Ævril

Most people treat Patrick Bateman like he’s part of the décor at Dorsia — some celebrity whose presence should be worshipped.

But not you. You greet him like you would any other customer.

“Good evening. Table for two?” You don’t trip over your words. You don’t blush. You don’t stare at his suit like it’s made of gold. Actually, you look a little bored. He would be, too, serving assholes like him and McKennedy all night.

Patrick blinks in surprise. People usually fight for the chance to seat him because he tips well. You just lead him to a table with a politely neutral smile.

It makes something flutter in his chest; he thinks maybe where his heart would be — if he had one.

⸻

The first night you wait his table, he looks at you more than his peers.

“Seriously — it’s like Clarissa thinks I owe her another apology. Like, I wouldn’t have screwed my secretary if you ever put out!” He pops an olive into his mouth and rolls his eyes.

Patrick hums in response, disinterested in McKennedy’s marital issues. “Mm. Very interesting.” He is too busy watching you buss tables and polish glasses, chatting with men far inferior to he. He thinks about what size tip to give you at the end of the night. $100? $500? He decided that $250 is the perfect amount to show he is very well off but not too desperate.

You’re efficient, calm, unflustered by the chaos of Dorsia on a Saturday night. You don’t fawn over him, don’t hover, don’t ask for his number.

You simply ask, “Would you like some water to start?”

It shouldn’t affect him. But it does. He says, “Yes, please. Thank you,” with far more eagerness and speed than intended.

When you walk away, McKennedy teases Patrick. “Jesus, Bateman, what’s gotten into you? You had a fuckin’ health scare or something?”

“Shut up, McKennedy. I’m thinking.” He drums his fingers against the mahogany, wishing there were a way to get you home with him that wasn’t in a black bin bag.

⸻

The next week, he goes alone and requests your section. The sleazy looking manager gives him a distant smile — the one he gives everyone that comes in trying to get ‘that cute waitress’ number’ — but Patrick doesn’t care about his reaction. He only cares about yours.

You approach his table with the same professional calm, and Patrick sits up straighter, smoothing his tie.

“Good evening, Mr. Bateman.”

“You know my name?” he asks before he can stop himself.

You shrug lightly. “It’s my job. Good memory,” you tap the side of your head and smile playfully.

He shouldn’t like that answer as much as he does.

⸻

The third night, he tries too hard. He arrives 30 minutes early for his 8:30 reservation, hoping to catch you on your smoke break (he’s memorised your schedule by now. He knows not to come in Wednesdays or Fridays because you don’t work then). He’s dressed even more immaculately than usual. He’s rehearsed lines in the taxi — not that he’d ever admit it. He’s even taken up smoking outside of the restaurant just to see if you’ll be there.

When you finally approach him at his table, he lights up, beaming with his practised sex appeal.

“Hi,” he announces like a news-anchor. His smile falters when he realises he sounds a little robotic, but he sticks with it anyway. “I took the liberty of requesting your section again.” He nods and raises his eyebrows a little, feigning a patronising control over the situation.

You raise an eyebrow. “My colleagues are plenty capable of looking after you, Mr. Bateman.”

“I wanted you,” he says unthinkingly. Then quickly, to recover his slip, “You’re more efficient than them.”

You glance down at his menu as you bite your lip and jot down his order, not looking up at his face: he hates how much he wants you to look at him again so he can study your features again. He is starstruck as he lists off more hundred-dollar items than he could eat, just to have you there a moment longer.

When it comes time for dessert, you mention your manager once — offhand, casual — while talking about wine pairings. “I personally think an Old World Sauvignon is better with pastry, but don’t tell my manager that — he’ll fire me.”

Was this guy mean to you? Dismissive? Make you feel small? Patrick’s jaw clenches at the thought of that fat, greasy prick manager trying to teach you about wine pairings — that is Patrick’s forte, after all — and slipping a hand up your skirt while he tells you about Spanish Merlot. His fist clenches.

At the end of the night, Patrick asks to speak to your manager.

⸻

On the fourth occasion that Patrick comes in, a Sunday, your manager is no longer on the team.

When you mention your managers sudden departures after Patrick probes and asks how work has been, he has only one thing to say. “He won’t be bothering you any more.”

You pause in the middle of writing his order. “What do you mean?”

He lifts his glass, eyes steady and calm. “I spoke to someone at corporate. They agreed he needed… clarification on how to behave professionally.” He tilts his head. “And personally.”

“Nothing drastic,” he reassures you as you quizzically raise your eyebrows, a little shocked. “He just won’t be working here again.” Or anywhere, Patrick thought. Unless they have a restaurant six-feet below that needs a new manager.

He is proud when a smile tugs at your tightly held lips, secretly pleased within yourself that he wouldn’t be around anymore to try and touch your ass in passing.

⸻

At the end of the night, he shooes another waiter away when he tries to hand him his check. “No— not you. Screw off and get Y/N.”

When you eventually hand him his bill after your scared colleague tells you “Table five wants you to give him the check,” Patrick hesitates. He never hesitates.

“Would you—” he begins, then stops to inhale. “Can I take you out sometime? Not here. Somewhere quieter.”

You blink. “You want to take me out?”

He corrects gently: “I want to get to know you.” His voice dips. For the first time, you see it: he looks… hopeful. Painfully, quietly hopeful.

You smile. “Maybe.”

His expression softens — just a tiny shift, but enough to make him look almost human.

“Maybe,” he repeats like it’s the best thing he’s heard all week. “Call me and let me know you’re free. I’ll move my schedule around.” Only for you.

I loved the art. I hated the people.

They came in perfumed clouds of Chanel No. 5 and ambition, clutching guidebooks they never opened, speaking just loudly enough to be overheard.

“Oh, the brushwork is so textured,” one woman cooed, as if Repin had painted with sandpaper instead of oil.

I wondered how many of them could name the painting.

Let alone the movement.

The Wanderers. The Itinerants. Russian realism that had something to say about suffering and truth—rather than just looking expensive on a wall.But this was the job I had dreamed of since I was twelve, sketching boats in Newport while the salt wind tangled my hair. So I smiled—small, professional—and kept my cynicism tucked neatly behind my ribs.

“Miss Rice?” A docent waved me over. “Your gallery talk starts in five minutes. About fifteen people signed up.”

“Perfect,” I said, smoothing my short bleached bob. The ends brushed my jaw in a cool, sharp line that made me feel armored.

At five-foot-five, I was never going to tower over anyone—but the haircut helped. It said efficient. Modern. Not to be underestimated.

At least that was the theory.

I stepped into the small side gallery where a modest group had gathered in front of Barge Haulers on the Volga.

The painting always made something in my chest tighten—those exhausted men dragging the boat through mud and water, their faces etched with a quiet endurance I recognized from my mother’s stories. Talia Rice—Natalia Ivanova before marriage—had never hauled barges. But she carried exile in her bones. And she had passed a sliver of it to me.

“Good afternoon,” I began, voice steady, warm. “Today we’re looking at Ilya Repin and the Peredvizhniki—the Wanderers—who believed art should reflect real life rather than romantic fantasy. Notice the weight in the ropes, the way the light hits the sweat on their skin…”

I kept my gaze moving across the small crowd.

Professional. Detached. Lovely.

Until I saw him.

He stood near the back, half a head taller than most, wearing a perfectly cut charcoal suit; his dark brown hair was slicked back with military precision.

Next to him stood a striking blonde in a navy blue dress—probably a girlfriend, I realized with a faint jolt—and on his other side, a man with obsidian-black hair, laughing at something she had said. The same polished, interchangeable Wall Street type.

They looked like they had stepped out of a Vanity Fair spread rather than a museum.

Patrick Bateman.

My pulse spiked so sharply I nearly lost the next sentence.

For one irrational second, I considered stepping behind the painting and pretending I had suddenly developed a deep interest in the floorboards.

He noticed me almost immediately.

His gaze locked—precise, deliberate—cutting through the crowd as if the other bodies didn’t exist. He didn’t smile. He didn’t wave. He simply watched. Head slightly tilted, like a collector studying a piece he already owned—but hadn’t decided whether to keep or destroy.

I forced my eyes away and continued speaking, willing my voice not to waver.

“…Repin captured not only the physical labor but the quiet dignity of the human spirit under duress. There’s a melancholy here that feels particularly Russian—”

Another glance.

He was still staring.

The blonde touched his arm and said something, but Patrick didn’t turn his head. His attention stayed fixed on me—heavy, unrelenting—like fingers pressing against the back of my neck.

It’s not him, I told myself, even as heat crept across my freckled cheeks. It can’t be.

Too many years. Too many memories. Too many interchangeable Wall Street faces.

Patrick Bateman had gone to Harvard. He had disappeared into that gleaming world of mergers and acquisitions and impossible reservations, chasing a version of success I had never understood.

We hadn’t spoken since high school.

He probably didn’t even remember the quiet Rice girl with the short hair and the Russian grandmother who used to call him Patty just to watch his jaw tighten.

I kept talking, gesturing toward the painting with what I hoped was graceful authority.

My hands felt too small. Too exposed.

The short sleeves of my silk blouse suddenly seemed inadequate armor.

Every time I risked the smallest glance in his direction, those eyes were still there—steady, unblinking—drinking me in like I was the only real thing in the room.

My stomach twisted.

Part of me wanted to march over and demand what the hell he was doing here, pretending to care about Russian realism when the only realism he had ever valued was measured in stock options and Rolex watches.

Another part—the smarter, more terrified part—wanted to disappear into the crowd and never be seen again.

I finished the talk on autopilot, smiling at polite applause, answering soft questions about provenance and émigré collections.

When the group began to disperse, I slipped toward the side exit, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

He didn’t recognize me.

He couldn’t have.

But even as I repeated the lie to myself, I could still feel the weight of his gaze following me out of the gallery—pressing between my shoulder blades like the memory of a hand that had once known exactly how to break things.

I didn’t look back.

Even when I heard the rush of people behind me—the whisper of fabric, the soft click of heels—I kept moving.

Until I didn’t.

