Seven Nights of Sin (Penthouse Affair #2)

Dominic

Monday morning at the office, all eyes are on me—but they won’t meet mine. Clusters of chattering employees in the hallways and open workspaces abruptly clam up and avert their eyes when I pass by. It’s fucking awful.

Presley avoids me like I have the plague, hiding away in her office, her face turned toward her computer. Only Beth, a true professional to the end, continues to look me in the eye and handle our business as smoothly as if that damn news story never happened.

Thank God for small miracles. And the story, to be honest, is petty and ridiculous. An escort I went out with a handful of times wanted to cash in and sold her story. There was nothing all that salacious about it, but the media latched onto it and it spread like wildfire—destroying everything in its wake—including my reputation.

Gia called from the agency first thing that morning and told me she had deleted my file and that we needed to cut all ties. I told her that was fine. I don’t plan on using her services again anyhow. But of course, the damage was already done.

• • •

By Wednesday, the story still hasn’t died down, and it’s starting to wear on me. I’d like to think I’m resilient, untouchable, but this week has been humbling, to say the least.

in, Beth looks up and

perched efficiently at her desk, hard at work. It’s one of the things

sigh of relief at the normalcy of it all. With everything that’s been going on, I didn’t realize how badly I needed things at the office to

I’m sure doesn’t reach

is sincere, if not a little sad. She gazes at her computer, tapping one long fingernail against the screen as she locates the details. “You have a meeting with development at ten, procurement at one thirty, and the board of directors at three. Oh, and Kelly would like to talk

the head of PR wants yet another piece of me. All I’ve done this week so far is help her manage this fucking disaster. It’s like wading through

are a few things I want to finish

“Can do, sir.”

controls to a spaceship. Fuck . . . exactly like yesterday. All week, I’ve been so edgy and off

and force myself to check my email, deciding to deal with the non-scandal-related