Page 6 of Trained In Sin

Saphy

My hands are still shaking five minutes after he leaves. The entire office is buzzing with whispers, curious glances darting my way. Sebastian fucking Blackwood. In my workplace. At my desk. Like he had any right to be here!

I grab my phone and head for the bathroom, locking myself in a stall before dialling Beth. She answers on the second ring.

"Hey you, shouldn't you be working?" Her voice is light, carefree. Everything I'm not feeling right now.

"You will not believe what just happened," I hiss into the phone, checking under the stall doors to make sure I'm alone. "Sebastian Blackwood just showed up at my office."

"What? The hot nightclub guy? No way!"

"Yes way. He literally just sat at my desk and asked me to dinner."

The silence from Beth's end lasts exactly two seconds before she breaks into laughter. "Oh my god, Saphy. That's…."

"Not funny," I cut her off. "It's creepy. He knew my surname, Beth. And where I live. How the fuck does he know where I live?"

"Wait, what?" Her laughter subsides. "Okay, that's a bit much. What did he want?"

"Dinner tonight. At some restaurant called La Maison. He's sending a car at 8. "

"La Maison? That's that super exclusive French place, isn't it? The one with the three month waiting list?"

"I don't care if it's Buckingham fucking Palace, I'm not going." I lean against the bathroom wall, exhaling slowly. "How did he even find me? I only told him my first name and where I work."

"Well, he owns like half the clubs in the city. He probably has connections." Beth pauses. "Are you sure you don't want to go? Just to see what he wants?"

"Are you kidding me right now? The man turned up at work after meeting me twice. That's not charming, it's stalking."

"I know, I know. You're right." Beth sighs. "What are you going to do?"

"Nothing. Ignore him. I'm going to call Damon and see if he wants to come round tonight instead. Safety in numbers."

"Good idea. Keep me posted, okay? And if anything else happens…."

"You'll be the first to know." I hang up and take a deep breath, checking my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I look pale, my eyes too wide. I splash water on my face, trying to calm myself down.

When I return to my desk, Miranda from accounting is perched on the edge, practically vibrating with curiosity.

"Was that really Sebastian Blackwood?" she asks before I can even sit down. "The nightclub owner?"

"Yes." I keep my answer curt, hoping she'll take the hint .

She doesn't. "What did he want? Are you working on one of his projects?"

"No," I say, trying to keep annoyance out of my voice. “It was nothing, just a mistake.”

She looks at me as though she wants to say something else.

"It was nothing," I repeat, more firmly this time. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

Miranda reluctantly returns to her desk, but I can feel her watching me. In fact, I can feel everyone watching me. I hate him for doing this to me.

I try to focus on the riverside development plans on my screen, but the words blur together. All I can think about is his face when he said he knew where I lived. That smug, entitled smile. The way he touched my shoulder, as though it was his right.

I pull out my phone and text Damon: Can you come round tonight around 8? Shit day at work and need the company x

His reply comes a few minutes later: Sure thing. Everything okay?

I smile at his message. Reliable, thoughtful Damon. The complete opposite of Sebastian Blackwood.

The rest of the afternoon crawls by. I try to concentrate on work, but my eyes keep drifting to the elevator, half expecting Blackwood to return. By five o'clock, I've accomplished almost nothing and have a pounding headache.

As I pack up my things, I notice something on my desk that wasn't there before, a small white envelope with my name written on it in elegant script. My stomach drops. I glance around, but everyone is focused on their own end of day routines. No one is watching to see my reaction.

With trembling fingers, I open the envelope. Inside is a small card with the name "La Maison" embossed in gold and underneath, handwritten: 8pm. The car will be waiting. -S

He must have had someone deliver it while I was in the bathroom or getting coffee.

The thought makes my skin crawl. I open my texts and angrily type Not sure what game you’re playing but I won’t be having dinner with you tonight or any other night.

Please don’t contact me again – Saphy. I don’t know whether it’s worse for him to respond or ignore me, so I shove the card and my phone deep into my bag and hurry out of the office, constantly looking over my shoulder on the way to the tube station.

The entire ride home, I can't shake the feeling of being watched. Every man in a suit makes my heart race. By the time I reach my flat, I'm a bundle of nerves.

I double lock the door behind me, before collapsing onto my sofa. The business card from last night is still on my nightstand where I left it. I should throw it away. Instead, I find myself picking it up, running my thumb over the embossed letters. Sebastian Blackwood, CEO, Syren Enterprises .

How powerful is he, really? Powerful enough to know where I live. Powerful enough to have connections that Miranda seemed genuinely afraid of. Powerful enough to own half of the night life across the city.

I pull out my phone, both relieved and disappointed to see no response from him and do something I should have done last night and I google him .

The results are a mixture of business news and society pages.

Sebastian Blackwood, 34, self-made millionaire.

Started with one club, Syren, and expanded to a mini empire of nightlife venues, with Pulse being the crown jewel.

Occasional philanthropy, mostly for maximum publicity.

Several photos of him at high profile events with beautiful women on his arm, none appearing in more than one photo.

Nothing overtly criminal, but plenty of suggestive phrasing: "controversial business tactics," "rumoured connections," "fierce reputation." The kind of carefully worded implications that lawyers would approve while still getting the point across.

My phone buzzes with a text from Beth: How's it going? Did tall, dark, and dangerous contact you again?

I type back: Left a note on my desk somehow. Still trying to get me to dinner tonight. Staying in with Damon instead.

Her reply is fast: Probably for the best. Though I still think it would have been an interesting story!

