Lexi/Kira â RU â She/Her â Occasional Writer â 30 y.o. â MDNI â Patrick Bateman is my CEO đȘ
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My header was drawn by the amazing @iron-flavored-lipgloss! My PFP was drawn by fantastic @dooubts!
ââ Asks are temporarily closed! Iâm really sorry, but I need to step back for a while. Life has been a lot lately, and between my very time-demanding job and trying to be there for my granny as her health gets worse, I barely have any energy or time left.
Iâve seen your requests and I appreciate every single one of them so much, but right now I donât have the capacity to reply or work on commissions the way I want to. When I do have a little free time to write, I need to focus on my own stories for a bit.
Thank you for being patient with me.
Iâll come back with full force as soon as life calms down a little. đ
⊠Random silly HCs about P.B.
⊠You always suspected Patrick was afraid of being tickled, even though he'd never admit it.
⊠I Wanna Do Bad Things to You (P.B. x Fem!Reader)
⊠Patrick Bateman doesn't need you. He just can't stop.
⊠So, youâre stuck with a psychopath.
⊠Imagine calling Patrick Bateman out to his face and telling him the only thing heâs ever truly done is get born into a wealthy family.
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You have a summer flu and Patrick won't leave. Make that make sense.
Patrick woke in the middle of the nightâalready restless the moment he registered your absence. He blinked several times, eyes adjusting to the darkness as he rolled onto his back, arms reaching for you and finding nothing. Your spot was empty, sheets cold. Panic washed over him, and he didn't like how much he cared about something so small. Patrick never cared about women leaving in the middle of the night.
You had changed something in him he couldn't quite comprehend yet.
Slowly he sat up, blankets pooled around his waist, his Rolex catching the moonlight filtering through the blinds. He'd forgotten to take it off again. Then he heard itâa faint sound from the bathroom, barely there. Running water and something like coughing. The panic returned with full force, like a bucket of cold water.
He didn't hesitate. His legs carried him to the bathroom before he'd made a conscious decision, and he pushed the unlocked door openâand found you bent over the sink, shaking. The tap was running endlessly, drowning out the sounds, and you didn't notice him until you caught a pair of dark eyes watching you in the mirror.
"OhâIâI thought I was quiet enough," you rasped, throat sore and swollen.
"You weren't."
You nodded apologetically. "Sorry. I couldn't sleep. My throat is killing me⊠feels like I swallowed a ton of sand."
He crossed and uncrossed his arms over his chest, brows drawing together as if his face couldn't decide which expression to settle on.
"I told you that eating ice cream in hot weather was a bad idea," he commented, stepping up behind youâalmost naked except for his white briefs. "You never listen, Cupcake. That bothers me, somehow."
"Bothers?"
Patrick went still right behind you. "Are you in pain?"
His arms looped around your waist on autopilot. The height difference made it easy for him to rest his chin on top of your head. He didn't put his full weight on you, balancing himself against the counter as he reached past you to turn off the tap.
"My head hurts really bad and⊠as I said, I think I have a mild flu. And a sore throat."
You watched him frown, caught in the middle of some internal debate. You leaned back against his chestâhis cologne still sharp even though you could barely breathe through your nose. Somehow his scent was imprinted in your brain regardless.
"Go back to bed," he murmured against your ear, nose brushing your temple. "I'll call the best doctor I can get in the morning if it comes to that."
"No, thank you," you protested, shifting in his arms until your faces were close. "You don't have to do that. I still have issues with my medical insuranceâ"
He didn't bother arguing. He simply lifted you with arrogant ease and you wrapped your arms and legs around him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Patrick carried you back to the bedroom, set you down on the bed, and held the blanket open until you lay down properly before tucking it around you. Then he crossed the room to check the windows for drafts.
"Will you lie down with me?" you asked, wrapped in the blanket like a little pastry.
He stood beside the bed for a moment, smirking, eyeing you like he was seeing something real for the first time. Raw and honest. Disarmed and so genuinely you that it hit somewhere behind his ribsânot quite his heart. Something even more elusive than that.
"No. I'll sleep on the couchâI can't afford to get sick. Bryce is throwing a party at his summer house in the Hamptons and I'm not missing it because I spent the night next to your runny nose."
Your eyes went glassyânot with tears, just with quiet acceptance. The small, practiced acceptance of knowing your place in his world. "Yeah⊠that's right," you said, rubbing your red nose. "Only losers like me get sick in summer."
A low, amused chuckle rumbled from his chest.
