Friday, October 14th, 6:12 PM

[TRANSCRIPT: VOICE MEMO 001] [DATE: OCTOBER 14] [TIME: 6:12 PM] [LOCATION: THE AUBERGE DU SOLEIL TERRACE] (Sound of wind, clinking glassware, a distant laugh) Okay. Recording this mostly so I don't look like a total loser standing alone with a glass of Chardonnay while everyone else is networking their brains out. My hands are still a little shaky. I can see the valley floor from here—it looks like a green carpet that someone’s been beating the dust out of for a hundred years. That golden, hazy late-afternoon Napa light. It’s the kind of light that makes everything look expensive and temporary. We just finished the first 'immersion' session. That’s what the firm calls it. It’s really just an excuse to see who can hold their liquor and who starts leaking trade secrets after three glasses of Oakville Reserve. Julian was there, of course. Managing Director. The man who holds my bonus in his hand like a small, trapped bird. We were in the cellar at Stag’s Leap about an hour ago. It was cold down there, that damp, subterranean chill that smells like wet limestone and old money. I was standing near the back, trying to take notes on my phone about the ‘soil composition’—as if anyone in M&A actually gives a shit about volcanic ash—and he just appeared. He has this way of moving that’s too quiet for a man that big. He looked like he’d been edited into the room by a professional. Crisp white shirt, no tie, top two buttons undone just enough to show the start of that dark hair on his chest. He asked me what I thought of the vintage. I said it was 'aggressive.' He laughed. Not a polite corporate laugh, but something lower, deeper in his throat. He said, 'I prefer assertive.' Then he moved closer to look at the label on the barrel I was leaning against. He didn't touch me. Not really. But the air between us felt thick, like we were both underwater. He told me to meet him in the library at the estate tomorrow morning before the others wake up. To 'go over the numbers.' Right. The numbers. I’m pretty sure I’m in trouble. Or I’m about to be. *** [TRANSCRIPT: VOICE MEMO 002] [DATE: OCTOBER 14] [TIME: 11:45 PM] [LOCATION: HOTEL ROOM B-12, BATHROOM] (Sound of running water, then it stops. The narrator’s voice is lower, more hurried) I lied in the last memo. Not lied, but I buried the lead. Journalism 101, Beth. Don't hide the story. I was too nervous to say it out loud while I was on the terrace with the rest of the partners lurking around. In the cellar—it wasn’t just a conversation about the vintage. The group had moved on to the fermentation tanks. Julian and I were lagging behind. The lighting was shitty, just these dim amber sconces every twenty feet. He didn't just 'move closer.' He stepped into my space, the kind of move you make when you’re closing a door. He put his hand on the barrel right next to my hip. I could feel the heat radiating off his palm through the wood. 'You’ve been avoiding my office for three weeks, Beth,' he said. His voice was like a low-frequency hum. I could feel it in my teeth. I told him I’d been busy with the Q3 projections. A total lie. We both knew it. I’ve been avoiding him because every time we’re in a room together, I feel like I’m losing my grip on the professional persona I’ve spent eight years building. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers were cold from the wine glass, but they felt like fire against my skin. He let his thumb linger on my jawline, just for a second. Long enough for my breath to catch. Long enough for me to realize that the 'numbers' we’re going over tomorrow aren't on a spreadsheet. He looked down at my mouth. He didn't kiss me. He just waited. He waited for me to pull away, and when I didn't, he leaned in until his nose was brushing mine. I could smell the wine on him—dark fruit and something peppery. He whispered, 'Don't be late tomorrow.' I’m sitting on the edge of the tub right now and I can still feel the ghost of his thumb on my face. My heart is hitting my ribs like a fist. This is a career-killer. This is a fucking disaster. I’m going to go. I know I’m going to go. *** [TRANSCRIPT: VOICE MEMO 003] [DATE: OCTOBER 15] [TIME: 8:30 AM] [LOCATION: CAR, DRIVING SOUTH ON HWY 29] (Sound of road noise, blinker clicking, narrator’s voice is shaky but clear) Jesus. Okay. I’m driving. I had to get out of there. I told the coordinator I had a family emergency in San Francisco. I don't care if they believe me. I just couldn't sit through a brunch with him after what happened three hours ago. I went to the library at 5:30 AM. The sun wasn't even up. The valley was covered in that thick, grey morning fog that looks like smoke. The estate was silent. The library smelled like leather bindings and old dust and, eventually, him. He was already there. He was sitting at a heavy oak table with a lamp on, but he wasn't looking at any papers. He had a bottle of something open. Not wine. Scotch. Neat. He looked like he hadn't slept either. His shirt was unbuttoned even further than yesterday, the sleeves rolled up to show his forearms. He’s always had these heavy, capable-looking hands. I’ve watched them in board meetings for years. I’ve fantasized about them more than I’d ever admit to a therapist. I walked in and he didn't say a word. He just stood up and walked over to the door. He turned the deadbolt. The sound of that click was the most definitive thing I’ve ever heard. It was the end of my career as I knew it, or maybe just the end of the person I was pretending to be. 