown I’d been designing, but he hadn’t been interested in numbers.

At least not the kind on paper. The only figure he’d studied was mine.

As soon as I stepped into the room, he locked the door behind me, that look in his eyes already setting my skin on fire. He wanted his wife.

“What are you up to, Mr. Parker?” I’d purred, turning slowly to face him, giving him a cheeky wink.

“Mrs. Parker,” he said, darkly. “I think we need to go over your figures in detail.”

He didn’t wait for permission. Joel never did. In two strides, he had me wrapped in his arms, mouth needy against my neck, hands skimming down the curve of my waist like he was claiming property.

“You know I can’t resist you in this dress, Nicky,” he growled. “Why do you insist on wearing it to the office? You know exactly what it does to me. I can’t control myself. All I have thought about since breakfast is fucking you.”

I leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Can I tell you a secret?” I whispered, dragging my tongue along his jawline, smooth and perfect as always. I felt the sharp inhale, and the shiver that rolled through him.

“I’m not wearing any underwear.”

That was it.

He pressed his mouth to mine instantly, urgently, and possessively, his tongue sliding past my lips as if starved of my taste. His thigh pushed between my legs, grinding until I whimpered, my body already buzzing for him. Greedy fingers grazed my thighs, pushing up the hem of the knee-length dress.

“Desk. Now,” he groaned, and lifted me like I weighed nothing.

My legs hooked around his hips as he carried me to the oversized mahogany surface. Papers crashed to the floor as he cleared a space with one sweep of his arm. He laid me out like a banquet. His hands roamed everywhere. Green eyes burned as he stared at what wasn’t there.

“Fuck. You really weren’t.”

He dipped his head, and then he was there, tongue sliding over my folds, slow at first, then deeper, hungrier. He licked like he was trying to own me from the inside out. I gasped, hands in his curls, arching into him as he sucked and nipped, teasing my clit until I couldn’t stay still.

“Joel…” I moaned, but he didn’t stop.

His grip on my thighs tightened, holding me wide and open at his mercy. His name spilled from my lips over and over as he pushed me closer to the edge, only to pull back, teasing me until I was desperate and shaking. When he finally rose, his mouth was glistening, my arousal on his lips.

“I’m not finished,” he said. “I want to hear you scream my name when I come inside you.”

And I did.

“Come in,” he barks, snapping me from the recollection. Today’s meeting will not be so enjoyable. “Nicky,” he says, emotionless. His face is stern, not the loving and sexy man I remember. “Please take a seat. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

His desk, that he once worshiped me on, sits between us like a roadblock. Final and unrelenting.

As I sit down on one of the black leather chairs opposite him, his eyes scan my body.

He runs his tongue across his bottom lip, a telltale sign he likes what he sees.

Perched on the edge of the seat, I lean forward to give him a full view of my bosom.

His focus drops to my breasts, then returns to my eyes.

“Joel, I need to talk to you about my designs.”

“Your designs?” He looks at me, puzzled. “Which ones would those be?”

“My individual client designs. I designed and made those garments. I want the patterns. No matter what lies you believe, I created them.”

“No.” His harsh tone tells me he doesn’t want to discuss this. “All garments designed within these walls are the property of Parker Fashion. You know that. Don’t waste my time.”

He stands and walks toward the door, looking gorgeous in his simple dark suit and white shirt.

Joel doesn’t do business attire often; he prefers comfort.

But when he wears it, he looks utterly delicious.

You would think he was a model, with his taut muscles and long limbs, not the financial director of the company. And he used to be mine.

“Joel, please.”

“Please, what, Nicky? You know I can’t give you the designs, even if I wanted to. You haven’t even thanked me for bailing you out of the police station.” His emerald-green eyes bore into mine. He looks hurt rather than angry. Broken, almost.

“Thank you,” I mumble.

“Very sincere. Go away, Nicky. Please. Haven’t you ruined my life enough already? Or are you determined to torture me some more?”

“I’ve ruined your life?” My voice is high, borderline manic. “What about you sticking your cock in your PR staff? Or does that not count? Never mind the fact that you treated me like a criminal. You’re one to talk.”

He throws me a dark look, furious at my accusation. Not the one about him being a criminal. We both know he is, even if he doesn’t want to be.

“How many times do I have to tell you? Nothing is going on with Ebony. You created this whole drama in your twisted little mind and have wrecked our marriage. The other stuff we could have worked out.” He keeps his voice low, not wanting anyone to overhear us.

I don’t care who hears. Shooting to my feet and picking up a glass sitting on his desk, I hurl it at him across the room. It smashes against the wall, and shards scatter across the floor.

“You bastard,” I hiss. “I have nothing.”

“And whose fault is that?” His words are blunt, detached. “Now leave. You’re not welcome here. Put any further communication through my lawyer.”

As I turn away, I let go not only of my designs and me with them, but my last fragile hope that something could be salvaged from our past. He doesn’t spare me another look, as if I’ve already vanished.

I slam the door on my way out, striding from his office, attempting to hold back the sobs.

And just like that, the desolation swallowed everything we could’ve been.