I grabbed the documents off the printer and looked them over before putting them in my purse. I dressed in a casual, sleeveless, emerald-green dress—Axel always liked me in green—and searched my shoes for exactly the right pair. Passing over all the heels because my feet felt like someone had battered them with a hammer, I settled on a pair of flat-soled nude sandals. I dried my hair straight and slicked some soft-pink gloss on my lips before heading out the door.

Axel had put me on his approved list of visitors, so the doorman didn’t have to call up to announce I was there. Good. I wanted to surprise him, I thought as I approached his door and knocked. The door swung open, and there was my sexy man, looking quite delicious in charcoal gray dress pants and a black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to expose his thick forearms. Why was he so dressed up?

His eyes widened, and he stammered, “Bl-Blaire. What are… what are you doing here?” I got the distinct feeling that my surprise visit wasn’t exactly welcome.

“Not exactly the response I was looking for,” I purred, stroking one finger around the hollow of his throat that was exposed by his two unfastened buttons. He shifted his body a little, blocking most of my view of his apartment, but not all. I saw a shoe. A red sky-high stiletto, to be precise, and it was attached to a long, slim leg. My eyes met his, and the look of guilt there slapped me in the face harder than if he had actually struck me.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” I asked, shoving him so hard he took two steps back so I could step fully into the apartment. There was a woman sitting on his couch, and the best word I could find to describe her was “sleek.” She had a sleek blonde bob and a trim body encased in a red suit with a short skirt. And let’s not forget the killer red fuck-me heels to complete the package.

My eyes took in the scene in an instant. Axel’s dining room table was set for an intimate dinner for two with wine glasses and as-yet-unlit candles. I guessed they hadn’t gotten around to having dinner yet. They were probably halfway on their way to fucking when I interrupted, I thought bitterly. There was a cut glass vase with a red rose arrangement as a centerpiece on the table. Axel had brought me a single red rose last night, which I had thought was a beautiful and simple gesture, but apparently, Little Miss Stiletto merited an entire arrangement of roses.

And why shouldn’t she? She was fucking perfect… dressed to the nines, while I stood here in a plain dress with flats and practically no makeup.