Two days of radio silence, and I've officially convinced myself I had a very dramatic medical episode.
It was a fever. A virus. Some perfectly mundane medical situation that happened to require emergency intervention via the most skilled hands in human history. Totally normal. Happens all the time.
The doctor said I was fine. Dad's moved on to his next crisis. Even Chris now thinks it was just bad luck with timing. And Hugh…
Well, Hugh has gone full witness protection program, so clearly everything's totally normal.
I've texted him exactly three times. Professional, casual questions.
Me: Hope you're well.
Me: Dad mentioned the Singapore deal went through—congrats.
Me: Thanks again for helping when I was sick.
Each one carefully crafted to sound breezy and definitely not like someone who's been replaying the memory of his fingers inside her while she begged for more.
His responses have been artistic in their brevity. Professional. Polite.
No follow-up questions. No "how are you feeling?"
Nothing that acknowledges we shared what was objectively the most mind-blowing experience of my nineteen years of existence while my birthday party continued downstairs like the world hadn't just shifted on its axis.
So yeah. I'm fine. Totally fine. Aggressively fine.
Except I can't stop thinking about it.
About him. About the way his control shattered when I begged him not to leave. About his voice, rough and possessive, telling me he had me. About the feeling of being completely surrounded by his strength.
But no. Medical episode. Moving on. La la la.
I'm in the library aggressively not reading the same paragraph for the seventh time when I hear his voice in the entrance hall. My entire nervous system goes DEFCON 1, every cell in my body suddenly hyperaware like I'm some kind of Hugh-detecting radar system.
Which is both pathetic and apparently my new default setting.
I shouldn't intercept him. Should stay glued to this chair, pretend to understand these words that keep swimming around on the page, and let the grown-ups handle their important grown-up multi-billions business.
I'm halfway down the hall before my brain catches up to my body.
"Hugh."
He stops mid-step like someone just hit his pause button. When he turns, his expression is perfectly, professionally neutral—the same mask he probably wears during hostile takeovers and peace treaties.
"Claire." He says my name like it's a normal greeting. "You're looking well."
"Thanks. I feel much better." I move closer, watching his jaw tighten by microscopic degrees. "I wanted to thank you again. For… helping me, the other night."
"It was nothing. I'm glad you've recovered." His eyes are pure steel gray—no amber shade. "Your father mentioned the doctor gave you a clean bill of health."
"Yeah, apparently it was just a virus or something. Weird how it came on so suddenly, right?"
I'm fishing shamelessly, hoping for any crack in that professional facade. Any acknowledgment that what happened was more than routine illness management.
"These things happen." He adjusts his briefcase with the efficiency of someone who's clearly done with this conversation. "If you'll excuse me, I have a meeting with Richard."
"Right. Of course." But I can't let him go. Not like this. "Hugh, about that night—"
"You were unwell." He cuts me off with the precision of a scalpel. "I helped you to handle it. That's all there is to discuss. It's best if we both forget it happened."
The dismissal hits like a physical hit right into my gut.
Forget it happened.
Something reckless and probably self-destructive takes over my mouth.
"Forget it happened? That's an interesting approach to what I'm pretty sure was the medical miracle of the century. I mean, bizarre illness cured by a few orgasms? We should probably alert the CDC."
The look he gives me could probably flash-freeze hell. His eyes flare with something dangerous before the shutters slam down harder than before. "Claire…"
"I'm joking. Obviously joking. Because apparently, we're pretending it never happened, so why not joke about the thing we're not acknowledging?" I'm spiraling, I can hear myself spiraling, but I can't seem to stop. "Was it that forgettable for you? Because I—"
"I have meetings to attend." His voice is flat, final. "Business that requires my attention. This conversation is inappropriate."
"Inappropriate. Business. Right, of course" I laugh, and it sounds slightly unhinged even to my own ears. "Wouldn't want to keep you from important billionaire things."
He turns to leave, but I can't let him dismiss me like I'm some inconvenient child.
"So that's it? You're just going to pretend you never had your hands all over me while I—" He spins back so fast I actually step backward.
For a split second, his carefully constructed mask slips, and I catch a glimpse of something raw and desperate underneath. Then it's gone, replaced by cold professionalism that cuts deeper than any anger could.
"Take care of yourself, Claire," he says quietly, before he turns and climbs the stairs to Dad's study.
I make it back to my room before the humiliation sets in.
Take care of yourself.
Like I'm a casual acquaintance he ran into at the grocery store. Like he didn't have his fingers inside me while I begged for more. Like he didn't watch me fall apart in his arms while whispering reassurances against my skin.
Like I imagined the whole fucking thing.
Maybe I did imagine it. Maybe the fever scrambled my brain and I hallucinated the entire experience. That would certainly be less mortifying than the reality where it happened and he's decided it meant absolutely nothing.
The day drags by like a prison sentence. I try reading. Try watching Netflix. Try meditation, yoga, reorganizing my closet—anything to make my brain stop replaying that conversation on an endless, humiliating loop.
But I can't stop thinking about it. About him.
The phantom sensation of his hands on my skin is so vivid I can almost feel the heat of his touch. My body responds to the memories with embarrassing enthusiasm, need pooling low and insistent in my belly.
I shouldn't do it.
This is pathetic and desperate and probably qualifies as emotional self-harm.
My hand is already sliding under my sleep shorts before I can talk myself out of it.
I close my eyes and the memories flood in. His voice in my ear, rough and gentle at the same time. His fingers moving with devastating precision. The way he surrounded me completely, made me feel safe and wild and utterly claimed all at once.
I try desperately to recreate even a fraction of what he made me feel.
My fingers circle my clit the way I remember his did, but it's wrong. All wrong. They're too small, too soft, the angle completely off. I can't reach the spot that made me see actual stars, can't apply the pressure that made me scream his name.
But I try anyway, chasing the memory of that perfect release while my body winds tighter and tighter. The orgasm, when it finally hits, is sharp and brief—a pale imitation of what he gave me.
For a few seconds, it's perfect relief—physical release that quiets my racing thoughts.
Then it's over, and I'm lying there feeling more empty than before.
Because it's not about the mechanics, is it? It's not just about skilled fingers or knowing exactly where to touch. It's about him. Specifically him.
The way he looked at me like I was something precious and dangerous. The way he seemed to understand what I needed before I knew it myself. The connection that felt deeper than just physical attraction.
And now he's pretending none of it existed.
Frustration and shame and anger twist together in my chest until I want to scream.
He gets to just file this away under "emergency medical response" and move on with his perfectly controlled life. Meanwhile, I'm here falling apart, trying to recreate feelings he gave me while making it crystal clear he has no intention of ever giving them again.
The worst part? I don't even know what I want from him.
An acknowledgment that it happened? An explanation for why he won't even look at me now? For him to tell me it meant something, even if it can never happen again?
Or maybe I just want him to stop treating me like I'm nothing more than his business partner's and friend's inconvenient daughter.
I roll over, punching my pillow with more force than strictly necessary, and try to convince myself I'll stop thinking about him tomorrow.
It's a lie, but it's the one I'm going with.