Page 4 of Threaded Lies

“Ah,” she murmurs. “So she is in fact, the problem.”

“Leave it be, Audrey,” I grit out.

“Now why would I go and do something like that, huh?” When I glance her way, she’s scribbling on that pad she carries around with her, but it’s the ghost of a smirk on her lips that grates on my nerves.

“Perfect fucking example of why I don’t do this shit,” I grumble as I move to sink back down into my office chair.

Unhinged, my ass. I open my laptop. What was I going to do? I close my laptop. Wasn’t I looking for something? I glance at the credenza behind me.

“What shit would that be? The seek-revenge-on-your-enemies type of shit?” she asks evenly.

Fucking Rowan Rothschild.

“Go away,” I grumble.

And I’m not sure if I’m talking to Audrey in my office or Rowan owning my mind.

I don’t have time for Audrey’s shit.

I don’t have time for anyone’s shit.

The only thing I care about is burning this whole fucking place down.

“Are we in burn-this-whole-fucking-place-down mode?”

I whip my head up to meet her eyes. Did I say that out loud?

She purses her lips. I know you better than you do, her stare says. “Did something happen that you care to share or opine on or whatever it is you need to do?”

“Nope. Not a thing.” How many times are we going to have some form of this conversation?

Rowan’s here.

I don’t care that she is.

Not one goddamn bit.

“She’s in the studio. Second floor.”

“What?” I snap.

Audrey holds her hands up. “I didn’t say a word.” She cautiously leaves my office.

“Good. Keep not saying a word,” I mutter, knowing damn well what she just said and hating her and loving her for it all at the same time.

THREE

Rowan

I know the minute he enters the room.

His cologne. His presence. His intensity.

I can sense all three of them despite purposefully occupying myself with my male counterparts—three incredibly attractive models—to avoid looking his way.

It’s their hands on my body, but it’s the feeling of Holden’s hands I’m reliving no matter how much I loathe him with every ounce of my being.

But I don’t look toward the door he just entered. I don’t give him any hint that I know he’s here.