"You're illegally cute like this, Cupcake." He sat down on the edge of the bed, warm hand catching your face, thumb stroking your cheek. "Playing innocent and a little naive." His eyes softened into something dangerous in a completely different way. "I wouldn't leave you in this bed even if you were infected with something deadly. I'd stay right here with you and we'd spend our last night togetherâin this bed, skin to skin, just like in those stupid romantic novels you told me about."
"You hate them, don't you?"
"Sometimes," he muttered, eyes dark but holding a quiet warmth. "Nowâyou're burning up and that's not good. I'll get you some aspirin."
You nuzzled against his palm like a devoted kitten. "It's only good when I burn from wanting you?"
Patrick's breath caughtâjust for a fraction of a second.
"It's only good when I say it is."
You rolled your eyes and sighed when he removed his hand and disappeared into the living room, a strip of light falling through the open door. Your face genuinely burned when you pressed your fingers to your cheeks, head pounding. He returned quicklyâglass of water in one hand, two small pills in the other.
Taking medicine from other people always made you uncomfortable. But Patrick wasn't just anyone. You trusted him, in some twisted way. Maybe you were sick with more than just a fluâsomething far more dangerous.
After you swallowed the pills Patrick set the glass on the nightstand and pinched your cheek lightly. "Good girl."
"Thank you, Doc."
He paused, eyes curious, lips curling into that hauntingly dangerous smile. "Did I ever tell you I wanted to be a surgeon?"
"N-no?"
He climbed carefully into bed beside you, giving you enough space while making it perfectly clear you were welcome to lie against his chest.
"Doesn't blood scare you at all?"
His low chuckle reverberated through his ribcage. "Not at all," he said, wrapping an arm around you and tracing lazy circles on your lower back. "In fact, I rather love the sight of bloodâ"
A sudden pause hung in the air.
You looked up at him, about to ask him to continueâand then you sneezed directly into his collarbone. He wordlessly produced an entire pack of napkins.
"Keep your nose covered," he said, almost scolding. "I wasn't joking about missing the party."
You sneezed again, nearly elbowing him in the face. "Sor-ryâIâmaybe I should just sleep on the couchâ"
"Too late for that, I think."
He watched your uncontrollable sneezing with detached skepticism, but kept handing you napkins with something that almost resembled care. Your eyes began to water, head spinning harder. You sat up and he followed.
"God, I think I'm dying," you groaned, pressing two napkins to your nose at once.
You sniffled, a wave of frustration and self-pity crashing through you. You hated being like thisâhelpless and pathetic and leaking from the faceâand Patrick, as if he could read every thought, watched you with quiet understanding.
"My dramatic little Cupcake," he crooned, brushing stray hair off your forehead. "So dramatic she can't even keep herself together."
"It's n-not funny."
"Of course it is," he replied, and pressed a kiss to your foreheadâonce, twiceâthen left a slow, open-mouthed kiss against your neck. "Get some sleep. You really need it."
You grabbed him with both arms, pulling him as close as you could. His skin was impossibly smooth beneath your fingers as you traced long stripes across his back and shoulders, his moles scattered like small constellations you could find even in the dark.
"You'll be here when I wake up."
It wasn't a question.
"Mhm," he hummed, pressing his forehead against yours, eyes already closed. "I'll be anywhere you want me. Even in your dreams."
Iâm really sorry but I need to close my asks for a while.
Iâve been struggling a lot latelyâmy job is extremely time-demanding right now, and my granny just turned 89 and her health is getting worse day by day. Sheâs bedridden and Iâm trying to be there for her as much as I can. Because of all this, I barely have any energy or time left.
Iâve seen all your requests and I genuinely appreciate every single one of them, thank you so much for trusting me with your ideas. But right now I donât have the capacity to reply or work on commissions the way I want to.
When I do have a little free time to write, I need to focus on my own stories for a bit. I hope you can understand.
Iâll come back with full force as soon as life calms down a little. Thank you for being patient with me!đ
Clingy!Patrick Bateman who wakes up multiple times during the night just to make sure youâre still there. He doesnât wake youâhe simply turns on the bedside lamp on the lowest setting and stares. His hand rests on your waist or slides under your shirt, needing the warmth of your skin to calm the gnawing anxiety that you might vanish. Only once heâs convinced youâre real does he pull you tighter against him and try to sleep again.
Desperate!Patrick Bateman who refuses to call it love. He hates the word. He hates the concept. But he canât deny that something inside his hollow chest shifts when youâre around. He admits it only in the dead of night, when youâre asleep in his armsâa silent, bitter confession to himself: âThis thing⊠itâs making me weak.â Heâll never say it out loud. Not to you. Not to anyone.
