The deafening silence swells and becomes uncomfortably dense, painfully pressing into my temples and crushing my skull, serving as penance for my questionable conscience’s failure to intervene. Allison’s eyes mist with tears, transforming into an endless blue ocean of hurt. I don’t care. I shouldn’t care.

“Well,” she croaks, her mouth dry and her wine glass empty. “Congratulations, asshole. You know how to navigate Wikipedia.” And as graceful as the elegant gazelle she was bred to be, she slides her chair back and stands, head held high, and glides out of the room.

I go back to enjoying my meal while the rest of the table stares vacantly at the space that once briefly housed Allison’s retreating back. One down, only 10 more to go. She isn’t the first, and she won’t be the last.

“Make her stay,” a meek voice barely whispers. Lorinda. The prim and proper housewife who’s more concerned with being dignified than where her husband puts his dick.

“Why should I?”

“Because she needs you. We all need you.” Several heads nod in agreement around the table. “Maybe her more than anyone else.”

More nods. Even a few co-signing murmurs.

I exhale a resigning breath, knowing exactly what I’m about to do, though it goes against every the principle I’ve learned to live by for the past six years.

Never get emotionally vested in a client.

Never pressure or persuade them; it has to be their choice.

And never,ever apologize for my unconventional technique, as cruel or brash as it may seem.

The door to her suite is slightly ajar, but I knock anyway, letting it creak open to reveal her petite frame. “What do you want?” she snaps, refusing to look up from the suitcase she’s furiously stuffing with clothes.

I step inside, not bothering to wait for an invitation, and close the door. “Going somewhere?”

“Home. This was a mistake.”

“That’s funny. I never pegged you for a quitter.”

“Really?” she asks sardonically, casting an angry glare through thick, wet lashes. “Because you know everything about me, right? You know my entire life story. Height, weight, social security number…hell, do you have my gynecologist on speed dial?”

“Don’t be absurd,” I smirk with a wave of my hand. “You know there’s no way in hell I could ever learn a woman’s true weight.”

Allison raises her gaze from her Louis Vuitton luggage and shakes her head, dismissing me and my dry attempt at humor. But before she can turn away, the tiniest hint of a smile reveals itself at the corner of her mouth.

I move closer, close enough to smell the Chanel dabbed behind her ears. “Mrs. Carr, it is my job to make your business my business. In order to best serve my clients, full disclosure is key. There is no room for dirty little secrets here. We’ve all got them, and trust me, yours pale in comparison to most. And, believe it or not, no one in that dining room is here to judge your situation. They’re all too worried about their own reasons for being here.

“With that said, I apologize if you felt my brand of honesty was too potent for you. It was callous of me. Still, that’s no reason to throw in the towel. Not when we’ve hardly scratched the surface.”

She barks out a forged laugh and looks away towards the window. A sea of glittering stars dot the blackened sky, lighting a path toward a full moon. The paleness of night floods the room, bathing her fair complexion in the color of diamonds and sorrow.

“You said I was exclusive,” she says just above a whisper, her voice distant yet infectious enough to echo in my head.

“Excuse me?”

She turns to me, eyes painted in angst. “You said Iwas exclusive to him in college. Not we. As if I was faithful while he was not.”

She isn’t angry, or surprised, or even embarrassed. She’s stuck somewhere between jaded and indifferent. In perpetual limbo, writhing in the space between being hurt beyond words and too fed up to give a fuck anymore.

She needs to give a fuck. I need her to give a fuck if I’m going to help her save her marriage.

“I’m aware, Mrs. Carr. And so are you.”

Allison smiles the kind of smile that’s meant to be a grimace. The kind contorted by deep-seated hurt and shame. “You think I’m stupid, don’t you? That since I knew what kind of man he was from the start, yet married him anyway, I deserve this?”

“It’s not my job to think that, Mrs. Carr.”

“Right,” she smirks. “Just your job to point out what we’re doing wrong in the bedroom.” I open my mouth to object but she raises a palm to stop me. “I get it, you know. We all signed up for this. We all knew what we were getting into. That doesn’t make it any less humiliating.”

I look at her– reallylook at her– and my head swirls with inner turmoil. Of course, she’s beautiful– they all are– but Allison is absolutely flawless. She wears very little makeup, and her face is unmarred by the telltale signs of plastic surgery or injections. Tiny, tan freckles dot her slender nose, giving her an almost innocent, youthful appeal. The fact that she hasn’t tried to hide a little piece of herself that society would deem blemished, intrigues me. Shit, it makes her kind of badass. Such a small act of rebellion, yet such a monumental Fuck Youto a world that celebrates narcissism and bullshit images.

Allison’s fiery halo of red hair falls to her shoulders in deep waves. It’s full and healthy, but not overly styled with product and extensions. It’s…her. Simple. Classic. Perfection.

“What are you looking at?” she asks, her voice laced with a mixture of annoyance and amusement.

“You.” The word is out of my mouth before a lie can even begin to stifle the truth. Shit.

“Why?” Less annoyance, more amusement.

“You have freckles.”

She twists her mouth to one side and raises a cynical brow. “That I do. Would you like to count my moles? I may be able to scrounge up some scars for you too.”

“No, I don’t mean it like that. It’s just…you didn’t get laser surgery or bleach them. You don’t even try to hide them.”

“Look, I know that I’m less than perfect, but you don’t have to be an ass-”

Just as she turns away from me, her face flushed with anger, I clutch her elbow. Our heated gazes collide before sliding down to her arm, where my hand is grasping her soft, ivory skin. I pull away before the act is misconstrued as inappropriate as my traitorous thoughts.

“I like it.”

Can’t. Stop. The. Word. Vomit.

I’m a lot of things– crass, stubborn, brutally honest, egotistical– but one thing I am not, is careless. I know my boundaries, and I never cross them. In a business where lines can be easily blurred, those boundaries are outlined in black Sharpie, traced in gasoline, then set the fuck on fire, ensuring that no one even gets close enough to inhale the fumes of temptation.

Yet, here I am, touching, tempting, testing the limits. Begging to get burned by an angel with a halo of fire.

“My apologies, Mrs. Carr,” I straighten, my defiant hands balled into tight fists at my sides. “I assure you-”

“You like it?”

I meet her eyes, which are as big and bright as the moon, casting an ethereal glow across her face. This close, much closer than deemed innocent, I see they’re not quite blue, as I’d initially thought. Flecks of green and gold illuminate the irises, and I find myself getting lost in the liquid depths, wondering what secrets lie beneath. What past pain is hidden behind those long, auburn-hued lashes.

Yes, I like it. Much more than a narcissistic asshole like me should.

Liking these women isn’t what made me the man I am today. It isn’t what built my solid reputation. I’m not known for my bleeding heart of gold or sugarcoated tongue. What I am known for is results. And that’s all Allison—or anyone else, for that matter—will get from me, and not a damn thing more.