The Hidden Hickey and Cold Realities

Evelina

I woke up feeling like I’d been hit by a freight train—a high-end, Alaric Sterling-shaped freight train. Every muscle in my body protested as I tried to roll over, a dull, deep-seated ache radiating from my pelvis. My head throbbed with the remnants of a sleepless night, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the mental carnage of the last few hours.

I threw back the duvet and stood up, my legs feeling like jelly. As I walked toward the bathroom, the friction of my own skin made me hiss. I caught my reflection in the full-length mirror and froze. My body was a roadmap of Alaric’s intensity. My inner thighs were the worst—littered with dark, fingerprint-sized bruises where he had gripped me, forcing my legs wide so he could drive into me. They were a vivid, purple-black testament to how rough he’d been, how desperate and unbridled.

Then there was the mark on my neck.

Just below my left ear, a prominent love bite sat like a brand. It wasn't a subtle hickey; it was a dark, swollen patch of broken capillaries where he’d buried his face and sucked the life out of me while growling that name.

*Elowen.*

The name felt like a physical weight in my chest. I’d spent the better part of the early morning hours hunched over my laptop, eyes stinging as I searched every corner of the internet. I’d looked through social registries, alumni lists, and even the deep archives of New York’s high society. Nothing. Alaric Sterling was a man whose every move was tracked by the paparazzi, yet "Elowen" didn’t exist in his public world. She was a ghost—a ghost who apparently held a mortgage on his soul while I was just the warm body he used to exorcise his demons.

"Get it together," I whispered to the hollow-eyed woman in the mirror. I smeared heavy-duty concealer over the mark on my neck, layering it until the purple turned to a sickly beige. I looked debauched. There was no other word for it. My eyes were rimmed with red, and my skin had a translucent, sickly pallor that no amount of foundation could fully mask.

The subway ride to the office was a sensory nightmare. The screech of the wheels, the jostling of the crowd, the smell of damp coats—it all felt amplified. Every time the train jerked, the soreness between my legs flared, a sharp reminder of how he’d moved inside me, relentless and heavy. I felt like a fraud. I felt like everyone on the train could see through my professional blazer, could see the bruises on my thighs and the secret I was carrying.

When I finally reached the Sterling building, the elevator ride felt like an ascent to the gallows. I checked my phone for the twentieth time. No messages. No "Are you okay?" No "I’m sorry." Not that I expected it. The doctor had said he wouldn't remember much.

I crept toward Alaric’s office, my heart hammering against my ribs. I peeked through the glass. It was empty. The relief that washed over me was so intense it made my knees buckle. I sank into my desk chair, burying my face in my hands.

"This is fine," I told myself, my voice muffled by my palms. "He doesn't remember. It didn't happen. In his head, I'm just the help. I'll just keep being the help until I can pay off Mom's bills, and then I'm out."

I tried to focus on my screen, but the office atmosphere felt thick with tension. Rumors had been the bane of my existence since I started as Alaric’s PA. The whispers in the break room, the way the other assistants went silent when I walked by—I knew what they said. They thought I’d traded my dignity for a corner office. They thought I was his plaything. If they saw what was under my collar right now, they’d have all the proof they needed.

By ten o'clock, my caffeine withdrawal was winning the battle against my anxiety. I needed to move. I needed coffee.

I grabbed my mug and headed to the break room, keeping my head down and my pace brisk. I was halfway through pouring a cup of black coffee when a shadow fell over the counter.

"Evelina! Just the person I wanted to see!"

I jumped, hot coffee splashing over the rim of my mug and onto my knuckles. I hissed in pain, looking up to see Macy from Accounting. She was leaning against the fridge, a predatory glint in her eyes. Macy was the office’s primary news outlet, and she smelled blood.

"Hey, Macy," I said, my voice tight. I grabbed a paper towel and scrubbed at my hand, trying to keep my movements steady.

"So," she drawled, her gaze raking over me. "Busy night? You look like you’ve been through a blender."

"Just a long night of catching up on filing," I lied, focusing intensely on the coffee pot.

"Filing? Is that what the kids are calling it these days?" She stepped closer, her eyes narrowing as she focused on my neck. "That's quite the 'filing' injury you've got there. Unless you've started moonlighting as a professional wrestler?"

My heart stopped. I’d been so careful, but the concealer must have rubbed off against my collar. My hand flew to the spot instinctively. "Oh, this? It’s... it’s a burn. My curling iron slipped this morning. I told you, I’m exhausted."

I forced a laugh, but it sounded like a dry wheeze.

Macy didn’t blink. "A curling iron? That’s a very specific shape for a curling iron. Looks more like someone was trying to eat you for lunch."

"I really have to go, Macy. These expense reports are late as it is." I didn't wait for her to respond. I turned and bolted out of the break room, my heels clicking a frantic rhythm on the tile. I didn't stop until I was back at my desk, my chest heaving.