My foot caught on someone else’s, and I lurched forward, nearly sprawling across the marble floor.

A hand steadied me before I could fall.

“Are you all right?”

I blinked, disoriented for a second, then forced a breath back into my lungs.

“Yes—yeah, sorry.” I tucked a loose strand of my short hair behind my ear, the motion automatic. “It’s just… stuffy. The air. The people. I think something’s wrong with the ventilation.”

The excuse came out smoothly. It always did.

Jake—the young docent with the soft gray eyes and an almost old-fashioned politeness—gave me a concerned look, his hand still hovering near my arm as if he wasn’t sure whether to let go.

“I can take over,” he said. “Walk the group into the next section while you…” He hesitated, glancing around, then stepped slightly closer, as if shielding me from the crowd. “Take a break. You’ve been working too many shifts.”

I had.

“Jake—”

“That’s okay, Miss Rice,” he cut in gently. “Don’t worry about it.”

I exhaled, something in me loosening just enough to accept.

“Thank you.”

My office was small, cluttered, and permanently on the edge of chaos.

Books stacked in uneven towers. Manuscripts half-catalogued. Rolled prints and fragile artifacts waiting for attention no one had time to give.

The Met wasn’t just a museum. It was a machine.

And like any machine, it ran on efficiency—sometimes at the expense of the people inside it.

Less staff. More hours. Quiet expectations no one said out loud.

I wasn’t naïve enough to fight it.

I had chosen this.

Because I loved it.

Even on days like this.

Still—there were moments when I missed the studio in SoHo.

The quiet. The smell of charcoal and paint. The way time stretched instead of compressing.

Back then, I had hidden there from my parents—every gala, every charity event, every carefully curated display of generosity designed for a mention in Time.

That world had always felt like a performance.

A polished, endless performance for people like my family.

For people like—

Bateman.

I sat down at my desk a little too hard, pressing my fingers to my temples.

It couldn’t be him.

Or maybe it was.

I didn’t know which possibility unsettled me more.

The reaction—the way my pulse had spiked, the way my body had recognized him before my mind caught up—felt… disproportionate. Like I had seen something that didn’t belong in the present. A ghost. Or something worse.

I closed my eyes, rubbing them briefly before reaching for my glasses—Versace, my mother’s last Christmas gift.My hand drifted toward the drawer where I kept a half-forgotten pack of low-nicotine cigarettes. I rarely smoked.

But today...

My thoughts were moving too fast. Too loud. Like someone had flipped a switch inside my head and forgotten to turn it off again.

And then—suddenly—I remembered.

Dinner. Pastels. Seven-thirty. Virginia Roberts.

A small, quiet relief loosened the knot in my chest. Ginny would understand. Or at least she would let me stay messy. She always had. Back at Parsons, when the world felt too loud or too sharp, she was the only one who never tried to make my feelings look presentable.

I glanced at the clock. If I left now, I could still make it.

My hand hovered over the drawer for half a second before I pulled it open and dropped the pack of cigarettes into my bag.

That alone should have been a warning.

Pastels was dim the way all expensive places tried to be—low amber lighting, soft jazz threading through the air, tables placed close enough to feel intimate but never quite private. The kind of place where secrets stayed polite.

Virginia was already there.

She spotted me instantly and lifted a hand, her dark curls pinned back in that effortlessly messy way that definitely took effort. Black, as always, softened tonight by a silk collar that caught the light when she moved.

“Becca,” she said as I approached, her smile warm but edged. “You look like you’ve had either a terrible day… or a very interesting one.”

“Can’t it be both?” I slid into the seat across from her.

Her eyes flicked over my face, quick and assessing. “With you it usually is.”

The waiter appeared, poured water, vanished again.

For a moment we just sat there.

Then I reached into my bag and pulled out the cigarette pack.

Virginia’s gaze dropped to it immediately. She didn’t speak right away—which, with Ginny, said everything.

“You don’t smoke,” she said at last, quiet and certain.

“Not usually.”

“Mm.” She leaned back, studying me. “So something happened.”

I turned the pack over between my fingers, watching the cellophane catch the light.

“I saw someone today.”

Her eyebrow lifted. “That’s not exactly rare in Manhattan.”

“This one is.”

She waited.

I hesitated. Saying it out loud felt like dragging something up from deep water.

“Do you remember Newport?” I asked instead.

Her expression changed. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“My sixteenth birthday.” My fingers tightened around the pack. “There was a boy… Tall. Handsome. Bossy. A little… off.”

Virginia tilted her head.

I remained silent. What I had already said was enough.

Recognition flickered across her face, followed by something sharper. “You two definitely had a thing.”

“No,” I said quickly. Too quickly. “We didn’t.”

“Becca.” Her voice softened, but her eyes didn’t. “You never really talked about him.”

“There was nothing to talk about.”

“That’s not what I remember.”

Something defensive flared under my ribs. “You remember wrong.”

She studied me the way she used to during studio critiques—like she was looking for the structure beneath the surface.

The waiter came back. I ordered something I probably wouldn’t eat.

When he left, Ginny leaned in again. “So what happened today?”

I exhaled slowly. “He was at the Met. During one of the talks. Just… standing there. Watching me.”

“Watching you?”

“Yes.”

A small silence stretched between us.

Ginny opened her mouth to say something else when a familiar voice cut in from behind me.

“Becca?”

I turned. Frank Roberts — Ginny’s older brother — was already pulling out a chair like he belonged at the table. Broader, steadier, the kind of man who took up space without trying.

“Ginny didn’t mention you were joining,” he said, settling in. “Secret meeting?”

I almost smiled. Instead I reached for the cigarette.

His lighter clicked open instantly, a steady flame appearing between us. I leaned in and let it catch.

“Thanks.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Frankie, you know Becca works at the Met. Getting her out requires divine intervention.”

Frank glanced at me, amused. “You look good for someone slowly sacrificing herself to art.”

I exhaled a thin stream of smoke. “And you still think your sister needs a chaperone every time she leaves the house. Some things never change.”

Their familiar bickering washed over me. I nodded at the right moments, smiled when expected, but my mind stayed somewhere else.

I should have written it down like my therapist suggested. Name the feeling before it controls you. The notebook was still sitting untouched on my desk, first page blank except for the date.

There were things better left buried.

“Becca.”

Ginny’s voice pulled me back.

“You’re somewhere else again,” she said quietly, once Frank had excused himself to the restroom.

I traced the rim of my glass with a fingertip. “Maybe I let myself spiral once again…”

She didn’t smile. “Is this about Sebastian?”

The name landed, but it didn’t sting the way it used to.

“No,” I said, and for once it was almost true.

I met Sebastian at Madonna’s concert in 1985. He was talented, charming, and I loved the way he painted so much that I didn’t notice how much of my money was quietly disappearing into his “career.” Until the day I walked in on him fucking the model for the nudes he never wanted to talk about.

Predictable in the end. Painfully so.

Ginny watched me carefully, her eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Then what is it? Because something’s clearly bothering you.”

I took another long drag, the smoke burning my throat in a way that felt almost grounding.

“No,” I admitted. My voice came out smaller than I wanted. “I don’t even know why I’m thinking about it. Why am I letting it get to me? I haven’t seen him since high school. This is stupid.”

I almost laughed, but it came out hollow. Inside I felt split in two—one part of me calm and rational, the other completely unraveled by the mere possibility that Patrick Bateman had been standing twenty feet away from me this afternoon, watching.

Ginny stayed quiet for a long moment.

“You know,” she said finally, “maybe it wasn’t even him. If we’re talking about the same guy—”

“I wish you were right,” I cut in softly, staring at the glowing tip of the cigarette.

I left Pastels a little after ten.

The walk back to my apartment on the Upper East Side was cold and sharp, winter still clinging to the spring wind. I kept my coat pulled tight, the opened pack of cigarettes sitting heavy in my bag like an accusation.

The creaky elevator groaned up to the fourth floor. When I stepped inside and flicked on the lights, the familiar chaos greeted me: stacks of art books, half-finished sketches taped to the walls, my small collection of Russian icons watching silently from the shelf above the desk. The faint smell of oil paint and old paper usually comforted me. Tonight it felt suffocating.

Instead of going to bed, I found myself on my knees, dragging out the small storage box from under the bed—the one labeled “Old Things” in Mama’s careful handwriting. The one I almost never opened.

My hands moved on their own.

Inside were relics I hadn’t touched in years: a dried corsage, pressed flowers from Newport summers, my old diary with its useless brass lock. At the bottom, a brittle rubber band held together a small stack of photographs.

I slid them free.

The first few were harmless—my brother Mark and me on the beach, me failing at sailing. Then one stopped my breath.

It was taken on the lawn in front of the Bateman house, probably 1973 or ’74. Mama had her arm around my shoulders, smiling brightly, her Russian cross necklace glinting in the sun. Papa stood tall beside her. Mark made a ridiculous face. Sean grinned wide, missing a front tooth. Celeste Bateman looked elegant and composed in pale linen.

And there—slightly off to the side—was Patrick.

Everyone else was smiling.

His smile was… wrong.

It didn’t reach his eyes. It looked practiced, polished—like he had studied how smiles were supposed to work and copied one perfectly, but forgot the warmth. Even at eleven or twelve, it felt hollow. Predatory, almost.

I stared at the photograph for a long time, my thumb brushing slowly over his face.

The boy who once bandaged my bleeding finger with his father’s handkerchief. The boy who mocked my drawings in front of everyone. The boy who covered my eyes in a dusty storage room and calmly told me he wanted to break his brother’s legs one day.

And the man I had seen today at the Met—taller, sharper, wrapped in expensive tailoring—still wearing that same almost-smile.

My heart hammered against the glossy paper as I pressed the photograph to my chest.

“Patty…” I whispered into the empty apartment. The old nickname slipped out like a confession, dangerous and intimate. “What happened to you?”

I didn’t put the photo back in the box.

Instead, I left it on my nightstand, face up. Patrick’s off-kilter smile stared at the ceiling while I lay in bed, eyes wide open, knowing sleep wouldn’t come.

