Your first month at Pierce & Pierce had been…exhilarating, like a car crash. Working as Paul Allen’s secretary meant all eyes were on you—his business cards alone had half the floor salivating—especially Patrick Bateman.

Not that Paul even knew who Patrick was. Hell most days he called him Marcus. But it didn’t matter. What mattered was that Patrick noticed you, and suddenly, it was like you were the last cocaine-laced canapé at a networking party.

With Patrick, it was always a contest. How your shoes compared to his, if your pen was Montblanc, if your laugh at Paul’s joke was too loud. He couldn’t stand that you worked for Paul. Every second Paul looked at you, Patrick felt like taking an axe to his face.

And god, he was so easy to rile up.

A sidelong glance. Your hand on his arm. Watching his jaw clench. It was addictive. He acted like he was above it all but you could see it. He was desperate.

But now?

Now you’re on his kitchen counter, legs wrapped around his waist, mouth locked on his. He kissed like greed itself—a complete 180 from dinner. He’d ordered for you without asking, like the gentleman-psychopath he was. Even picked your favorite drink. But tensed when you didn’t touch it.

Yeah, you saw it.

The way he slipped something into your glass in front of you. Then sneered when you ordered something else. Like you’d embarrassed him.

Maybe it was because you hadn’t played along, or how you called him Marcus on the way out. Poor, porcelain ego. Watching it fracture was euphoric.

And now he was avoiding you.

After you’d used him like he uses everyone else. After he came apart under you, hating every second he needed you. After you said you had an “appointment at Dorsia” and left him standing there like a kicked puppy.

So when Jean tried to block you, you barged right in.

There he was. Dressed like he was going to fuck the Armani ad itself. He didn’t open his eyes when you stepped in. But as always he couldn’t bring himself to shut up.

“What the hell are you doing here?”