The crystal tumbler felt heavy in Mark’s hand, the ice barely rattling as he swirled the amber liquid. It was expensive scotch, the kind Mr. Thorne probably drank like water, but it did nothing to soothe the tight knot coiling in Mark’s stomach. His eyes weren’t on the drink; they were fixed across the opulent living room, snagged on the curve of his wife’s hip.
Sarah.
Even her name felt electric tonight. She wore that dress, the emerald green one that clung to every inch of her figure. It deepened the green of her eyes, made her fiery red hair look like a warning flare against her pale skin. Mark remembered buying it with her, the way she’d turned in the department store mirror, a bold, challenging glint in her gaze that dared him. He’d felt a familiar mix of pride and something else, something close to intimidation, looking at her then. He felt it now, tenfold.
Her curves were generous, spilling softly over the tight fabric at her waist and hips, her breasts full beneath the low-cut neckline. She wasn’t skinny; she was soft and strong, built like a woman who knew how to take what she wanted. And tonight, it seemed like what she wanted was Alan Thorne’s undivided attention.
Thorne. Mark’s boss. The man who held Mark’s stagnant career in the palm of his impeccably manicured hand. Thorne stood close to Sarah, closer than necessary, radiating an easy confidence that Mark envied and despised. Mid-forties, tall, broad shoulders straining the fabric of his tailored charcoal suit, a silver watch catching the light as he gestured. He wasn't just successful; he looked it, smelled it – money and power clung to him like expensive cologne.
This wasn't a sprawling corporate gala; Thorne had called it an 'intimate gathering' at his ridiculous penthouse apartment overlooking the city lights. Just a few key department heads, their partners. An effort to 'build camaraderie,' Thorne had said. Mark had felt obligated to attend, plastering on a smile, hoping for even a