Some ghosts didn’t need an invitation.

They simply followed you home.

…

You and Patrick weren’t exactly dating—or maybe you were. He’d never asked to make it official. Still, after your first date, he didn’t let up: flowers, calls, dinners, last-minute lunch invitations. Love bombing, if you were being honest with yourself. Eventually, you gave in and suggested that maybe the two of you could try building something that resembled a real relationship.

Even though you’d always sworn off Wall Street types.

It started as one of those Christmas Eve days that already felt slightly off.

The store was quiet in the way only expensive places were—muted footsteps, hushed voices, the soft click of glass cases opening and closing. Patrick moved through it like he belonged there, fingertips grazing displays without really looking, already knowing what everything cost.

“I’m having a small Christmas thing,” you said, stopping in front of a table stacked with neatly folded cashmere. “At Café Luxembourg.”

“Mm,” he replied, examining a leather wallet with mild interest.

“You could come,” you added. “It’s nothing formal. Just drinks. A few people.”

That made him pause. Not long—just enough to register the information. He set the wallet down, straightened it precisely.

“I can’t,” he said. Flat. “My mother wants me there. Christmas Eve. Sean will be there too.”

“Oh.” You nodded, reaching for a sweater and pretending to feel the fabric. “Right.”

“She’s very particular about holidays,” he went on, as if explaining a scheduling conflict at work. “It’s not optional.”

“Of course it isn’t.”

Patrick glanced at you, brief and assessing. “You understand.”

“Yeah.” You smiled, quick and practiced. “Family comes first.”

“Exactly.” He sounded satisfied. “It’ll be dinner. A few hours. I’ll leave as soon as it becomes unbearable.”

You let out a small laugh. “Lucky you.”

“You’ll still go to your party,” he added, already turning toward a sales associate. “You like that place.”

“I do.”

“And you wanted something casual,” he stated cold-bloodily. “This fits.”

You swallowed. “It does.”

Patrick nodded, decision made, and pointed at a display. “I’ll take the gloves. Black. Medium.”

As the associate walked away, he leaned closer, voice low. “You don’t need me there to have a good time.”

“I know,” you shot back easily.

He smiled—brief, self-assured. “Good.”

You watched him straighten his Rolex, gold watch catching the light, and told yourself that disappointment was just another thing you could file away neatly.

Like everything else.

Christmas arrived without much ceremony, carrying more hope with it than you were prepared to admit.

By the time the first reservation slot came and went, the table was already set.

You checked your watch anyway. Then again a few minutes later. No one hurried in apologizing, no coats were shrugged off in your direction. The candles burned clean and steady, wax pooling at their bases, untouched glasses reflecting the low light like props waiting for actors who never took the stage.

You told yourself to give it time.

Café Luxembourg moved around you as it always did—tables filling, voices rising and falling, the soft choreography of waiters weaving through the room. You smiled politely when yours passed, waved off the unspoken question, and ordered another round you didn’t really need.

Ten minutes. Then twenty.

The chair across from you stayed empty.

When your friend finally showed up—cheeks flushed from the cold, slightly out of breath—you felt relief hit sharp and sudden. You stood too fast, hugged them too tightly, laughed a beat too loud. One person was something. One person meant you hadn’t imagined the whole thing.

“Everyone else?” they asked, glancing at the empty seats.

You lifted your shoulders, reaching for your glass. “Busy, I guess.”

It was the word everyone leaned on this time of year. Busy. Family obligations. Work. Things that came up at the last minute and somehow mattered more.

You kept talking. You kept smiling. You even managed to enjoy yourself, a little.

But every time the door opened, your attention snapped up—just in case. And every time it wasn’t who you were waiting for, something inside you settled back down, quieter than before.

By the end of the night, the candles had burned down to stubs and the table felt far too large for two people. You paid the bill, thanked the staff, pulled your coat back on.

Outside, the city looked the same as it always did on Christmas—bright, indifferent, full.

You told yourself it was fine.

You were used to filing things away neatly.

Disappointment included.

On your way home, you spiraled over the flopped party—how only one person had even bothered to show up, how badly mistaken you’d been in thinking you had more friends than you did.

Reality always hit hardest afterward, when there was nothing left to distract you.

You could live with it. Or at least, you told yourself you could. You kept the tears in check, refusing to let them ruin the makeup you’d spent too long perfecting for an audience that never came. Luckily, Café Luxembourg wasn’t far from your place, so you walked. Snow swirled around you in sharp, glittering flurries, clinging to your lashes, blurring your vision just enough to give you an excuse not to look too closely at anything.

By the time you reached your block, the cold had worked its way into your bones.

That was when you noticed the sleek black car idling at the curb in front of your brownstone.

It took a few seconds to process what you were seeing before instinct pulled you closer. You trusted your instincts. Mostly. As you approached, you spotted the driver leaning against the frame, smoking, oblivious to you—until the backseat window slid down.

A cluster of red, blue, and silver balloons burst out of the car, nearly colliding with your face.

You froze when you heard his voice.

“Merry Christmas, baby,” Patrick drawled, almost sing-song as his face appeared in the window. “So—how’d your party go?”

Not that question.

Not now. Not ever.

It stung so badly you almost laughed. Or screamed. Or shouted the truth loud enough for everyone on the block to hear—that your party had been a complete disaster. But you were too polite for that. You shrugged instead and caught one of the balloons.

“You probably shouldn’t ask me that if you want to stay sane,” you said. “What are you even doing here? I thought I wouldn’t hear from you until Valentine’s Day. Or later.”

Bateman snickered, flashing his perfect teeth. “Relax. No mistletoe ambush.” He opened the door. “Get in.”

You gathered the balloon strings and slid into the backseat. The driver was already in place, hands on the wheel, waiting.

“Okay,” Patrick said, turning toward you. “Now tell me—who hurt you?”

Before you could answer, he was already pressing a champagne flute into your hand. “I’m listening.”

“Why do you think someone hurt me?”

He tilted his head slightly. “It’s written all over your face.”

You took the glass but didn’t drink. “Explain.”

Patrick sighed and drained his own drink in one swallow—J&B whiskey, most likely.

“I’m not trying to psychoanalyze you,” he said, lips thin, eyes sharp. “But I remember how excited you were about this little party. And now…” His gaze swept over you. “You look like you just came back from a funeral.”

Because it felt like one. The emptiness. The quiet. The way it settled in your chest.

“I had to cancel it,” you muttered, swirling the champagne in your unsteady hands. “No one came.”

That stopped him.

Patrick turned fully toward you, his expression caught somewhere between What did you just say? and Say that again.

“Yeah,” you added, finally taking a sip. “I’m serious. Nobody came.” You let out a humorless breath. “I guess that makes it official. I’m a loser, Patrick.”

His near-maniacal laughter scared the shit out of you, and you barely managed to keep the glass steady, not spilling it all over the obscenely expensive interior.

“What a load of bullshit,” he finally managed, brushing away a nonexistent tear. “Well. Fuck them.”

“That’s it?” You stared at him. “Really? Just—fuck them?”

You wanted to elbow him. To get out of the car. To unload everything you’d ever thought about his complete lack of sympathy. But then you stopped—because he was a man incapable of sympathy, and you’d known that long before the two of you ever started this.

Was this even a real relationship? Or just a fling—one that had lasted far too long by both your standards, while you pretended everything was under control?

Patrick drummed his fingers against his knee and poured himself another shot of whiskey.

“You might want to think about this,” he said, gesturing toward the balloons. “And this.” He tapped the rim of your champagne flute, producing a sharp, ringing ding. “I’d say that kind of overshadows everything.”

You squinted at him. “Wow. You’re so fucking full of yourself and—”

“Dom Pérignon,” he cut in smoothly, unfazed. “And the balloons came from a luxury florist. Not cheap, by the way.”

“Should I drop to my knees now and thank you for your generosity?”

He hummed, as if genuinely considering it. “Well, gratitude would be appropriate—”

“Thank you!” You blurted, grabbing the balloon strings and shoving them between you. “I’m pissed because I fooled myself for so long. About friends. About being… important to anyone.”

His hand found yours almost instantly—quick and subtle, fingers lacing with yours like they’d always belonged there. The contact sparked a small, unwelcome pang of conscience. You didn’t like it, but you said it anyway.

“I don’t want to sound like an asshole.” A beat. “That’s usually your job.”

He chuckled, brushing his thumb slowly over your palm. “That’s very sweet of you, darling. Insulting me just because I showed up and tried to make things look festive. Nice.” His smile sharpened. “…Romantic.”

“You hate romantic.”

“I hate seeing you grumpy,” he blurted, tugging the balloons aside so he could actually see your face. “And I hate seeing you not in the mood even more than that. If you’re already here—in my limo, with me—let me handle it.”

In the dim light, his eyes looked almost unreal, dark and hypnotic. As if it were even possible for him to be more handsome than he already was. You zoned out for a moment, lost in his presence, his touch, the Paul Sebastian cologne clinging to you like it had a life of its own.

It was only a matter of time before you leaned in, lips meeting in a slow, much-needed kiss. He bit your bottom lip just hard enough to pull a breath from you, pushing the moment a little too far for something meant to be purely comforting.

“Why does all of this feel like…” You hesitated, settling against his chest. “Like neither of us should be here—but we still are?”

Patrick’s mouth curved. “How illegal does it feel? Scale of one to ten.”

You shoved him lightly, laughing despite yourself. “Ten out of ten.”

“I knew it.” He smiled, already draping an arm over your shoulders. “Let’s go to my place.”

As the words settled between you, he watched you closely—fingers idly playing with the collar of your coat, lips parted, clearly ready to kiss you again if it helped tip the answer in his favor.

“You should’ve started with that,” you muttered, pinching his cheek just enough to annoy him. “Skipped the self-worshiping part.”

He offered no defense. Instead, he went on the offensive, his mouth claiming the soft slope of your neck where the coat collar had slipped just enough to allow it. The point landed hard enough that you didn’t bother trying to argue anymore.

Bateman’s place hadn’t changed since the last time you’d been there.

Unless—something had.

