My obsessive crush when I was younger should have given me everything I needed to figure it out. Birthdays. Company creation dates. Awards. Everything was at my fingertips.

I pulled my bottom lip between my teeth. I had to be careful. I didn’t want to get myself locked out.

With shaky fingers, I entered one. The password bars shook.

Fuck. I held my breath, typing in another date.

It shook again.

There were only two things I thought Warren would hold important enough to use as a password. His birthday and his father’s.

I looked down at Warren, noting the dark circles and frown lines.

There’s one more.

I doubted it would work. My hand shook as I entered the date that changed my life forever. The one that took a chunk from my heart and left my mother inconsolable.

My father’s death date.

When it unlocked the computer, it filled me with an emotion I didn’t want to name.

Did he take pride in what he did? Was that the reason he kept it as his password?

He’s more evil than I thought.

I imagined him logging into his computer every day, reminding himself how he brought down his once best friend.

The thought of blackmail was pushed to the side, my hand grabbing for something, anything. I didn’t know what I wanted to do, but my body was working faster than my mind.

Just as I grasped something sharp, Warren turned around in his chair, his hands around my wrists, forcing my back against the desk. My breath was knocked out of me. Pain shot up my back.

I held up my weapon to his neck—a golden letter opener glinting in the dim lighting. My hand was shaking with the force with which I was gripping it.

Warren’s face was close, his eyes shining with anger, his lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw clenched. He was undeniably pissed off that I was in his office.

But there was another thing.

He pushed himself between my thighs, his pelvis pressing against me, obviously getting harder the longer he looked at me.

“Now what are you going to do with that, Addi?” he asked, his tone amused though he kept a straight face.

“Stop calling me that,” I hissed, floundering for an excuse that would get me out of this situation.

He thrust his hips into me, making sure I knew how turned on he was, and I swallowed my light whimper.

He was so close. So overpowering.

I was much shorter than him, a measly five foot three to his six foot four. But I wasn’t afraid; the way his body enveloped mine was something I'd fantasized about.

“Then what should I call you? Baby? Darling? Or would you prefer something a bit dirtier? Bitch? Slut? Whore?”