'Beth,' he said. Just my name. I met him halfway. I didn't wait for a pitch. I grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him down. He tasted like smoke and expensive sugar. It wasn't a tentative kiss. It was desperate. It was the sound of a dam breaking. He groaned into my mouth, a raw, hungry sound that made my knees actually give out. He caught me, his arms locking around my waist, hoisting me up until my feet were off the Persian rug and I was pinned against the cold stone of the fireplace mantle. His hands were everywhere. He was efficient, like he was conducting an audit of my body. He pushed my silk dress up my thighs, his palms rough against my skin. I was wearing lace—the expensive stuff I bought on a whim in Paris last year, the stuff you only wear when you want to feel a certain way. He found the edge of it and his breath hitched. 'You have no idea,' he muttered against my neck, his teeth grazing my pulse point. 'The things I’ve thought about doing to you in those Monday morning meetings.' He didn't waste time. He unzipped his trousers with a jagged, metallic sound that seemed deafening in the quiet room. I reached down, my fingers shaking as I found him. He was hard—terrifyingly hard—and hot. I gripped him, the skin of his shaft smooth and tight, and he let out a sharp gasp, his head dropping onto my shoulder. 'Wait,' he breathed, but he didn't mean stop. He turned me around, pressing my chest against the cold, polished oak of the long library table. The contrast was insane—the freezing wood against my breasts and the furnace of his body against my back. He pulled my panties aside, not even bothering to take them off. I felt his fingers first, slicking me open. I was already a mess, soaked through, aching in a way that felt like a physical bruise. He slid two fingers inside me, deep, and I arched my back, my forehead pressing into the table. I could see a stray paperclip near my hand. A fucking paperclip. Such a mundane, office-supply thing to focus on while my boss was making me come undone. He replaced his fingers with himself. He entered me in one slow, agonizingly perfect thrust. I cried out, the sound muffled by the heavy velvet curtains nearby. He was so thick he felt like he was stretching me past my limit, filling every empty space I didn't know I had. He didn't move at first. He just stayed there, buried deep inside me, his hands gripping my hips so hard I know I’ll have bruises in the shape of his fingers tomorrow. Then he started to move. It wasn't gentle. It was a rhythm I’d been waiting for since the day I interviewed with him. Every time he hit me, my body bucked forward against the wood. I could hear the slap of his skin against mine, a wet, rhythmic sound that echoed in the high-ceilinged room. He was relentless. He knew exactly where he was going. 'Look at me,' he commanded, his voice strained. I turned my head, looking back over my shoulder. His face was different—the professional mask was gone, replaced by something fierce and almost painful-looking. He was sweating, a bead of it dropping from his temple onto my shoulder blade. I reached back, my hand finding his thigh, feeling the corded muscle jumping under my touch. I started to close up around him, my internal muscles pulsing, squeezing him with every slide. I could feel him getting even larger, if that was possible. 'Beth,' he choked out, his pace accelerating. He wasn't just fucking me; he was taking something back. I felt the first wave of it—the climb, the tightening in my stomach that feels like a camera flash going off. I started to come, my vision blurring, my breath coming in short, ragged hitches. He didn't pull out. He shoved himself into me one last time, pinning me flat against the table, and I felt the hot, heavy pulse of him coming inside me. It felt like a flood. He stayed there, his weight crushing me, his heart hammering against my spine like a trapped bird. We stayed like that for a long time. The sun started to bleed through the fog, turning the room a pale, ghostly blue. He eventually pulled back, his hands lingering on my waist as he helped me stand. He didn't apologize. He didn't look guilty. He just looked at me with this terrifying clarity. He said, 'Go. I’ll handle the partners.' And I did. I fixed my dress, I walked out of that library, and I got in my car. I’m driving past the vineyards now. The grapes are heavy on the vines, ready to be crushed. I can still feel him between my legs. I can smell him on my skin. I’m not sure I’m going back to the office on Monday. Or maybe I am. Maybe that’s the point. The story isn't over; I just finished the lead. (Sound of a deep breath, the click of the recording ending)

Friday, October 14th, 6:12 PM

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