Obsessed!Patrick Bateman who canât keep his hands off you. Every inch of your body belongs to himâa fact he treats with religious devotion. His touch varies: sometimes affectionate and slow, tracing your spine like heâs memorizing every vertebra... sometimes possessive and bruising, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave marks... sometimes downright obsceneâslipping under your clothes in public, in the back of a taxi, or during dinner with colleagues, daring you to stay quiet while he reminds you who you belong to.
Dark!Patrick Bateman whose eyes are voids. When you look into them too long, you feel like youâre staring into an endless black hole where empathy and humanity should be. He knows heâs empty. Heâs told you so, voice cold and clinical. You insist thereâs something more. He calls you delusional. You call him the same. The twisted part is⊠youâre both a little right.
Possessive!Patrick Bateman who tracks your every move. Not always obviouslyâsometimes through âcoincidences,â sometimes through more invasive methods heâd never admit to. Your diary? Heâs looked through it. Your schedule? Memorized. If another man even looks at you too long, Patrickâs smile becomes razor-sharp, and his hand on the small of your back turns into a silent claim.
Jealous!Patrick Bateman who doesnât get loud or dramatic. His jealousy is ice-cold and terrifyingly calm. Heâll destroy someoneâs life with a few phone calls and a chillingly polite conversation, then come home and fuck you like heâs erasing every other man whoâs ever existed from your memory.
NSFW BONUS:
Filthy!Patrick Bateman:
Heâs addicted to the way you sound when he ruins you. Heâll edge you for hours, fingers or cock buried deep inside you, whispering against your ear in that smooth, psychopathic voice: "Look at you⊠falling apart for a man who doesnât even have a soul. Pathetic... Beautiful... Owned."
He loves making you say youâre his while heâs balls-deep, choking you lightly, forcing eye contact. The moment you start to cum, he gets dangerously tenderâforehead pressed to yours, voice almost soft: "Thatâs it⊠give it to me. Everything. Itâs already mine anyway."
He also has a habit of cumming inside you and then keeping you plugged with his cock afterward, fascinated by the sight of his seed leaking out of you. It satisfies something deeply primal and deranged in himâthe ultimate proof of ownership.
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You always suspected Patrick was afraid of being tickled, even though he'd never admit it. He was so relaxedâlying on his stomach while you worked your hands along his back, tracing the lines of his muscles. Then your fingers accidentally slid against his side.
He wasn't really ticklish at first. But he was already wired up. He went still and said nothing, so you did it againâmore deliberately this time, dragging your fingers slowly along his ribs.
He jolted.
"Hey." His voice was still controlled, but something underneath it wasn't. "Stop it."
You could hear itâthe faint note of real distress, and underneath that, something almost like amusement. Like he was daring you to push further.
You pinched his back muscles gently. He pouted and tried to roll over, so you sat on top of him before he could. He went grumpy and rigid beneath you, almost childish in his indignationâand then, helplessly, he giggled.
You kept going. He thrashed beneath you, laughing properly now, that low resonant laugh that did something embarrassing to your concentration. You wanted more of it, so you slipped one hand beneath him and found his stomach. His muscles tensed and spasmed under your fingers as he laughed hard enough that you had to grip his sides to keep from sliding off entirely.
"Ha!" You leaned down close to his ear. "I knew you were scared of tickles. And I haven't even gotten to your feet yet."
He stopped giggling immediately. "Not the feet," he groaned, twisting to give you the most genuinely pleading look you'd ever seen on his face. "Jesus Christ. You're pure evil."
You pressed a soft kiss to his neck. "More evil than you?"
You felt him shiver slightly as you brushed your lips over his earlobeâand then you pinched him again.
You always suspected Patrick was afraid of being tickled, even though he'd never admit it. He was so relaxedâlying on his stomach while you worked your hands along his back, tracing the lines of his muscles. Then your fingers accidentally slid against his side.
He wasn't really ticklish at first. But he was already wired up. He went still and said nothing, so you did it againâmore deliberately this time, dragging your fingers slowly along his ribs.
He jolted.
"Hey." His voice was still controlled, but something underneath it wasn't. "Stop it."
You could hear itâthe faint note of real distress, and underneath that, something almost like amusement. Like he was daring you to push further.
You pinched his back muscles gently. He pouted and tried to roll over, so you sat on top of him before he could. He went grumpy and rigid beneath you, almost childish in his indignationâand then, helplessly, he giggled.
You kept going. He thrashed beneath you, laughing properly now, that low resonant laugh that did something embarrassing to your concentration. You wanted more of it, so you slipped one hand beneath him and found his stomach. His muscles tensed and spasmed under your fingers as he laughed hard enough that you had to grip his sides to keep from sliding off entirely.
