Fiona stumbled out of the boutique, the emerald dress long forgotten on the floor behind her. The sting on her cheek throbbed in hot, angry pulses, but it was nothing compared to the fresh wound Martin had just carved into her chest with six careless words.
*Because you're sick. And bosses look after their workers.*
The sentence kept repeating in her head like a broken record, each replay twisting the knife deeper. She could still see his face when he said it calm, reasonable, almost gentle like he was stating an obvious company policy. Like the kiss in the elevator yesterday, the way his fingers had been inside her while she moaned his name, the way he'd growled *don't run again* against her throat, had all been part of some HR-approved wellness program.
Her blood pressure spiked so hard she felt dizzy.
*Worker.*
That was all she was to him.
Not the woman he'd fucked senseless in a velvet suite.
Not the woman he'd kissed like she was oxygen.
Just… a worker.