A small Christmas tree stood in the corner of his sterile white living room, right beside the tall stereo speaker. You actually stepped closer and touched it, just to be sure you weren’t hallucinating. It looked too festive to be real.

“A Christmas tree?” you asked. “Seriously?”

Patrick lingered behind you, hands tucked into his pockets. “I—” He paused, jaw ticking. “I’m trying to fit in, you know. Normal people decorate their lairs.”

You let out a soft laugh. “You could just admit you did it for me.”

“What? No.”

The denial came too fast. His cheeks flushed, his eyes flicked away, and a boyish smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Something fluttered in your chest—and it definitely wasn’t your heart. No butterflies comparison could quite capture it. Whenever Patrick looked like this—unguarded, almost human—it hit somewhere deeper.

Several flutes of Dom Pérignon were already working their way through your system, leaving you pleasantly tipsy and far too playful. You giggled as you brushed a finger over a small blue ornament, its glitter catching the light like powdered diamonds.

You wouldn’t have minded another drink, but Patrick had something else in mind. Something you never would’ve expected to find in his fridge.

“Want some ice cream?” he asked casually, already heading into the pristine kitchen. “Picked it up at a Häagen-Dazs boutique yesterday.”

You glanced at him—standing by the fridge with an almost childlike seriousness you rarely saw—and finally let go of the tree, crossing the room to meet him halfway. Your arms were already reaching for the small, cold carton.

“At least admit you bought this for me,” you murmured as you settled onto the white couch. “No one would expect me to know your secrets.”

“And that,” he replied, voice stretching into something half-joking, half-wary, “is deeply unsettling.”

You smiled. Either way, you enjoyed it.

After a small snack, the two of you drifted into silly conversations about… nothing, really. His daily life. Yours. It barely felt like Christmas at all—just another quiet evening the two of you might’ve shared any other time.

That changed when he suddenly stood from one of his Knoll Barcelona chairs and crossed the room to the massive stereo system, which looked more like the control panel of a spaceship than anything meant for music. With a quick tap of his finger, Frank Sinatra’s Jingle Bells filled the room, and you couldn’t help smiling like an idiot.

Out of all the songs—that one.

And somehow, you loved it.

“I’m not actually a big Frank Sinatra fan,” he added quickly, as if reading your thoughts. “My father is. But since we’re pretending to celebrate Christmas like normal people…” He shrugged. “Might as well jingle all the way.”

That made you laugh.

“You’re insane. You know that, right?”

He grinned like he took it as a compliment.

“You never told me about your music taste,” he noted, settling down beside you on the couch. “Feels like the right moment.”

“I prefer listening to your monologues about it.”

Patrick laughed—unexpectedly warm. “I’ll pretend to believe you. But seriously—what do you actually like?”

You set the half-empty ice cream carton on the glass coffee table, spoon still inside—it occurred to you that he might be weirdly particular about that sort of thing. Then you tucked your legs beneath you, thinking through the question. Patrick waited, one hand absentmindedly finding your foot, thumb tracing slow circles along your sole in a way that felt brazenly good.

“Well,” you said at last, “Frank Sinatra is… honestly fine.”

He blinked. “Really? Not too old-fashioned for you?”

“My dad used to play his tapes all the time when I was a kid.”

Something lit up behind his hazel eyes—an idea forming. Probably one he’d regret later. But he did it anyway. He gave your foot a final squeeze before standing and heading back to the stereo. A CD slid out, then back in. Tap, tap—and a new song began.

Moon River, wider than a mile…

The lyrics held you frozen until he was suddenly in front of you again, offering his hand. His face was a soft mess of affection, embarrassment, and something almost boyishly earnest.

“Will you dance with me?”

You felt like you were on the verge of melting into the floor. Instead, you took his hand and let him guide you toward the floor-to-ceiling window, where snow-covered New York blinked back at you in soft white and gold.

He placed one of your hands on his shoulder, holding the other in his large palm. It didn’t surprise you that he was good at this—Patrick seemed incapable of doing anything halfway. As you swayed to Sinatra’s baritone, you rested your head against the slope of his neck, breathing him in, your fingers brushing the back of his carefully styled hair.

“Is this not too old-fashioned for you?” you teased, echoing his earlier question. “I actually can imagine your father telling you stories about dancing to this with your mother.”

A faint scoff left his lips, almost thoughtful.

“Interesting,” he murmured near your ear. “That’s a version of him I never really got to know.”

It didn’t sound sad—just cold. Like something he’d already lived through and filed away. Indifferent. You didn’t push the subject. Instead, you closed your eyes and let yourself sink into the music, the warmth of his body, the way he hummed softly along, holding you close as your bodies swayed together.

At some point, you realized you were almost sobbing into the pristine white collar of his dress shirt. It was too overwhelming, too fairytale-perfect—too hard to believe it was actually happening. Patrick felt the tremor and tilted his head, catching your gaze just as your noses brushed.

You let out a shaky laugh. He didn’t let you pull away.

The kiss felt inevitable—something your bodies had been waiting for since the moment you arrived. His lips were softer than you expected, his arms tightening around your waist as if you might disappear otherwise, slipping right through his fingers. Someone should’ve said something grounding. Something that made it real.

“Do you believe in Christmas magic?” you asked, breathless when you broke apart.

Patrick licked his lips, thumb brushing your cheek. “I believe in my platinum AmEx.”

You kicked him lightly in the chest. He didn’t budge. If anything, he pulled you closer, strong hands anchoring you there, making you feel small in the best possible way—like a snowflake caught at the peak of a mountain.

“Okay, okay, point taken,” you said, smiling despite yourself. “But seriously—have you ever had a wish you wanted to come true?”

In the background, Sinatra crooned about love and beauty. The Way You Look Tonight. Another perfect choice.

“Sweetheart, if you want to make a wish,” he deflected, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, “you can say it out loud right now.” His lips brushed yours again. “You can believe in whatever magic you want. In the end, I’m the one who makes wishes come true.”

So arrogant.

It only made your smile widen.

“You have no idea what my imagination is capable of,” you murmured against his lips. He leaned in to kiss you, but you dodged. “Careful what you offer.”

“Try me.”

You would.

Right now.

You were the first to move, nipping his bottom lip with a teasing bite. He lifted you effortlessly, exactly the reaction you wanted, hands firm as you wrapped your legs around his waist. His suit jacket rustled between you, smooth fabric brushing your bare skin as he guided you toward the bedroom, stripping you of layers with meticulous intent.

The cool air. The crisp white sheets. Everything was exactly where it should be—including you, sprawled across that indecently large bed.

Patrick followed you down, weight settling over yours, kisses growing hotter, less restrained, as if he were mapping every inch of you by instinct alone.

“Told you magic works,” you breathed between kisses. “Always does.”

He frowned faintly. “One more word like that and I’ll gag you with glitter duct tape.” A beat. “Christmas edition.”

You laughed—until concern flickered and you realized he was already peeling you out of the rest of your clothes, down to your lingerie. Not festive. Classic. You hadn’t planned on ending up in his bed on Christmas night—but this version of events felt dangerously perfect.

The mattress dipped as he pushed you deeper into its center, then slipped away, dropping to his knees. His focus narrowed instantly, drawn to the heat between your legs like a magnetic pull. Patrick didn’t bother restraining himself; he simply leaned in, his tongue gliding over the front seam of your panties. When he found them already damp, he smirked—but said nothing.

Music drifted faintly from the other room, reduced to little more than a melodic hum. The sheets creased beneath you as he nudged your hips upward, glancing up at you now and then to read your reactions. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your mound, right above the waistband of your underwear. You closed your eyes, hands curling into fists as you grabbed the pillow, bracing yourself.

It would’ve been a lie to say you didn’t want this—or that you hadn’t been waiting for it. He was good at this. He knew how to work you up without even fully undressing you. Just his warm breath hovering over your core was enough to set your nerves alight. Patrick always took his time, exploring and admiring your body—especially your legs—kissing along your inner thighs, your shins, your ankles, stroking them slowly. Usually, when you looped them around his head, he’d groan like he couldn’t help himself.

This time, you didn’t.

It threw him off.

“So,” you asked quietly, “we’re just going to have sex and that’s it?”

Full stop.

He lifted his head, expression suddenly serious, like you’d just accused him of being unimaginative. “Is that not enough for you?” Patrick asked, one of your legs resting over his shoulder. “What do you want—me to call escorts? Men? Women? I don’t know.”

You nearly wheezed, but decided to play along. “I mean… that doesn’t sound terrible.”

The words hit harder than you expected. You could see it in his face—his eyes darkening, sharp as obsidian.

“I think it’s a little late for that,” he shot back. “It’s fucking Christmas. All the hookers are busy playing Snow Maidens or something worse.” He paused. “So you’ve got one option.” A beat. “Me.”

God. He sounded genuinely offended.

Smiling, you sat up and cupped his face, kissing his forehead in a grounding, reassuring way. “I was joking. You know that,” you said, tipping his chin up. “I don’t want—or need—anyone else.”

His lips flattened, unimpressed.

“And they call me the Grinch,” he muttered, turning his head slightly. “You could’ve just been specific and said you wanted an orgy for Christmas.”

A shaky laugh slipped out of you. “Jesus, you’re so dramatic.”

You wrapped your arms and legs around him, dragging him down with you as you fell back against the sheets. Being pinned beneath his solid weight felt too good to resist, so you leaned into it, knowing exactly how to soften him.

“Do you actually live at the gym?” you teased. “You’re so strong, and fit, and—”

Patrick cut you off with a kiss, tongue sliding into your mouth, stealing the rest of your sentence. You squealed softly as his hips pressed forward, the strain in his trousers obvious, rubbing against your thigh until you both gasped.

“Save the cheesy compliments,” he rasped, grinding into you. “For your friends. Or some other loser you’ll spend next Christmas with.”

You rolled your eyes but kept moving with him, matching his rhythm, your legs locked around his waist, the friction making it impossible to think.

“Stop being dramatic,” you said breathlessly, squeezing your breasts together. “You still owe me after the last time I almost choked on your dick.”