"Ha!" You leaned down close to his ear. "I knew you were scared of tickles. And I haven't even gotten to your feet yet."
He stopped giggling immediately. "Not the feet," he groaned, twisting to give you the most genuinely pleading look you'd ever seen on his face. "Jesus Christ. You're pure evil."
You pressed a soft kiss to his neck. "More evil than you?"
You felt him shiver slightly as you brushed your lips over his earlobeâand then you pinched him again.
Trying to learn digital art slowly... Iâve spent almost two days on this :C
Used tracing/study references for practice and added my own details/colors while learning. Iâve always wanted to draw my baby Becca when she was younger with her Orthodox cross âĄ
(and no, itâs not a hickey from PatrickâI tried to make a birthmark lmao)
The idea behind this little drawing is that it was a picture Becca gave Patrick before they parted ways and he left for Harvard.
I also tried drawing Patrick to finish what I've started a year ago...
I hope maybe one day Iâll be able to draw them together properly đ„ș
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
Patrick Bateman x Fem!Reader
NSFW, angst & smut, no daddy kink for this one (lmao).
This is another filler for my Cupcake series. I've had it in my drafts for a long time and finally decided to post it. Also, this song is amazing, I swear!
The bed felt colder than it used toâhis bed, inside his hyper-sterile bedroom. Cold even after the rough sex you'd had. Your body ached from the way he showed his loveâhis cum still leaking inside you with every small movement. You let him have his way with you again. As if it could change anything.
As if it could give him some rest.
His void had been overtaking him more often since you two started seeing each other. You weren't datingânot really. It was more like a mutually beneficial arrangement. He was a good provider and he liked to be one. You gave him physical pleasure and, sometimes, emotional support.
Only when he needed it.
Only on his terms.
Patrick could easily switch you off.
Like he did a moment ago.
You fucked, he finished inside you, he withdrewâin both sensesâphysically and emotionally. No aftercare, but you never really expected any. ButâŠ
Every time he pressed you a little closer while you were pinned beneath him, lying flat on your belly as he ground into you slowly at first, then losing controlâyou thought: that was it.
You tried to cling to that small hope that Patrick needed you. That you had managed to make his mask slip. That you were special.
Thank God he couldn't read your mindâhe would be so fucking agitated, so disgusted by your weakness. Being emotional wasn't a perk these days. You wanted to dissociate, to be as detached as him. That way everything would be so much easier.
Patrick shifted carefully onto his side, pulling you out of your thoughts. His arms found their way around your waist too quickly, nose burying into your neck, breath hot and teasing. You made a soundâsomething between a gasp, a cry, and a sob.
He was awake; you could tell. And he took that sound as one of joy. Amusing. Almost innocent.
"And how long have you been lying like this?" he asked, voice gruff from sleep.
He stayed silent for a moment, then pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your neck, letting his nose skim over your sensitive skin before he wrapped both arms around you, blanketing you in the warmth of his body.
"Did I upset you somehow in my sleep?"
That wasn't funnyânot at allâbut you chuckled anyway.
Asshole.
Even in moments like this, when you were about to burst into tears and yell at him how much you wanted him dead, not existing, erased from your memory completelyâhe always managed to reach right into your heart.
"Cupcake?"
His hard length pressed against your hip when he rolled up slightly to look over your shoulder, as if he could see everything even in the darkness. You didn't replyâbarely holding yourself back from the mess of emotions: rage, hatred, need⊠desperation. Everything mixed together and somehow found its way out through this twisted connection with this man.
Patrick was too eager and stubborn to go without a reactionâhe hated being ignored. You knew it, but you lay silent anyway. He read it as a game: you wanted him to pull it out of you, to coax you open, and he was more than willing to do exactly that. With his lips, his mouth, his cock.
Slowly, he pressed his palm against your lower belly, sliding it down until he cupped your still-wet pussy. A low, husky groan escaped his broad chest faster than he could stop it. You finally opened your eyes and turned to look at himâdim moonlight filtering through the blinds casting soft shadows across the bedroom.
As if everything was staged.
As if the two of you were playing roles in some dark romance film.
Patrick manhandled you too easily, pressing your legs together and bending them exactly where he wanted themâeverything arranged for his own comfort. Then he got to his knees, placing them on either side of you so your ass was perfectly presented.
"You don't get to be silent when I didn't ask you to," he rasped, stroking himself lazily. "I want to hear youâhow much you need me."
"No."
"No?"
