A vibration pulsed against his palm. He looked down as a notification slid across the locked screen… a photo preview and didn't even have to unlock the phone to see it.
Owen didn't touch the screen. He felt the chill of a sinking certainty, a certainty that says he knew exactly what the image was.
He tapped the screen. The photo filled it.
It was his pillow. The one on the left side of his bed, where no one ever slept and on the gray linen, there were diamond earrings, beautifully and thoughtfully laid out. However, this was not the main point.
The focus was the indentation next to them. The clear, deep impression of a head. Her head. And a single, long, dark hair coiled against the fabric, catching the morning light.
A monument. A claim.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Kieran said while peeping over Owen's shoulder and let out a low whistle. "She's an artist. I'll give her that."
Owen didn't respond. He was cataloging. The angle. The lighting. She'd taken it just before leaving. A final, silent fuck you. It was aggressive in its intimacy. It made his skin feel tight.
He deleted the image. He blocked the number. The actions were swift, mechanical. But the photo was already seared behind his eyes. The indent. The hair. It was more violating than if she'd sent a nude. This was evidence of presence. Of territory.
"You're rattled," Kieran observed, settling back into his chair with a grin. "The great Owen Evans , shaken by a pillow fort."
"I'm not rattled. I'm annoyed." Owen set the phone down screen-first on the table. The screen hit the marble with a sharp click. "It's a waste of time."
"Is it?" Kieran nudged Lola's leg with his foot under the table. "Kid, pass the bacon. Your uncle needs fortification." He looked back at Owen. "It's a symptom. The disease is the three-hour sleep, the forgotten names, the mysterious jewelry on your bedside table. You're a CEO who runs his life like a frat boy during hell week. It's not sustainable."
Max slid the platter. Lola , sensing the shift in tone, stopped smearing yogurt and watched Owen. Her big, blue eyes were too knowing for a four-year-old.
Owen picked up his coffee. It was already cold but he drank it anyway. The bitterness grounded him. "It's handled."
"Deleting a photo isn't handling it. It's swatting a fly while the hive builds in your attic." Kieran bit into a strip of bacon. "The secretary idea. You should consider it seriously. Not some temp from the pool. Someone sharp. Someone who doesn't put up with your shit."
"A babysitter."
"A gatekeeper. A strategist. Someone who manages the… collateral." Kieran gestured with his bacon toward Owen's phone. "Filters the calls. Return the earrings. Make sure there's no artistic photography on weekday mornings like this anymore."
Owen clenched his jaw. The mere idea of a stranger being able to reach that level of accessing through his phone, his calendar, and even the results of his errors was as if he himself was handing over the keys. Its as if he's admitting that he doesn't have the strength to run the empire he has built.
Lola pushed her bowl away. It screeched against the marble. "I'm done."
"You have yogurt in your hair, bug," Owen said, his voice softening despite himself.
"It's a crown." The little girl didn't speak but her actions explained it. She the. slid off her chair and padded over to him and leaned against his leg, her small body warm and solid. She smelled of strawberries and sleep already.
He looked down at her. The yogurt crown. The serious eyes. This was real. This was a claim he welcomed. He reached up and gently ran his large fingers through her sticky hair.
The marble countertop was vibrating again and the phone was spinning a quarter turn with the nonstop sound.
The screen lit up. Another notification. Owen didn't look.
Kieran watched the phone. Then he watched Owen's face. "The hive," he said quietly.
Owen's hand, which was still on Lola's head, stopped moving with the aftertaste of the coffee still bitter on his tongue and he could feel the throbbing in his own neck. A steady, annoyed thump.
Lola leaned harder against his leg, a silent demand for attention. For the version of him that was just Uncle Owen. He couldn't give it to her. Not with that screen glowing.
He glanced down. A preview line glowed against the dark glass. Not a call this time. A text. The first three words were enough. 'Last night you…'
"Aren't you going to read it?" Kieran 's voice was deceptively light. "Might be important."
Owen swallowed. His throat was tight. "It's not."
The phone buzzed again. A second text, landing on top of the first. This one had no preview. Just a symbol. A single winking emoji.
Heat crawled up the back of his neck. It was a different heat than the morning sun through the windows. This was specific. Mortifying. Arousing against his will. He remembered a dim hotel bar. Her laugh, throaty. Her hand on his thigh under the table. The deliberate, slow slide of her fingertips toward his inner seam. He'd been half-hard by the time they stood up. The memory which was clear and vivid, gave him an instant kick in the groin.
However, it was his lower body that let him down.A sudden heat rushed to his crotch and even though he tried to stop it, his jeans felt very tight, the denim was under pressure because of a sudden, firm below.
The feeling was downright scandalous, especially considering the fact that he was in this sunlit kitchen and a child was leaning on him too.
"Your phone is dancing," Lola announced, peering at the table.
Kieran smirked. "It sure is."
"Enough." Owen's voice came out rougher than he intended and then picked up the phone. The cold glass against his palm. He didn't open the messages. He just stared at the locked screen, at the two notifications stacked like accusations.
A flash of memory, not from the bar, but later. Her hotel room. The taste of expensive gin on her mouth. The feel of silk sheets giving way under his knees. The possessive dig of her nails into his shoulders. He'd left before dawn, a classic Owen Evans exit. He thought it was mutual. Clean. Clearly, it wasn't.
He unlocked the phone. Opened the thread. The name at the top was just "A." Of course.
The first text: *Last night you said you loved the way I taste. Want a reminder?*
The second, below the winking emoji: *I'm still in bed. The sheets smell like you. Come back.*
A low, visceral pull tightened his gut. His erection was full and undeniable now, a persistent ache that was confined by the fine wool and cotton he was wearing. He could almost smell the hotel room again. Perfume and sex and stale air. The phantom sensation of her mouth, hot and wicked, traced a path down his spine. He was hard. Here. Now. Because of two sentences on a screen.
"That good, huh?" Kieran said after he noticed the change, the slight flush, and the rigid set of Owen's shoulders, the way his free hand had curled into a fist on the table.
Owen didn't answer. He deleted the thread. The entire conversation. He blocked the number. His fingers moved with sharp, efficient taps.
Lola tugged on his pant leg. "Uncle Owen? You're squeezing my head."
He jerked his hand away from her hair. "Sorry, bug." His voice was gravel. "I'm sorry, okay!"
He then stood up abruptly. The movement did nothing to hide the prominent strain in his trousers. He turned toward the floor-to-ceiling window, presenting his back to the room, to Kieran 's knowing gaze, to Lola 's confusion. The city sprawled below, indifferent.
"A gatekeeper, Owen," Kieran said, the humor gone. "Someone who makes sure 'A' doesn't get your private number. Or if she does, makes sure the 'reminders' get filtered to a trash folder you never see."
Owen breathed in slowly and deeply. The warmth inside him had turned into a low, frustrated and unsatisfied energy. That sexual excitement was still present, a strong and throbbing reminder of his own deeds. Then Owen rested his forehead against the cool glass. But It didn't help either
He turned around. His face was a mask of cool control. The tension in his body was the only tell. "Fine."
Kieran raised an eyebrow. "Fine?"
"Find one. The gatekeeper. The strategist." Owen picked up his cold coffee cup. Looked at the dregs. "Find me someone who doesn't give a damn who I am. Someone who can handle the flies *and* the hive."
He set the cup down. The ceramic clicked, final, against the stone. The decision hung in the air, a new thread pulled taut. The chaos of the morning had found its shape. It had a name now. It was a job posting.