Trust Beth to see this as an adventure rather than a warning sign. Though part of me, a very small, very stupid part, wonders what it would be like to have dinner with him. To find out what he wants.

No. Absolutely not. That way lies madness. At least last night I could blame alcohol for my temporary insanity. What excuse did I have in the light of day?

My phone suddenly vibrates in my hand.

The car will be outside your building at 8. Wear something nice - S

My blood boils. Is he serious? The arrogance of this prick .

Did you not understand? I SAID NO.

I wait, staring at my phone. Three little dots appear, disappear, appear again. Finally:

Irrelevant. The car will still be there at 8. - S

"Unbelievable," I mutter, throwing my phone onto the sofa. The sheer arrogance of the man. To think that I'd be intrigued by his persistence rather than repulsed by it.

I head to the shower, turning up the water to as hot as I can stand it. As I wash away the stress of the day, I plan what I’m going to say to Damon. I’m not going to tell him about all of this Blackwood business. It’s bullshit and I don’t want him to worry unnecessarily.

By the time I'm dressed in comfortable leggings and an oversized sweater, it's nearly seven. I pour myself a generous glass of wine and try to relax. I plan on telling Damon we’re staying in, binging a take away Chinese and watching TV.

Come the morning, this strange, unsettling day will be over.

Tomorrow, Blackwood will have moved on to his next obsession.

*

My buzzer rings at 7:55. Too early for Damon, who's reliably five minutes late to everything. I approach the intercom cautiously.

"Hello?"

"Ms. Jenkins? Your car is here. "

My heart pounds. He actually sent it. "I didn't order a car. You have the wrong flat."

There's a pause. "Mr. Blackwood sends his compliments and says to tell you the reservation is still open. He's waiting at La Maison."

"Please tell Mr. Blackwood that I have already declined his invitation twice and to stop harassing me."

Another pause. "Mr Blackwood has asked me to make it clear this isn’t a request."

I lean against the wall, shaking slightly. The audacity of the man. What did he think would happen? That I'd see the fancy car and change my mind?

“Tell Mr Blackwood I said to go fuck himself.” I switch off the intercom and slump back to the sofa. Fuck Blackwood. Fuck his cars. Fuck all of it.

I sink an entire glass of wine and am starting on my second, when the intercom buzzes again. I leap from my seat, slam my thumb on the button and all but scream ‘Listen fucker…

“Babe?” Comes Damons voice. “Erm, you ok there?”

“Fuck, yes, sorry yeah come up.” I buzz him in.

I unlock my front door and the second Damon steps through, I fling my arms around him.

“Woah, that’s a big greeting” he say, hugging me back.

I bury my face in his neck, breathing deeply.

Just the smell of him, is comfort and home and everything I needed after the strangest and shittiest day I’ve had in a very very long time.

I’m the first to let go, and grab his hand, dragging him to the sofa, where I pull him down next to me.

“Saphy are you ok?” He says, worry lacing his voice.

“Yeah, yeah, promise. I’m good. Just had a shitty stressful day with a contract and I am beyond tired.”

“Oh. Did I hear you correctly, or did you call me a fucker on the intercom?” He’s clearly not convinced.

“Yeah, sorry,” I stumble, thinking of a decent excuse. “Some stupid kids keep pressing the buzzer then running off and I’d had enough.”

He smiles. “I hate it when they do that! Honestly, it keeps happening at mine, they…” he arrives on, telling me about the issues he’s had at his place.

I grab my wine glass and nod my head, making it seem like I’m listing.

He’s been complaining a lot recently about his place.

I know they’re veiled hints at moving in with me.

I’m not anti moving in, I just don’t see him here really.

This space is my space. Instead, we’ve been putting money in a joint savings account, with the hopes that we can scrape together a deposit for a new place together.

We settle on the couch with our curry and noodles from the cupboard instead of our Chinese. Damon tells me about his day at work, some IT crisis that had everyone panicking until he calmly solved it. It's soothing to listen to him talk about normal things, office politics and software issues.

*

The rest of the night passes without much happening. We watch some stupid show on TV. I find it numbingly boring, but Damon laughs on and off. I’m exhausted. I’ve had enough of the day and I need my bed. Once the show is over, I prod Damon in the ribs.

“Sorry to be a party pooper babe, but I’m exhausted. Honestly, thank you for keeping me company but I’m ready to crawl into bed and pretend today never happened.”

Damon smiles own at me and kisses the top of my head.

Together, we get up and he grabs his coat from the hook by the door.

I tentatively pull the front door open, expecting to see Seb standing there, but let out a sigh of relief when the hallway is empty.

Damon leans down and kisses me. He puts his hands before my head, pulling me closer, and slides his hands down my back towards my backside.

“You sure I can’t stay for a bit” he mumbles against my mouth.

“Horny bastard,” I bite back, smiling. “Go on, get” and I step away and swat him on his butt.

“Love you” he smiles, walking out of the door and heading toward the building entrance, which is only around 60 feet from my front door.

“Love you too” I blow a kiss to him, giggling as he pretends to catch it.

I carefully watch him until he’s safely out of the building before throwing my own door closed, double locking it, and disconnecting the intercom.

I look at the wine glasses and used dishes on the table and decide I simply can’t be bothered to wash them all up tonight.

Instead I peel off my leggings on my way to the bedroom and throw my jumper onto the chair.

I crawl between my sheets, hoping beyond hope that tomorrow is a better day.

But as I drift off to sleep, I can't shake the feeling that this isn't over.

That somehow, I've caught the attention of a predator who doesn't give up easily on his prey .

And part of me, the part I refuse to acknowledge even to myself, wonders what would have happened if I'd gotten into that car.