He chuckled. The fat tip of his cock prodded at your entrance once, then brushed along your ass cheek before he slipped it back between your folds, coating himself in your juices and the remnants of his cum. His low panting echoed off the walls as his hand moved more feverishly over his cock, leaving slick, filthy sounds behind. He looked down once, then got a handful of your hip, fingers digging mercilessly into your flesh.
"This is almost amusing," he commented, slapping the throbbing length against your hipbone. "Almost."
You thoughtâhopedâthat if you kept lying there passive, giving him nothing, he would lose interest. In reality you were so fucking wrong. It didn't work that way.
You should have known already.
Patrick straddled you, pressing you harder into the mattress, his body heavy and so hot it could burn. You stifled a whimper but it escaped anyway as he pushed himself inside youâonly the tip, but enough to make you bite your lip, his girth stretching you open as if he hadn't already fucked you like it was the last time.
"Again," he urged, leaning close to your face. "Make that sound again."
Your hands clawed at the white wall above the bed, eyes squeezed shut. His teeth grazed your earlobeâalmost painfullyâbefore he actually bit down. You cried out and he buried himself to the hilt, roughly, all the way. You didn't just flinchâyou joltedâbut he kept you trapped beneath him, now fully lying over you, his hips grinding slow, deep circles against your ass.
"Mmh." Half-moan, half-groan as he licked the tears from your cheek. "Fuck, you taste obscene⊠so fucking sweet like this."
Each thrust came with his full weight behind it, using his body to make you feel every stroke, burying himself as deep as he could go. You could barely breathe beneath the press of his muscles. You didn't even notice your mouth had fallen open, saliva gathering at the corners, until he pressed two fingers against your lips and pushed until you almost choked.
"Bad Cupcake," Patrick hissed, lost in his own cruelty. "I want you to feel it⊠what you do to me."
You almost bit his fingers. He ignored it completely, sneaking his other hand beneath you to feel his cock pressing through the wall of your lower belly. He reveled in the way you shivered, whimpered, hands thrashing, trying to grab hold of himâall of it only fueling him to fuck you harder. The filthy sounds of your bodies were enough to leave you deaf. You could swear you heard him laughing inside his head even though he wasn't laughingâhe was groaning, loud, animal, like there was no tomorrow, like he needed to fuck the life out of you. His fingers slipped to your clit, rubbing hard, messy circles while you sucked on his thumb and took his cock like you were made for it.
Patrick Bateman x Fem!Reader
NSFW, angst & smut, no daddy kink for this one (lmao).
This is another filler for my Cupcake series. I've had it in my drafts for a long time and finally decided to post it. Also, this song is amazing, I swear!
The bed felt colder than it used toâhis bed, inside his hyper-sterile bedroom. Cold even after the rough sex you'd had. Your body ached from the way he showed his loveâhis cum still leaking inside you with every small movement. You let him have his way with you again. As if it could change anything.
As if it could give him some rest.
His void had been overtaking him more often since you two started seeing each other. You weren't datingânot really. It was more like a mutually beneficial arrangement. He was a good provider and he liked to be one. You gave him physical pleasure and, sometimes, emotional support.
Only when he needed it.
Only on his terms.
Patrick could easily switch you off.
Like he did a moment ago.
You fucked, he finished inside you, he withdrewâin both sensesâphysically and emotionally. No aftercare, but you never really expected any. ButâŠ
Every time he pressed you a little closer while you were pinned beneath him, lying flat on your belly as he ground into you slowly at first, then losing controlâyou thought: that was it.
You tried to cling to that small hope that Patrick needed you. That you had managed to make his mask slip. That you were special.
Thank God he couldn't read your mindâhe would be so fucking agitated, so disgusted by your weakness. Being emotional wasn't a perk these days. You wanted to dissociate, to be as detached as him. That way everything would be so much easier.
Patrick shifted carefully onto his side, pulling you out of your thoughts. His arms found their way around your waist too quickly, nose burying into your neck, breath hot and teasing. You made a soundâsomething between a gasp, a cry, and a sob.
He was awake; you could tell. And he took that sound as one of joy. Amusing. Almost innocent.
"And how long have you been lying like this?" he asked, voice gruff from sleep.
He stayed silent for a moment, then pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your neck, letting his nose skim over your sensitive skin before he wrapped both arms around you, blanketing you in the warmth of his body.
"Did I upset you somehow in my sleep?"
That wasn't funnyânot at allâbut you chuckled anyway.
Asshole.
Even in moments like this, when you were about to burst into tears and yell at him how much you wanted him dead, not existing, erased from your memory completelyâhe always managed to reach right into your heart.
"Cupcake?"