The paranoia was a living thing now, crawling under my skin. Every footstep in the hall made me flinch. I felt the weight of the office’s judgment, even though most of it was in my head. I had to keep it together. I had to be the professional, invisible assistant. My mother’s life literally depended on this paycheck. The medical bills for her treatment were astronomical, and Alaric Sterling was the only person paying me enough to keep her in that facility.

"Miss Thorne."

I nearly fell out of my chair. Alaric was standing in the doorway of his office. He looked impeccable. His navy suit was perfectly tailored, his white shirt crisp and stark against his tan skin. He looked like the god of industry—cold, distant, and utterly untouched by the chaos of two nights ago.

"The board meeting starts in five minutes. Bring the quarterly projections," he said, his voice a cool baritone.

"Yes, sir. Of course."

I gathered the folders, my fingers trembling so much I nearly dropped them. I followed him into the conference room, my eyes glued to the back of his head. He walked with a powerful, rhythmic stride that made my phantom aches throb.

The conference room felt like a vacuum. I sat across from him, the long mahogany table a vast desert between us. As the various department heads droned on about margins and growth, I found myself staring at him. He was leaning back, a pen balanced between his long, elegant fingers. The same fingers that had left those bruises on my thighs.

He didn't look at me once. Not with heat, not with guilt, not even with a flicker of recognition. He was discussing the acquisition of a logistics firm with the same clinical detachment he’d probably use to order a sandwich.

Then, his eyes shifted. They landed on my face.

I froze, the air trapped in my lungs. My face heated up, a traitorous flush spreading from my chest to my cheeks.

"Miss Thorne?" he said, interrupting a director.

"Yes, Mr. Sterling?" My voice was a tiny, fragile thing.

He tilted his head slightly, his blue eyes scanning my face. "You look flushed. Are you ill?"

The room went silent. A dozen sets of eyes turned toward me.

"I... I’m just a bit warm, sir," I stammered, reaching up to tug at my collar. It was a reflex, a stupid, panicked reflex. The fabric shifted, and for a split second, the mark was exposed.

Alaric’s gaze dropped to the spot on my neck. I waited for the spark. I waited for the shift in his expression that would say *I remember. I remember the way you tasted. I remember the way I marked you.*

Nothing.

His eyes flickered back to the reports in front of him. "If you’re unwell, take an aspirin. We have a lot to get through."

The coldness of it was worse than if he’d fired me. It was a crushing, ego-bruising realization. He truly didn't remember. To him, the night in the penthouse was a blank space, and I was just a piece of office furniture that happened to be looking a bit ragged today. I was 'the help'—a tool to be used and forgotten.

When the meeting finally adjourned, Alaric stood up and adjusted his cuffs. "Miss Thorne, a word in my office. Now."

I followed him, my legs feeling heavy. This was it. Maybe he’d played it cool in front of the others, but now he was going to address it. He closed the door behind me, and the click of the lock sounded like a gunshot.

He didn't sit down. He stood behind his desk, framing the view of the Manhattan skyline. He looked like a king surveyng his kingdom.

"Sit," he commanded.

I sat, perched on the edge of the leather chair, my heart hammering. "Mr. Sterling, about the other night—"

"I noticed something concerning, Evelina," he cut me off, his voice dropping an octave.

I held my breath. Here it comes. The apology? The proposition?

"You didn't check in yesterday."

I blinked, my brain struggling to process the words. "I... I’m sorry?"

"I was absent yesterday. Unplanned. As my personal assistant, your primary responsibility is to maintain contact and manage my schedule, especially during an emergency." He stepped around the desk, leaning against the edge of it, looming over me. "I checked my logs. You didn't call. You didn't email. You didn't even check with my security detail."

I stared at him, my mouth agape. He was reprimanding me? He was lecturing me on *work ethic*? I had spent the night saving his reputation, dealing with a doctor, and getting him safely tucked into bed while he moaned another woman’s name, and he was criticizing my communication skills?

"I apologize, sir," I said, the words tasting like ash. "I thought... under the circumstances, you would want privacy."

"It is not your job to 'think' about my privacy unless I instruct you to do so," he snapped, his eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp anger. "Your job is to be available. Your performance yesterday was substandard. If you find the demands of this position too taxing, there are plenty of others who would happily take your place."

I felt a surge of pure, unadulterated fury. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tear my blouse open and show him the bruises he’d left on my body. I wanted to ask him who the hell Elowen was and why she was worth more than my dignity.

But I couldn't. I needed the money. I needed the job.

"It won't happen again, Mr. Sterling," I said, my voice trembling with suppressed emotion.

"See that it doesn't." He turned away from me, dismissing me with a flick of his wrist. "Now, get me the—"

A sharp, shrill ringing cut him off. My phone.

I fumbled for it in my pocket, my face turning bright red. "I'm so sorry, I forgot to silence it—"

"Answer it," he said, his gaze returning to me, cold and piercing. "Clearly, someone thinks your time is more important than mine."

I pulled the phone out, ready to kill the call, but the caller ID stopped me dead. St. Jude’s Medical Center.

My heart plummeted into my stomach.

"I have to take this," I whispered, not waiting for his permission. I swiped the screen with a shaking thumb. "Hello?"