Chapter 10 On Call
POV: Catherine
The clock above the stove reads 8:52 PM when I send the text to my dad, my fingers stiff against the screen. "Dad, make sure Liam eats and does his homework. And please, don't drink. Just for tonight. I won't be there." I slip the phone into my bag. Liam is fourteen, but with my father, I feel forty.
I turn to the mirror. Hair scraped back into a severe, high ponytail. Stiletto heels. And under this long black coat, nothing. Just the black lace. Eric's post-it was clear: lingerie. It didn't mention a dress, dinner, or decency. I chose to take him at his word. I know exactly where I’m ending up tonight. In his bed. The only question is how many humiliations he’ll drag me through first.
My phone vibrates. Eric.
"Downstairs. Now."
I cinch the belt of the coat until the fabric bites into my waist, throw one last glance at Liam’s bedroom door, and head down. The black SUV is idling out front, engine humming. Eric’s in the back, his face lit by his phone. He doesn’t look up when I get in. He just taps twice on the roof. We pull away.
I’m not deluding myself. I know the bed is waiting. What twists my stomach is not knowing what he’s planned for the space between the car and the sheets. When the SUV stops in front of the lit-up entrance of a five-star hotel, I understand. Step one: public humiliation.
“We’re getting out,” Eric orders, slipping his phone away.
“Eric, I don’t have anything else on under this coat. You know exactly what I’m wearing.”
He turns his head toward me, slow. His face is marble, but his gray eyes rake over me with a polite amusement that cuts deeper than a slap. “And I know perfectly well that I have a table reserved under my name for 9 PM, Catherine. In my hotel. You decided to show up in bedclothes. Bold. Now, own your dress code.”
He gets out. He doesn’t wait. He doesn’t hold the door. He just stands there on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, watching me like a banker eyes a defaulted loan.
I don’t have a choice. I get out, clutching the lapels of my coat against my chest like my life depends on it. The September air bites my bare legs. Every step across the marble lobby is torture. The hostess leads us to a secluded table in the back, hidden by plants. This isn’t kindness. It’s risk management. His.
He sits. Doesn’t touch the menu. “Let’s lay down the rules, Catherine. Since you seem so eager to clock in.”
“Okay. The rules.”
“First rule: you are formally forbidden from falling in love with me. I am not a customer service line for broken hearts. You have no rights to my private life, my company, my schedule. Our arrangement begins and ends at the threshold of my bed. You have debts. I have requirements. Call it a service contract.”
“It’s clear.”
“Second rule: exclusivity. Total. Non-negotiable. You belong to me, Catherine. Exclusively. It’s the simplest clause in the contract. Another man so much as approaches you, and the contract evaporates. I don’t need to check. I don’t need to doubt. I observe. And I sanction. The bailiffs handling your father’s debts will have my call before sunrise. I’m monogamous out of efficiency, not virtue. I don’t share.”
I swallow. “And you? Does it go both ways?”
He picks up his water glass, sets it back down without drinking. “Touching, that concern. And pointless. I don’t have the bandwidth for a harem. That would be... unproductive. You’ll suffice. As long as you remain up to specification.”
“You will come twice a week. And you will be on call at all times,” he continues.
“‘At all times’ doesn’t work with Liam. I need two hours’ notice.”
He gives a single nod. “Two hours. Granted. But burn this into your head: when I call, there is only one acceptable answer. ‘I’m coming.’ Your brother, your father, an apocalypse... those are variables in your equation. Not mine.”
The waiter approaches. I shrink into my chair, praying the coat doesn’t shift. The second he’s gone, Eric picks it back up.
“You look warm, Catherine. AC malfunction or a moment of self-awareness?”
“Eric, stop...”
“You’re the one who chose to cross the city half-naked to meet me in my hotel, on a Tuesday at 9 PM,” he says, his voice low, cutting. “Don’t play the blushing virgin now. The timing is... inconsistent. Loosen that belt. Right now. I’m conducting an audit of my acquisition prior to taking possession.”
My phone vibrates. Dad. “Stepping out for two minutes to see a friend on the corner. Liam’s got it.” Two minutes at Marco’s. Two hours at the bar. Liam is alone.
I lift my head. Eric smiles. It’s a blade. “The patriarch has an ethyl emergency. Poetic.” He takes a sip of water. “The belt, Catherine. Now. Or you can test how long a woman in heels lasts at midnight, without a coat. I’m betting on hypothermia.”
The restaurant is full. The chandelier dumps white light on everything. The waiter is heading back with a bread basket. If I obey, everyone sees. If I refuse, Liam sleeps on the street tomorrow.
My hand moves up. It doesn’t shake. Fear burned out everything that could tremble.
“You call this a business dinner, Eric?”
“I call it a performance audit. And you’re behind on your deliverables. The bed is still waiting. The question is what condition you’ll arrive in.”
My fingers find the knot. I pull.
One notch. The heavy coat slides open over the black lace.