His hard length pressed against your hip when he rolled up slightly to look over your shoulder, as if he could see everything even in the darkness. You didn't replyâbarely holding yourself back from the mess of emotions: rage, hatred, need⊠desperation. Everything mixed together and somehow found its way out through this twisted connection with this man.
Patrick was too eager and stubborn to go without a reactionâhe hated being ignored. You knew it, but you lay silent anyway. He read it as a game: you wanted him to pull it out of you, to coax you open, and he was more than willing to do exactly that. With his lips, his mouth, his cock.
Slowly, he pressed his palm against your lower belly, sliding it down until he cupped your still-wet pussy. A low, husky groan escaped his broad chest faster than he could stop it. You finally opened your eyes and turned to look at himâdim moonlight filtering through the blinds casting soft shadows across the bedroom.
As if everything was staged.
As if the two of you were playing roles in some dark romance film.
Patrick manhandled you too easily, pressing your legs together and bending them exactly where he wanted themâeverything arranged for his own comfort. Then he got to his knees, placing them on either side of you so your ass was perfectly presented.
"You don't get to be silent when I didn't ask you to," he rasped, stroking himself lazily. "I want to hear youâhow much you need me."
"No."
"No?"
He chuckled. The fat tip of his cock prodded at your entrance once, then brushed along your ass cheek before he slipped it back between your folds, coating himself in your juices and the remnants of his cum. His low panting echoed off the walls as his hand moved more feverishly over his cock, leaving slick, filthy sounds behind. He looked down once, then got a handful of your hip, fingers digging mercilessly into your flesh.
"This is almost amusing," he commented, slapping the throbbing length against your hipbone. "Almost."
You thoughtâhopedâthat if you kept lying there passive, giving him nothing, he would lose interest. In reality you were so fucking wrong. It didn't work that way.
You should have known already.
Patrick straddled you, pressing you harder into the mattress, his body heavy and so hot it could burn. You stifled a whimper but it escaped anyway as he pushed himself inside youâonly the tip, but enough to make you bite your lip, his girth stretching you open as if he hadn't already fucked you like it was the last time.
"Again," he urged, leaning close to your face. "Make that sound again."
Your hands clawed at the white wall above the bed, eyes squeezed shut. His teeth grazed your earlobeâalmost painfullyâbefore he actually bit down. You cried out and he buried himself to the hilt, roughly, all the way. You didn't just flinchâyou joltedâbut he kept you trapped beneath him, now fully lying over you, his hips grinding slow, deep circles against your ass.
"Mmh." Half-moan, half-groan as he licked the tears from your cheek. "Fuck, you taste obscene⊠so fucking sweet like this."
Each thrust came with his full weight behind it, using his body to make you feel every stroke, burying himself as deep as he could go. You could barely breathe beneath the press of his muscles. You didn't even notice your mouth had fallen open, saliva gathering at the corners, until he pressed two fingers against your lips and pushed until you almost choked.
"Bad Cupcake," Patrick hissed, lost in his own cruelty. "I want you to feel it⊠what you do to me."
You almost bit his fingers. He ignored it completely, sneaking his other hand beneath you to feel his cock pressing through the wall of your lower belly. He reveled in the way you shivered, whimpered, hands thrashing, trying to grab hold of himâall of it only fueling him to fuck you harder. The filthy sounds of your bodies were enough to leave you deaf. You could swear you heard him laughing inside his head even though he wasn't laughingâhe was groaning, loud, animal, like there was no tomorrow, like he needed to fuck the life out of you. His fingers slipped to your clit, rubbing hard, messy circles while you sucked on his thumb and took his cock like you were made for it.
Patrick Bateman x Fem!Reader / Masterlist / Song Rec
The morning after, Cupcake wakes alone in Patrickâs apartment with one reckless spark of defiance. What feels like a small act of rebellion quickly reminds her exactly who sets the rules. Some tastes are sweet. Others are pure venom.
Tags: NSFW, smut, vaginal sex, oral sex (f), creampie, clothing fetish, Patrick being possessive and sassy, daddy kink, praise kink, dirty talk, finger sucking, overstimulation, slight choking, spanking, pet names.
Notes (2026 Edition): Hello, everyone! A new, revised chapter is here! Sorry for the wait. My life has been chaotic and hectic lately, and I've had to deal with a lot, but I appreciate your patience and support!
The next morning you woke to a pounding headache and a wave of nausea that rolled through your stomach like bad whiskey. Patrick was already goneâoff to work, no doubt in one of his perfectly tailored Armani suits, leaving the apartment eerily quiet. You'd have to call Mrs. Nelson and invent some excuse for why you weren't at your desk today. Fucking bastard. He always dragged you into these messes, then vanished like nothing happened.
