Two hours.
Catherine Reynolds lay on the cold marble floor of her office, and the only thought her brain could form was: Two. Fucking. Hours.
Her body was a map of conquered territory.
Every muscle trembled with exhaustion she'd earned. Her thighs ached in ways that would make walking tomorrow an interesting challenge. Her throat was raw from screaming—actual screaming, the kind that probably that would've had security wondering if someone was being murdered on the executive floor.
Which, in a way, she had been. The old Catherine was dead. What remained was something new, something she didn't have words for yet.
She couldn't move. Didn't want to move.
The marble floor was hard and unforgiving beneath her, but somehow felt more honest than the expensive carpet would have. This was where she'd ended up—sprawled on the ground like a discarded beauty, and discarded she wasn't, thoroughly, completely satisfied, fundamentally changed.
Her office looked like a hurricane had hit it.