Patrick scoffed, teeth grazing your neck. “Then lie back,” he murmured, “and keep your mouth shut until you’re ready to tell me how good I make you feel.”

“Fine.”

The word had barely left your mouth before Patrick knelt on the bed and dragged your panties down in one swift motion—no hesitation, no gentleness. Just raw, barely contained hunger, the kind that threatened to tip into something reckless.

When he returned to his position at the edge of the bed, he was different. Gone were the teasing licks. Now his tongue worked with intent—long, demanding strokes against your sensitive flesh. Every time his sculpted nose brushed your clit, your legs trembled, toes curling, breath stuttering in your chest.

“Pat—Patrick,” you gasped, already squirming against the mattress. “Oh God—yes—”

You threaded your fingers into his hair, impossibly soft beneath your shaking hands. His face was flushed deep red, heat blooming from his cheeks down his neck, lashes dark and clumped with sweat. Panting, you tugged harder, forcing him closer as his tongue pressed into you with ruthless precision.

“Mmh—fuck,” you swore, nearly kicking out from the shock of it. “Shit—ah—keep going. Don’t stop. Please—”

Your whimpers spurred him on. Patrick doubled his efforts, the cold edge of his Rolex sliding along the inside of your hip as his fingers spread you open. Then he pushed them inside you—one, then another—until they vanished completely, slick sounds filling the room as your body took him without resistance.

“Already clenching,” he murmured, tongue sweeping from bottom to top. “You really think anyone else could make you feel like this?”

Typical Bateman—asking rhetorical questions mid-fuck.

You didn’t care. Your orgasm was too close for words. He could say whatever he wanted as long as he kept worshipping you like this.

Patrick felt it the moment your body tightened. His fingers scissored inside you, mouth locking onto your clit, sucking hard enough to steal the air from your lungs. Flick—pause—flick again—then pressure, exactly where it unraveled you.

You broke without screaming, breath catching uselessly in your throat as everything inside you snapped. Your body shook, legs trembling violently, muscles locking around his fingers as he refused to stop until the last aftershock tore through you. Patrick huffed against you, eyes dark and unfocused as he watched you fall apart.

The aftermath left you hollowed out, boneless.

Your vision swam, head fuzzy, body still trembling as you vaguely registered the sound of clothes shifting. Strong hands rolled you onto your stomach. Your bra was gone. His palms cupped your tits as he stretched over you, mouth at your neck, the slick head of his cock sliding between your buttocks. He ground there once, groaning.

“Always told you you had a great ass,” he murmured against your ear. “You never listen.”

His hand gripped your ass hard—enough that bruises would bloom tomorrow. Neither of you cared. You mewled anyway, and he did it again, the sadistic edge in him taking control.

“Spread your legs,” he ordered. When you obeyed, he slid a pillow beneath your hips. “You said you loved it like this.” A pause—then a sharp smack to your hip. “And unlike you, I pay attention.”

You glanced back at him—bare, sweat-slicked, every muscle defined like something sculpted for worship. He caught the look and winked, your admiration feeding him shamelessly. His throat bobbed as his gaze dropped to the curve of your ass, your slickness glistening where he brushed against you.

He exhaled sharply.

“Tell me you’re on the pill,” he said through clenched teeth, stroking himself slowly.

“I am,” you answered, propped on your elbows. “Are you really doing this again?”

He chuckled. “Come on, baby. You love it.” He leaned in, lining himself up. “You never shut up about the first time.”

Then he pushed inside.

Your focus fractured on the way his brows pulled together as he filled you inch by inch, your body clinging to him like it was made for it. Halfway in and you were already gripping the edge of the bed, burying your face in the cool sheets for balance.

It shattered the moment he shifted his weight and began to move.

Hard.

He didn’t give you time to adjust—driven by the need to claim, to hear you gasp and whimper, nails scraping along his arms as he pounded into you with relentless force.

As if it were his personal salvation.

The only way to survive the night.

His hands found yours where they hovered uselessly over the bed. He captured them in his, fingers interlacing, trapping you between the mattress and his massive body. The slow, grinding motion of his hips was worse than pounding—his cock dragging along your inner muscles with torturous precision.

“I—I’m going to black out,” you gasped, dazed.

A guttural sound tore from his throat as he sat back on his heels. His cock slipped free—slick, flushed, still hard—and he watched your body clench around nothing. For a split second, the familiar fixation flared, the urge to push further, to take you somewhere he was always drawn to. Too much, he decided. Instead, he brushed your hair aside, gripping the back of your neck with one hand and your hip with the other before pushing back inside you in one steady thrust.

This angle reduced you to something pliable in his hands. He could do anything—lifting, dragging, setting the rhythm as he fucked you down onto his cock, bearing your weight like you were nothing at all. The wet sounds grew messier, obscene, drowning out any thought of speech. Whatever you might’ve wanted to say dissolved completely as he drove you past coherence.

Each stroke numbing.

Erasing.

Patrick’s breathing turned harsh, uneven, sweat tracking along the vein standing out beneath his eye. Even if he’d wanted to last longer, the sight of you—your body reacting, your ass shuddering with every pull—was too much. He broke faster than expected. In any other situation, that might have bothered him. With you, it felt inevitable. Sex with you was different—emotion wasn’t an intrusion, but the missing piece that made everything click.

He collapsed over you like a weighty blanket, arms locking around you as he spilled everything he had, uncaring where it went. The sheets were ruined. He’d lie to the dry cleaners again.

Patrick kissed your neck, holding you close—not too tight—as his hips continued their residual rhythm. One hand slid beneath you, fingers finding the slick mess there, circling your oversensitive clit with slow, deliberate pressure.

You bit down on your lip—until he pulled you into a bruising kiss, swallowing the sound as his hand pushed you over again. His cock softened inside you, but it still felt overwhelming. The wet sounds, the friction, the relentless attention dragged you under.

And you went.

Your body seized, convulsing as you came again, moaning helplessly into his mouth. He pressed the heel of his palm to that raw bundle of nerves, working it until you thrashed beneath him, until he had to murmur something low and filthy just to keep you still.

“Merry fucking Christmas,” he’d probably say.

Just another great story for your future therapist.

You and Patrick weren’t exactly dating—or maybe you were. He’d never asked to make it official. Still, after your first date, he didn’t let up: flowers, calls, dinners, last-minute lunch invitations. Love bombing, if you were being honest with yourself. Eventually, you gave in and suggested that maybe the two of you could try building something that resembled a real relationship.

Even though you’d always sworn off Wall Street types.

It started as one of those Christmas Eve days that already felt slightly off.

The store was quiet in the way only expensive places were—muted footsteps, hushed voices, the soft click of glass cases opening and closing. Patrick moved through it like he belonged there, fingertips grazing displays without really looking, already knowing what everything cost.

“I’m having a small Christmas thing,” you said, stopping in front of a table stacked with neatly folded cashmere. “At Café Luxembourg.”

“Mm,” he replied, examining a leather wallet with mild interest.

“You could come,” you added. “It’s nothing formal. Just drinks. A few people.”

That made him pause. Not long—just enough to register the information. He set the wallet down, straightened it precisely.

“I can’t,” he said. Flat. “My mother wants me there. Christmas Eve. Sean will be there too.”

“Oh.” You nodded, reaching for a sweater and pretending to feel the fabric. “Right.”

“She’s very particular about holidays,” he went on, as if explaining a scheduling conflict at work. “It’s not optional.”

“Of course it isn’t.”

Patrick glanced at you, brief and assessing. “You understand.”

“Yeah.” You smiled, quick and practiced. “Family comes first.”

“Exactly.” He sounded satisfied. “It’ll be dinner. A few hours. I’ll leave as soon as it becomes unbearable.”

You let out a small laugh. “Lucky you.”

“You’ll still go to your party,” he added, already turning toward a sales associate. “You like that place.”

“I do.”

“And you wanted something casual,” he stated cold-bloodily. “This fits.”

You swallowed. “It does.”

Patrick nodded, decision made, and pointed at a display. “I’ll take the gloves. Black. Medium.”

As the associate walked away, he leaned closer, voice low. “You don’t need me there to have a good time.”

“I know,” you shot back easily.

He smiled—brief, self-assured. “Good.”

You watched him straighten his Rolex, gold watch catching the light, and told yourself that disappointment was just another thing you could file away neatly.

Like everything else.

Christmas arrived without much ceremony, carrying more hope with it than you were prepared to admit.

By the time the first reservation slot came and went, the table was already set.

You checked your watch anyway. Then again a few minutes later. No one hurried in apologizing, no coats were shrugged off in your direction. The candles burned clean and steady, wax pooling at their bases, untouched glasses reflecting the low light like props waiting for actors who never took the stage.

You told yourself to give it time.

Café Luxembourg moved around you as it always did—tables filling, voices rising and falling, the soft choreography of waiters weaving through the room. You smiled politely when yours passed, waved off the unspoken question, and ordered another round you didn’t really need.

Ten minutes. Then twenty.

The chair across from you stayed empty.

When your friend finally showed up—cheeks flushed from the cold, slightly out of breath—you felt relief hit sharp and sudden. You stood too fast, hugged them too tightly, laughed a beat too loud. One person was something. One person meant you hadn’t imagined the whole thing.

“Everyone else?” they asked, glancing at the empty seats.

You lifted your shoulders, reaching for your glass. “Busy, I guess.”

It was the word everyone leaned on this time of year. Busy. Family obligations. Work. Things that came up at the last minute and somehow mattered more.

You kept talking. You kept smiling. You even managed to enjoy yourself, a little.

But every time the door opened, your attention snapped up—just in case. And every time it wasn’t who you were waiting for, something inside you settled back down, quieter than before.

By the end of the night, the candles had burned down to stubs and the table felt far too large for two people. You paid the bill, thanked the staff, pulled your coat back on.

Outside, the city looked the same as it always did on Christmas—bright, indifferent, full.

You told yourself it was fine.

You were used to filing things away neatly.

Disappointment included.