On the other hand⊠this was the first time he'd ever left you alone in his place. No locked doors, no warnings, no hovering. That meant either he actually trusted you (hilarious thought) or he had nothing left to hide (even more laughable). You doubted both. Your head throbbed so violently you nearly vomited right there, but you forced yourself upright. On the bedside table sat a small bottle of Evianâplaced there deliberately, of course. You scoffed under your breath, uncapped it, and drank like you'd been wandering the desert for days. The digital clock on the nightstand blurred into doubles; you couldn't even make out the time. Even opening your eyes hurt. A fresh spike of fear cut through the fog: what the hell had he slipped into that wine last night?
Lost in those spiraling thoughts, you drifted back into uneasy sleep.
When you woke again, the nausea had dulled to a low simmer, and the room had stopped spinning quite so badly. Sunlight sliced through the half-closed blinds in sharp white linesâlate morning, maybe noon. Patrick still wasn't back. The apartment felt too still, too perfect, like a museum exhibit waiting for you to disturb it.
You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet meeting cool hardwood. Naked and shivering slightly in the air-conditioned chill, you eyed the open walk-in closet across the room. Rows of identical navy and charcoal suits hung in perfect orderâArmani, Valentino, Ermenegildo Zegnaâall pressed and spaced with military precision. Shelves of polished John Lobb shoes, stacks of crisp white shirts. A faint, clean scent lingered in the airâsomething sharp and expensive, like the Paul Sebastian cologne he sometimes wore or the faint trace of his grooming products.
A petty impulse hit you, sharp and satisfying. If he was going to treat you like a possession, you'd remind him you could still push back. You stepped inside, deliberately bypassing the folded sleep shirts on a lower shelf, and reached for one of his dress shirts instead: a crisp white cotton Armani, the kind with the narrow pleated front bib he favored. You slipped it on slowly, rolling the sleeves to your elbows, leaving the top few buttons undone so it draped loose and oversized on your frame. The fabric smelled like himâfresh laundry, a hint of cedarwood musk from whatever cologne lingered on the collar. You caught your reflection in the mirrored doors: disheveled hair, bruised throat peeking from the open neckline, the shirt swallowing you whole.
You wanted him to come home and see it. See you in his clothes without permission. See the small act of defiance. Maybe it'd piss him offâmake him snap, prove he didn't own every inch of you.
But as you moved through the apartment, the satisfaction curdled into something else.
Drawn by the memory of that small box you'd glimpsed months ago, you padded to the kitchen first. It contained old Polaroids of a smiling woman who wasn't you, hidden in one of the cabinets like an afterthought.
The box was gone.
You opened every drawer and cabinet in the kitchen island anywayânothing. No photos, no hidden letters, no trace. Either he'd moved it, or you'd imagined the whole thing in your hungover haze. Your stomach twistedânot just from the drugs, but from the realization that he was always one step ahead.
You moved to the tall pantry closet next to the Sub-Zero refrigerator. The door opened smoothly, revealing neat rows of Le Creuset cookware and unopened wine bottlesâmostly premier cru Bordeaux and those same Puligny-Montrachet whites he loved to pour. But on the bottom shelf, half-hidden behind a stack of Williams-Sonoma cutting boards, sat a black plastic chainsaw case. Your breath caught. You didn't touch itâjust stared. The label was pristine, unused. Next to it: a folded raincoat, still in dry-cleaner plastic, and a pair of heavy-duty work gloves. Exactly like the things he'd mentioned once in passing, casual as if discussing weekend plans.
You closed the door quietly, heart hammering.
Then, you returned to the walk-in closet and remembered something: on the lower shelf, behind a row of silk ties, you spotted a sleek black box.
You lifted the lid.
Inside: a collection of knivesâWĂŒsthof, Henckels, one antique-looking straight razor with a pearl handle. Below them, a small velvet pouch spilled open to reveal a realistic dildo (flesh-toned, veined, intimidatingly large), a sleek silver bullet vibrator, and several pairs of women's pantiesâlace, silk, cotton. None of them were yours. The fabrics smelled faintly of laundry detergent and something muskier, older. A faint floral perfume clung to one pairâdefinitely not your scent.
Your hands shook as you closed the box and slid it back exactly where you'd found it. He kept trophies. Or reminders. Or both.
The petty rebellion in wearing his shirt suddenly felt childishâsmall and exposed. He'd see it the second he walked in, yes. But now you weren't sure if anger was the reaction you wanted. What if he liked it? What if he saw it as proof you were already hisâslipping into his things, marking yourself with his scent, his brand? The thought made your skin crawl, but heat pooled low in your belly anyway.
