Chapter 1 

Lake 

The last box is labeled Office—Urgent. I slice through the packing tape with a grim satisfaction. Inside, my entire life is arranged in neat, color-coded files. Contracts, vendor lists, seating charts for events that won’t happen for another six months. It’s the architecture of my success, the proof that Lakeisha Edwards, Senior Director of Events, has her shit together.

My new penthouse, however, does not.

It’s a beautiful, sterile cage of glass and white marble, with a view of the city that glitters like a spilled jewelry box. But right now, it’s a warzone of cardboard and bubble wrap. The air smells of fresh paint and possibility, and yet, the silence is so absolute I can hear the faint hum of the Sub-Zero fridge. It’s the kind of quiet that feels less like peace and more like a void.

I catch my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window. Behind me, the chaos of the move. In front, the endless, sparkling expanse of the city. And in the middle, me. My dark brown skin absorbs the low, ambient light, and my eyes, the same warm color as my grandmother’s mahogany table, look tired. My hair, a wild cloud of curls that I usually tame into a severe chignon for work, is piled messily on top of my head, held in place by a single pen I must have shoved in there hours ago. I see the woman who just clawed her way to the top floor of the corporate ladder and the penthouse suite to match. She looks professional. She looks polished. She looks utterly, profoundly alone.

“Happy promotion to me,” I murmur, my voice sounding foreign and small in the cavernous space.

Screw this. A celebration requires champagne, or at the very least, a bottle of wine that costs more than my last electric bill. I excavate a bottle of pinot noir from a box labeled Kitchen—Fragile, along with a single, long-stemmed glass. No corkscrew. Of course. After ten minutes of increasingly desperate searching that leaves me sweating through my cashmere sweater, I find it, pop the cork with a triumphant sigh, and pour a glass.

I hold it up, the deep red liquid catching the city lights. “To PH-B,” I toast to the empty room. “May she be filled with… successful event launches and very little dust.”

The wine is smooth and bold, but it does nothing to fill the hollow ache in my chest. I drain the glass, pour another, and pull out my phone, my thumb hovering over the one person who will understand. Or at least pretend to.

Chloe’s face pops up, pixelated for a second before snapping into focus. She’s grinning, a ridiculous-looking reindeer headband perched on her blonde hair. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t my favorite C-suite-climbing badass. Are you christening the new palace with that ridiculously expensive wine I told you not to buy?”

“It was a gift,” I lie, taking a large swallow. “From a secret admirer.”

“The only secret admirer you have is the IRS, honey. They love your new tax bracket.” She leans closer to the screen, her smile softening. “How are you, Lake? For real.”

“I’m great. Fantastic. Surrounded by the fruits of my labor.” I gesture vaguely at a teetering stack of boxes with the hand holding my phone, nearly dropping it.

“Uh-huh. You look like you’re about to be eaten alive by Amazon Prime.” She takes a sip from a mug that says Ho Ho Ho. “So, are we going out to celebrate this weekend? I’ll even let you drag me to that stuffy cocktail bar you love, the one where the olives have more pedigree than I do.”

“Can’t. The Norwood Hotels Christmas Ball is in three weeks. It’s my first major event as Senior Director. I can’t screw it up.”

Chloe lets out a long-suffering groan. “Lake. You’ve been working sixty-hour weeks for months. You got the promotion. You got the insane apartment with the doorman who probably has a master’s degree. You need to live a little. When was the last time you even got laid?”

The wine sours in my stomach. “That is not a relevant performance metric.”

“It is for your soul! It’s been… what, three years? Four? It’s a goddamn drought of biblical proportions. Your vagina is going to file for historic landmark status.”

A laugh bubbles out of me, sharp and surprised. “It is not!”

“You need to take matters into your own hands,” she says, wagging a finger. “Literally. Do something for you. Something that isn’t color-coding a file folder. Buy a new dress. Buy a ridiculously overpriced candle. Buy a vibrator, for God’s sake. Just do something that reminds you you’re a human woman, not a corporate robot.”

The call ends a few minutes later with promises to see each other after the ball, but her words hang in the air, buzzing under my skin. Take matters into your own hands.

The second glass of wine is gone, and I’m well into my third. The boxes seem to mock me, a physical manifestation of a life that’s all work and no play. I’m warm from the alcohol, my movements loose and a little clumsy as I collapse onto my mattress, which is currently just a slab on the floor, surrounded by disassembled parts of a bed frame.

I open my laptop. The sleek silver surface feels cool against my flushed skin. My fingers type “luxury lingerie” into the search bar before I can second-guess myself. A few clicks later, I’m on a site that’s more art gallery than adult store. The models are gorgeous, the photography is tasteful, and everything is ruinously expensive.

Then I see it. The “Holiday Spice” collection. It comes in a discreet, elegant black box, and promises a curated selection of… tools. A sleek, rose-gold wand that looks like a piece of modern sculpture. Silky restraints. A bullet vibrator nestled in satin like a precious jewel. My breath catches. A dangerous, unfamiliar heat pools low in my belly, potent and insistent. It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating.

Do something for you.

Chloe’s voice echoes in my head. The wine sings in my veins. My carefully constructed walls, the ones that have kept me safe and celibate for years, are crumbling. Fuck it. I click Add to Cart.

The checkout page appears. Name. Lakeisha Edwards. Credit Card. Memorized. Address…

My brand-new, glorious address. I type it in, my fingers feeling thick and slow. The Sterling, 1400 Bellevue Avenue, Penthouse… Is it A or B? I’m B. Definitely B. My finger taps the B on the keyboard, but in my wine-soaked haze, I see it register as an A. I frown, delete it, and type again. The cursor blinks. PH-A. No, that’s not right. I try to fix it, my brain feeling like it’s wading through mud. My thumb slips on the trackpad. The page jumps.

Confirm Purchase.

My finger hits the button.

An email confirmation instantly appears. Thank you for your order, Lakeisha! I stare at it, my vision blurring at the edges. A wave of dizziness washes over me. The laptop slides from my chest as I fall back against the mattress, the world dissolving into a warm, humming darkness.

I wake hours later, a dull throb behind my eyes and the bitter taste of stale wine in my mouth. The city is still glittering outside my window, but the sky is the deep, bruised purple of early morning. My phone is lying beside my head, its screen glowing.

It’s a notification. A single, clean line of text that makes the air freeze in my lungs.

Your package has been delivered and signed for.