On your way home, you spiraled over the flopped party—how only one person had even bothered to show up, how badly mistaken you’d been in thinking you had more friends than you did.

Reality always hit hardest afterward, when there was nothing left to distract you.

You could live with it. Or at least, you told yourself you could. You kept the tears in check, refusing to let them ruin the makeup you’d spent too long perfecting for an audience that never came. Luckily, Café Luxembourg wasn’t far from your place, so you walked. Snow swirled around you in sharp, glittering flurries, clinging to your lashes, blurring your vision just enough to give you an excuse not to look too closely at anything.

By the time you reached your block, the cold had worked its way into your bones.

That was when you noticed the sleek black car idling at the curb in front of your brownstone.

It took a few seconds to process what you were seeing before instinct pulled you closer. You trusted your instincts. Mostly. As you approached, you spotted the driver leaning against the frame, smoking, oblivious to you—until the backseat window slid down.

A cluster of red, blue, and silver balloons burst out of the car, nearly colliding with your face.

You froze when you heard his voice.

“Merry Christmas, baby,” Patrick drawled, almost sing-song as his face appeared in the window. “So—how’d your party go?”

Not that question.

Not now. Not ever.

It stung so badly you almost laughed. Or screamed. Or shouted the truth loud enough for everyone on the block to hear—that your party had been a complete disaster. But you were too polite for that. You shrugged instead and caught one of the balloons.

“You probably shouldn’t ask me that if you want to stay sane,” you said. “What are you even doing here? I thought I wouldn’t hear from you until Valentine’s Day. Or later.”

Bateman snickered, flashing his perfect teeth. “Relax. No mistletoe ambush.” He opened the door. “Get in.”

You gathered the balloon strings and slid into the backseat. The driver was already in place, hands on the wheel, waiting.

“Okay,” Patrick said, turning toward you. “Now tell me—who hurt you?”

Before you could answer, he was already pressing a champagne flute into your hand. “I’m listening.”

“Why do you think someone hurt me?”

He tilted his head slightly. “It’s written all over your face.”

You took the glass but didn’t drink. “Explain.”

Patrick sighed and drained his own drink in one swallow—J&B whiskey, most likely.

“I’m not trying to psychoanalyze you,” he said, lips thin, eyes sharp. “But I remember how excited you were about this little party. And now…” His gaze swept over you. “You look like you just came back from a funeral.”

Because it felt like one. The emptiness. The quiet. The way it settled in your chest.

“I had to cancel it,” you muttered, swirling the champagne in your unsteady hands. “No one came.”

That stopped him.

Patrick turned fully toward you, his expression caught somewhere between What did you just say? and Say that again.

“Yeah,” you added, finally taking a sip. “I’m serious. Nobody came.” You let out a humorless breath. “I guess that makes it official. I’m a loser, Patrick.”

His near-maniacal laughter scared the shit out of you, and you barely managed to keep the glass steady, not spilling it all over the obscenely expensive interior.

“What a load of bullshit,” he finally managed, brushing away a nonexistent tear. “Well. Fuck them.”

“That’s it?” You stared at him. “Really? Just—fuck them?”

You wanted to elbow him. To get out of the car. To unload everything you’d ever thought about his complete lack of sympathy. But then you stopped—because he was a man incapable of sympathy, and you’d known that long before the two of you ever started this.

Was this even a real relationship? Or just a fling—one that had lasted far too long by both your standards, while you pretended everything was under control?

Patrick drummed his fingers against his knee and poured himself another shot of whiskey.

“You might want to think about this,” he said, gesturing toward the balloons. “And this.” He tapped the rim of your champagne flute, producing a sharp, ringing ding. “I’d say that kind of overshadows everything.”

You squinted at him. “Wow. You’re so fucking full of yourself and—”

“Dom Pérignon,” he cut in smoothly, unfazed. “And the balloons came from a luxury florist. Not cheap, by the way.”

“Should I drop to my knees now and thank you for your generosity?”

He hummed, as if genuinely considering it. “Well, gratitude would be appropriate—”

“Thank you!” You blurted, grabbing the balloon strings and shoving them between you. “I’m pissed because I fooled myself for so long. About friends. About being… important to anyone.”

His hand found yours almost instantly—quick and subtle, fingers lacing with yours like they’d always belonged there. The contact sparked a small, unwelcome pang of conscience. You didn’t like it, but you said it anyway.

“I don’t want to sound like an asshole.” A beat. “That’s usually your job.”

He chuckled, brushing his thumb slowly over your palm. “That’s very sweet of you, darling. Insulting me just because I showed up and tried to make things look festive. Nice.” His smile sharpened. “…Romantic.”

“You hate romantic.”

“I hate seeing you grumpy,” he blurted, tugging the balloons aside so he could actually see your face. “And I hate seeing you not in the mood even more than that. If you’re already here—in my limo, with me—let me handle it.”

In the dim light, his eyes looked almost unreal, dark and hypnotic. As if it were even possible for him to be more handsome than he already was. You zoned out for a moment, lost in his presence, his touch, the Paul Sebastian cologne clinging to you like it had a life of its own.

It was only a matter of time before you leaned in, lips meeting in a slow, much-needed kiss. He bit your bottom lip just hard enough to pull a breath from you, pushing the moment a little too far for something meant to be purely comforting.

“Why does all of this feel like…” You hesitated, settling against his chest. “Like neither of us should be here—but we still are?”

Patrick’s mouth curved. “How illegal does it feel? Scale of one to ten.”

You shoved him lightly, laughing despite yourself. “Ten out of ten.”

“I knew it.” He smiled, already draping an arm over your shoulders. “Let’s go to my place.”

As the words settled between you, he watched you closely—fingers idly playing with the collar of your coat, lips parted, clearly ready to kiss you again if it helped tip the answer in his favor.

“You should’ve started with that,” you muttered, pinching his cheek just enough to annoy him. “Skipped the self-worshiping part.”

He offered no defense. Instead, he went on the offensive, his mouth claiming the soft slope of your neck where the coat collar had slipped just enough to allow it. The point landed hard enough that you didn’t bother trying to argue anymore.

Bateman’s place hadn’t changed since the last time you’d been there.

Unless—something had.

A small Christmas tree stood in the corner of his sterile white living room, right beside the tall stereo speaker. You actually stepped closer and touched it, just to be sure you weren’t hallucinating. It looked too festive to be real.

“A Christmas tree?” you asked. “Seriously?”

Patrick lingered behind you, hands tucked into his pockets. “I—” He paused, jaw ticking. “I’m trying to fit in, you know. Normal people decorate their lairs.”

You let out a soft laugh. “You could just admit you did it for me.”

“What? No.”

The denial came too fast. His cheeks flushed, his eyes flicked away, and a boyish smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Something fluttered in your chest—and it definitely wasn’t your heart. No butterflies comparison could quite capture it. Whenever Patrick looked like this—unguarded, almost human—it hit somewhere deeper.

Several flutes of Dom Pérignon were already working their way through your system, leaving you pleasantly tipsy and far too playful. You giggled as you brushed a finger over a small blue ornament, its glitter catching the light like powdered diamonds.

You wouldn’t have minded another drink, but Patrick had something else in mind. Something you never would’ve expected to find in his fridge.

“Want some ice cream?” he asked casually, already heading into the pristine kitchen. “Picked it up at a Häagen-Dazs boutique yesterday.”

You glanced at him—standing by the fridge with an almost childlike seriousness you rarely saw—and finally let go of the tree, crossing the room to meet him halfway. Your arms were already reaching for the small, cold carton.

“At least admit you bought this for me,” you murmured as you settled onto the white couch. “No one would expect me to know your secrets.”

“And that,” he replied, voice stretching into something half-joking, half-wary, “is deeply unsettling.”

You smiled. Either way, you enjoyed it.

After a small snack, the two of you drifted into silly conversations about… nothing, really. His daily life. Yours. It barely felt like Christmas at all—just another quiet evening the two of you might’ve shared any other time.

That changed when he suddenly stood from one of his Knoll Barcelona chairs and crossed the room to the massive stereo system, which looked more like the control panel of a spaceship than anything meant for music. With a quick tap of his finger, Frank Sinatra’s Jingle Bells filled the room, and you couldn’t help smiling like an idiot.

Out of all the songs—that one.

And somehow, you loved it.

“I’m not actually a big Frank Sinatra fan,” he added quickly, as if reading your thoughts. “My father is. But since we’re pretending to celebrate Christmas like normal people…” He shrugged. “Might as well jingle all the way.”

That made you laugh.

“You’re insane. You know that, right?”

He grinned like he took it as a compliment.

“You never told me about your music taste,” he noted, settling down beside you on the couch. “Feels like the right moment.”

“I prefer listening to your monologues about it.”

Patrick laughed—unexpectedly warm. “I’ll pretend to believe you. But seriously—what do you actually like?”

You set the half-empty ice cream carton on the glass coffee table, spoon still inside—it occurred to you that he might be weirdly particular about that sort of thing. Then you tucked your legs beneath you, thinking through the question. Patrick waited, one hand absentmindedly finding your foot, thumb tracing slow circles along your sole in a way that felt brazenly good.

“Well,” you said at last, “Frank Sinatra is… honestly fine.”

He blinked. “Really? Not too old-fashioned for you?”

“My dad used to play his tapes all the time when I was a kid.”

Something lit up behind his hazel eyes—an idea forming. Probably one he’d regret later. But he did it anyway. He gave your foot a final squeeze before standing and heading back to the stereo. A CD slid out, then back in. Tap, tap—and a new song began.

Moon River, wider than a mile…

The lyrics held you frozen until he was suddenly in front of you again, offering his hand. His face was a soft mess of affection, embarrassment, and something almost boyishly earnest.

“Will you dance with me?”

You felt like you were on the verge of melting into the floor. Instead, you took his hand and let him guide you toward the floor-to-ceiling window, where snow-covered New York blinked back at you in soft white and gold.

He placed one of your hands on his shoulder, holding the other in his large palm. It didn’t surprise you that he was good at this—Patrick seemed incapable of doing anything halfway. As you swayed to Sinatra’s baritone, you rested your head against the slope of his neck, breathing him in, your fingers brushing the back of his carefully styled hair.

“Is this not too old-fashioned for you?” you teased, echoing his earlier question. “I actually can imagine your father telling you stories about dancing to this with your mother.”

A faint scoff left his lips, almost thoughtful.

“Interesting,” he murmured near your ear. “That’s a version of him I never really got to know.”

It didn’t sound sad—just cold. Like something he’d already lived through and filed away. Indifferent. You didn’t push the subject. Instead, you closed your eyes and let yourself sink into the music, the warmth of his body, the way he hummed softly along, holding you close as your bodies swayed together.

At some point, you realized you were almost sobbing into the pristine white collar of his dress shirt. It was too overwhelming, too fairytale-perfect—too hard to believe it was actually happening. Patrick felt the tremor and tilted his head, catching your gaze just as your noses brushed.

You let out a shaky laugh. He didn’t let you pull away.

The kiss felt inevitable—something your bodies had been waiting for since the moment you arrived. His lips were softer than you expected, his arms tightening around your waist as if you might disappear otherwise, slipping right through his fingers. Someone should’ve said something grounding. Something that made it real.

“Do you believe in Christmas magic?” you asked, breathless when you broke apart.

Patrick licked his lips, thumb brushing your cheek. “I believe in my platinum AmEx.”

You kicked him lightly in the chest. He didn’t budge. If anything, he pulled you closer, strong hands anchoring you there, making you feel small in the best possible way—like a snowflake caught at the peak of a mountain.

“Okay, okay, point taken,” you said, smiling despite yourself. “But seriously—have you ever had a wish you wanted to come true?”

In the background, Sinatra crooned about love and beauty. The Way You Look Tonight. Another perfect choice.

“Sweetheart, if you want to make a wish,” he deflected, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, “you can say it out loud right now.” His lips brushed yours again. “You can believe in whatever magic you want. In the end, I’m the one who makes wishes come true.”

So arrogant.

It only made your smile widen.

“You have no idea what my imagination is capable of,” you murmured against his lips. He leaned in to kiss you, but you dodged. “Careful what you offer.”

“Try me.”

You would.

Right now.

You were the first to move, nipping his bottom lip with a teasing bite. He lifted you effortlessly, exactly the reaction you wanted, hands firm as you wrapped your legs around his waist. His suit jacket rustled between you, smooth fabric brushing your bare skin as he guided you toward the bedroom, stripping you of layers with meticulous intent.

The cool air. The crisp white sheets. Everything was exactly where it should be—including you, sprawled across that indecently large bed.

Patrick followed you down, weight settling over yours, kisses growing hotter, less restrained, as if he were mapping every inch of you by instinct alone.

“Told you magic works,” you breathed between kisses. “Always does.”

He frowned faintly. “One more word like that and I’ll gag you with glitter duct tape.” A beat. “Christmas edition.”

You laughed—until concern flickered and you realized he was already peeling you out of the rest of your clothes, down to your lingerie. Not festive. Classic. You hadn’t planned on ending up in his bed on Christmas night—but this version of events felt dangerously perfect.

The mattress dipped as he pushed you deeper into its center, then slipped away, dropping to his knees. His focus narrowed instantly, drawn to the heat between your legs like a magnetic pull. Patrick didn’t bother restraining himself; he simply leaned in, his tongue gliding over the front seam of your panties. When he found them already damp, he smirked—but said nothing.

Music drifted faintly from the other room, reduced to little more than a melodic hum. The sheets creased beneath you as he nudged your hips upward, glancing up at you now and then to read your reactions. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your mound, right above the waistband of your underwear. You closed your eyes, hands curling into fists as you grabbed the pillow, bracing yourself.

It would’ve been a lie to say you didn’t want this—or that you hadn’t been waiting for it. He was good at this. He knew how to work you up without even fully undressing you. Just his warm breath hovering over your core was enough to set your nerves alight. Patrick always took his time, exploring and admiring your body—especially your legs—kissing along your inner thighs, your shins, your ankles, stroking them slowly. Usually, when you looped them around his head, he’d groan like he couldn’t help himself.

This time, you didn’t.

It threw him off.

“So,” you asked quietly, “we’re just going to have sex and that’s it?”

Full stop.

He lifted his head, expression suddenly serious, like you’d just accused him of being unimaginative. “Is that not enough for you?” Patrick asked, one of your legs resting over his shoulder. “What do you want—me to call escorts? Men? Women? I don’t know.”

You nearly wheezed, but decided to play along. “I mean… that doesn’t sound terrible.”

The words hit harder than you expected. You could see it in his face—his eyes darkening, sharp as obsidian.

“I think it’s a little late for that,” he shot back. “It’s fucking Christmas. All the hookers are busy playing Snow Maidens or something worse.” He paused. “So you’ve got one option.” A beat. “Me.”

God. He sounded genuinely offended.

Smiling, you sat up and cupped his face, kissing his forehead in a grounding, reassuring way. “I was joking. You know that,” you said, tipping his chin up. “I don’t want—or need—anyone else.”

His lips flattened, unimpressed.

“And they call me the Grinch,” he muttered, turning his head slightly. “You could’ve just been specific and said you wanted an orgy for Christmas.”

A shaky laugh slipped out of you. “Jesus, you’re so dramatic.”

You wrapped your arms and legs around him, dragging him down with you as you fell back against the sheets. Being pinned beneath his solid weight felt too good to resist, so you leaned into it, knowing exactly how to soften him.

“Do you actually live at the gym?” you teased. “You’re so strong, and fit, and—”

Patrick cut you off with a kiss, tongue sliding into your mouth, stealing the rest of your sentence. You squealed softly as his hips pressed forward, the strain in his trousers obvious, rubbing against your thigh until you both gasped.

“Save the cheesy compliments,” he rasped, grinding into you. “For your friends. Or some other loser you’ll spend next Christmas with.”

You rolled your eyes but kept moving with him, matching his rhythm, your legs locked around his waist, the friction making it impossible to think.

“Stop being dramatic,” you said breathlessly, squeezing your breasts together. “You still owe me after the last time I almost choked on your dick.”

Patrick scoffed, teeth grazing your neck. “Then lie back,” he murmured, “and keep your mouth shut until you’re ready to tell me how good I make you feel.”

“Fine.”

The word had barely left your mouth before Patrick knelt on the bed and dragged your panties down in one swift motion—no hesitation, no gentleness. Just raw, barely contained hunger, the kind that threatened to tip into something reckless.

When he returned to his position at the edge of the bed, he was different. Gone were the teasing licks. Now his tongue worked with intent—long, demanding strokes against your sensitive flesh. Every time his sculpted nose brushed your clit, your legs trembled, toes curling, breath stuttering in your chest.

“Pat—Patrick,” you gasped, already squirming against the mattress. “Oh God—yes—”

You threaded your fingers into his hair, impossibly soft beneath your shaking hands. His face was flushed deep red, heat blooming from his cheeks down his neck, lashes dark and clumped with sweat. Panting, you tugged harder, forcing him closer as his tongue pressed into you with ruthless precision.

“Mmh—fuck,” you swore, nearly kicking out from the shock of it. “Shit—ah—keep going. Don’t stop. Please—”

Your whimpers spurred him on. Patrick doubled his efforts, the cold edge of his Rolex sliding along the inside of your hip as his fingers spread you open. Then he pushed them inside you—one, then another—until they vanished completely, slick sounds filling the room as your body took him without resistance.

“Already clenching,” he murmured, tongue sweeping from bottom to top. “You really think anyone else could make you feel like this?”

Typical Bateman—asking rhetorical questions mid-fuck.

You didn’t care. Your orgasm was too close for words. He could say whatever he wanted as long as he kept worshipping you like this.

Patrick felt it the moment your body tightened. His fingers scissored inside you, mouth locking onto your clit, sucking hard enough to steal the air from your lungs. Flick—pause—flick again—then pressure, exactly where it unraveled you.

You broke without screaming, breath catching uselessly in your throat as everything inside you snapped. Your body shook, legs trembling violently, muscles locking around his fingers as he refused to stop until the last aftershock tore through you. Patrick huffed against you, eyes dark and unfocused as he watched you fall apart.

The aftermath left you hollowed out, boneless.

Your vision swam, head fuzzy, body still trembling as you vaguely registered the sound of clothes shifting. Strong hands rolled you onto your stomach. Your bra was gone. His palms cupped your tits as he stretched over you, mouth at your neck, the slick head of his cock sliding between your buttocks. He ground there once, groaning.

“Always told you you had a great ass,” he murmured against your ear. “You never listen.”

His hand gripped your ass hard—enough that bruises would bloom tomorrow. Neither of you cared. You mewled anyway, and he did it again, the sadistic edge in him taking control.

“Spread your legs,” he ordered. When you obeyed, he slid a pillow beneath your hips. “You said you loved it like this.” A pause—then a sharp smack to your hip. “And unlike you, I pay attention.”

You glanced back at him—bare, sweat-slicked, every muscle defined like something sculpted for worship. He caught the look and winked, your admiration feeding him shamelessly. His throat bobbed as his gaze dropped to the curve of your ass, your slickness glistening where he brushed against you.

He exhaled sharply.

“Tell me you’re on the pill,” he said through clenched teeth, stroking himself slowly.

“I am,” you answered, propped on your elbows. “Are you really doing this again?”

He chuckled. “Come on, baby. You love it.” He leaned in, lining himself up. “You never shut up about the first time.”

Then he pushed inside.

Your focus fractured on the way his brows pulled together as he filled you inch by inch, your body clinging to him like it was made for it. Halfway in and you were already gripping the edge of the bed, burying your face in the cool sheets for balance.

It shattered the moment he shifted his weight and began to move.

Hard.

He didn’t give you time to adjust—driven by the need to claim, to hear you gasp and whimper, nails scraping along his arms as he pounded into you with relentless force.

As if it were his personal salvation.

The only way to survive the night.

His hands found yours where they hovered uselessly over the bed. He captured them in his, fingers interlacing, trapping you between the mattress and his massive body. The slow, grinding motion of his hips was worse than pounding—his cock dragging along your inner muscles with torturous precision.

“I—I’m going to black out,” you gasped, dazed.

A guttural sound tore from his throat as he sat back on his heels. His cock slipped free—slick, flushed, still hard—and he watched your body clench around nothing. For a split second, the familiar fixation flared, the urge to push further, to take you somewhere he was always drawn to. Too much, he decided. Instead, he brushed your hair aside, gripping the back of your neck with one hand and your hip with the other before pushing back inside you in one steady thrust.

This angle reduced you to something pliable in his hands. He could do anything—lifting, dragging, setting the rhythm as he fucked you down onto his cock, bearing your weight like you were nothing at all. The wet sounds grew messier, obscene, drowning out any thought of speech. Whatever you might’ve wanted to say dissolved completely as he drove you past coherence.

Each stroke numbing.

Erasing.

Patrick’s breathing turned harsh, uneven, sweat tracking along the vein standing out beneath his eye. Even if he’d wanted to last longer, the sight of you—your body reacting, your ass shuddering with every pull—was too much. He broke faster than expected. In any other situation, that might have bothered him. With you, it felt inevitable. Sex with you was different—emotion wasn’t an intrusion, but the missing piece that made everything click.

He collapsed over you like a weighty blanket, arms locking around you as he spilled everything he had, uncaring where it went. The sheets were ruined. He’d lie to the dry cleaners again.

Patrick kissed your neck, holding you close—not too tight—as his hips continued their residual rhythm. One hand slid beneath you, fingers finding the slick mess there, circling your oversensitive clit with slow, deliberate pressure.

You bit down on your lip—until he pulled you into a bruising kiss, swallowing the sound as his hand pushed you over again. His cock softened inside you, but it still felt overwhelming. The wet sounds, the friction, the relentless attention dragged you under.

And you went.

Your body seized, convulsing as you came again, moaning helplessly into his mouth. He pressed the heel of his palm to that raw bundle of nerves, working it until you thrashed beneath him, until he had to murmur something low and filthy just to keep you still.

“Merry fucking Christmas,” he’d probably say.

Just another great story for your future therapist.

Your loud wail cuts him off. His jaw clenches so hard it looks like he’s about to bite through his bottom lip.

“Where did you even get this?”

“You... brought it home after that trip to the video store,” you mumble through a gurgled sob, reaching out to wrap both arms around his waist.

Patrick feels something bordering on homicidal stir in his chest—but he doesn’t shake you off. He just scoffs and rolls his eyes like it physically pains him.

“I asked that dickweed behind the counter for something romantic, because you said you like romance—”

“I do! And it was romantic! It was so romantic that—”

“—That you ended up a fucking sobbing mess, and now you’re staining my suit!”

If he thought that would make you let go, he was wrong.

Your arms tighten around him, and you nuzzle against his perfectly flat stomach, leaving wet marks on his immaculately pressed designer suit.

“We should watch it together,” you whisper, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Then you tilt your glassy eyes up at him.

“You’re kidding, right?” He crosses his arms, scowling down at you. “I’m returning that video tape tomorrow. I should shove it into that faggy—”

“Oh, shut up already! I don’t say shit about your porn tapes, so stop whining.”

Now he’s really furious. But instead of throwing you out or launching into another rant, he brushes your hands away, stalks over to the TV, and switches it off with the remote. Then, with practiced grace, he pulls a pristine handkerchief from his pocket and gently dabs your tear-stained cheeks.

“Okay, let’s pretend we never had that conversation about—”

“Porn?”

You bat your lashes, sly and teasing, and you know you’ve hit the nerve. The nerve. The one he doesn’t let anyone find.

You can see right through him—and he likes that you’re still here.

His brows knit as he presses a thumb to your lips, catching a tiny tear. You kiss it without hesitation.

“We’ll watch it,” he mutters, almost against his will. “But don’t make me sing that stupid song at the end.”

You freeze. “How do you know about the song? Did you watch the movie already?”

He immediately averts his eyes—and before you can call him out, he grabs you by the back of the head and kisses you. Hard. Deep. Like it’s nothing.

“No,” he says flatly, pulling away. “I just stood in the hallway and listened to your stupid-ass singing.”

You beam like a star. “If you survived that, you can survive watching some cartoons with me too.”

His eye twitches.

“Classic old Disney cartoons are amazing. Don’t pretend you never watched them,” you tease, poking his side.

A blush creeps up his cheeks as a forbidden memory flashes through his mind—how he once cried over Bambi.

“I’ve never watched any of them,” he mutters, deadpan.

But the way he bolts toward the kitchen at the speed of light?

Yeah. That says everything.

And you...

You file that reaction away like a treasure. Patrick is your favorite puzzle, and every piece you uncover feels like gold. This little blush… you’ll be thinking about it for days.

Every time he goes down on you, Patrick does it with pure abandon—and filthy reverence. Depraved, obsessed reverence, in the way he slurps at your pussy, his teeth grazing your plump lower lips, tongue sweeping over your swollen clit. You moan, and he sucks harder. Your legs kick, your fingers claw at his scalp—he grabs your wrists, shoves them away, and threatens to duct-tape them down.

“Shit—it hurts!” you whine, toes curling. “Slow—slow the fuck down—mmm—”

Of course, instead of slowing down, he slaps your thigh. Then your cunt. The back of his palm is slick with your wetness—just like his chiseled face. He doesn’t care. He feels proud, so fucking superior, with your cum dripping from his chin, down his neck, pooling on his chest. His skin flushed red, nostrils flaring with heat.

“C’mon, I know you can give me another one,” he growls, voice rough and muffled against your pubic bone. “I love fucking you like this… you’re so tight after I’ve made you cum over and over.”

His mouth’s back on your clit the second he’s done praising himself. You fist the bedsheets, your skin burning from how long you’ve been edged like this.

“God—you’re so arrogant!”

Patrick smiles into your warmth, burying his tongue inside you for the who-knows-what time in the last hour.

“I have no reason not to be, darling.”

It pisses you off.

You can deal with the narcissism. But his cockiness? That’s another story. It drives you absolutely insane—every fucking time. Sure, he can drag one orgasm after another from you like it’s nothing… but that doesn’t mean he’s as special as he thinks he is.

Or maybe it does.

Oblivious to your inner war, Patrick keeps his mouth busy. Whatever you're thinking, he doesn’t care—he just keeps eating. Always hungry, even after you’ve soaked the sheets and left a dark, sticky pool beneath your ass. The only time he pauses is to say more self-absorbed shit like:

“You look like you're about to cry,”

Then: “Don’t do it until I turn the camera on.”

“No shit!”

You bark, trying to kick him—but he catches your legs easily and spreads them even wider, lifting until your knees press to your chest and your slit is presented like a silver-plated dish, tied up with a fucking ribbon.

Patrick spits on your pussy like there's not enough slick, pinching your clit and unfolding your overstimulated hole until a raw, broken sound claws out of your throat.

“Pat—no—not the fingers—no—”

He shoves his thumb into your mouth, deep enough to make you gag. And his fingers—fuck, those fingers—strong, skillful, sliding inside like he can see exactly where to touch, where to push, how to wreck you. He lets out a low groan, lips sealing around your painfully swollen clit, sucking you deep into his hot, greedy mouth while his Rolex slaps against your soaked skin.

“Yeah... choke on my finger like that,” he mutters, watching you from under his messy bangs between feverish licks.

And then—too soon—his tongue switches to tight, vicious circles, and your body betrays you. You’re gone again. You want to break free, to stop this endless torment, but it’s useless.

You’re shattering. Again.

Your walls clamp around his fingers, locking them in place, refusing to let go.

You stop counting orgasms. There’s no point.

Not when you’re married to the biggest sex predator the world’s ever seen.

Of course, you'd catch him in the middle of a meeting. He’d be sitting with a bunch of random yuppies you’ve never met, all droning on about “business,” when his phone rings. Jean would quietly tell him it's you—and that you insist he pick up.

Patrick would sigh, flash his colleagues a polite smile, and say something like, “Sorry, gentlemen, but my spouse would absolutely fry my ass if I didn’t answer.”

Not that he really needs permission. He’d pick up anyway. He misses you already. It’s pathetic, sure—not very “power posture”—but he doesn’t care.

“Yes, darling?” he’d say, smiling like pure sunshine, holding the receiver close. “Already miss me?”

“Guess what I’m doing right now.”

Your playful tone would hit him hard. He’d stiffen visibly, trying to keep cool. The rest of the room wouldn’t even notice—too busy bragging about overpriced ties, loafers, suits, whatever.

“Well, you're probably enjoying yourself if you're calling me in the middle of a meeting—”

“Oh, I’m definitely enjoying myself,” you purr, bringing the phone down to where your fingers work your most sensitive spot. “Hear that?”

Patrick would practically lose it.

He’d barely stop himself from shouting, or flipping his desk over. His teeth would clench so tightly they might crack. His cock would get hard in a second flat. Only you could do this to him—and he hates how much power you have over him. His cheeks would flush, his collar would feel too tight, and God, he'd want nothing more than for these nameless corporate drones to vanish.

But he’d keep up the mask.

“I’ll call you back later, honey. I’m really busy—”

“You don’t want to hear me cum while moaning your name?” you’d say, voice thick with pleasure. “I wish you were here… with your cock splitting me open.”

He’d almost groan, but bite his tongue instead. His grip on the lacquered tabletop would tighten as he shields the receiver with his hand, praying no one hears your dirty moans. But he knows it's no use.

“What’s the matter, Bateman?”

One of the smug power-suit types would ask, full of that Wall Street arrogance Patrick despises. And your sounds—your delicious, sinful sounds—would keep pouring into his ear.

Then, just as he’s about to respond, you beat him to it.

“Tell them to leave,” you breathe. “Now.”

And Patrick? Patrick would wave Jean over from the half-open door and say—almost shout—that he has to leave immediately. Very. Very. Important “things to solve.” As if his life depends on it.

Because in that moment, it kind of does.