Panic clawed up your throat, but you forced it down. If he came home and found the closet disturbedâeven slightlyâhe'd know. He always knew. Better to cover your tracks with something domestic, something that looked like obedience.
You headed back to the kitchen, still wearing the stolen shirt like a dare you were already regretting.
He'd smell the cooking the second he walked in. He'd see the clean counters, the warm plate waiting on the island. He'd see you in his shirtâmaybe smirk, maybe pull you close by the collar, maybe whisper how pretty you looked marked as his.
âŠ
A little bit later, the click of the front door opening snapped you out of your thoughts. You were standing at the kitchen island, sliding the finished frittata onto a warm plate, when Patrick's footsteps echoed down the hallwayâsteady, unhurried, earlier than you'd expected. Your stomach flipped. You hadn't planned on him walking in quite yet, but there was no time to second-guess. You straightened the collar of his stolen Armani shirt, letting it hang loose and unbuttoned just enough to look accidental, and forced your breathing to even out.
âWell, hello, Cupcake.â
His voice rolled over you like dark velvet as he stepped into the open-plan kitchen. He looked flawless despite the long dayâcharcoal suit still crisp, tie loosened by a single finger's width, the faint sheen of late-afternoon light catching the gold of his Rolex as he set his briefcase on the bar counter.
âHey,â you said softly, turning to face him.
His gaze dropped immediatelyânot to your face, but to the shirt. The white cotton draped over your bare thighs, sleeves rolled to your elbows, the top buttons undone so the collar framed the faint bruises on your throat. You saw the exact moment recognition hit: his pupils dilated, mouth curving into something slow and dangerous.
You swallowed, letting guilt color your voice just enough to sell it. âO-oh⊠Iâm sorry. I shouldnât have taken this without asking.â
Patrick didnât move at first. He simply watched you from the other side of the island, arms loose at his sides, expression unreadable except for the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.
âI can take it off if you wantââ
âNo.â The word came out sharp, almost too quick. He pointed one long finger at the shirtâhis shirtâstill clinging to your skin. âLeave it like that.â
He started toward you then, slow and deliberate, each step measured. Your heart kicked hard against your ribs. You kept your eyes on him, letting them widen just a fraction, playing the part of the caught girl who didnât quite know what sheâd started.
He looked perfect, as alwaysâmaybe a touch tired around the eyes from whatever endless meetings had kept him at Pierce & Pierce, but still immaculate. The devil in bespoke tailoring.
âPatrick,â you said, voice lighter now, almost bright, âI made something very tasty for you.â
His low chuckle vibrated through the space between you. âWhat is it?â That deep, masculine timbre slid over your skin like a physical touch. âDo you mean your sweet little pussy?â
The bluntness stole your breath. You turned fully toward him, cheeks heating on cue as he closed the last few feet and stopped right beside you. His eyes were midnight-dark now, pupils blown, locked on yours with that hypnotic intensity that always made your thoughts scatter.
âIââ You let yourself stutter, just a little, glancing down at the plate. âI made a frittata. Low-calorie one.â
He tilted his head, studying you like you were a puzzle heâd already solved. âAre you really trying to pretend youâre that innocent? Standing here half-naked, âcookingâ in my shirt?â
A soft, disbelieving laugh escaped him. Before you could answer, his hands were on your hipsâfirm, possessiveâand he spun you gently but decisively, backing you against the bar counter. The edge pressed into your lower back. He cupped your face with both hands, thumbs brushing your cheekbones, and kissed you hard.
You knew what to do. You melted into it, playing along like youâd been waiting for this exact moment. Your fingers curled into the lapels of his suit jacket, soft moan vibrating against his mouth.
âMmmâDaddyâŠâ
The single word flipped a switch. Patrick broke the kiss with a low growl, smirking as he inhaled the scent at the curve of your neckâhis cologne on his shirt on your skin.
âMissed me?â he rasped against your ear, voice rougher now. âTell me what you want, Cupcake. What do you want Daddy to do to you?â
You turned your head just enough to let your cheek brush his, letting the tension coil visibly in your body. His mouth found your neckâwet, open-mouthed kisses trailing down to your collarboneâwhile his hips pressed forward, the hard ridge of his erection grinding against your mound through the thin fabric of your panties and his shirt.
âTell me,â he murmured, breath hot against your skin. âDo you want me to eat this pretty pussy? Is that what my good girlâs been waiting for all day?â
To punctuate the question, his large palm slid between your legs, cupping you firmly. His thumb found your clit through the damp cotton and began slow, deliberate circles. The pressure was perfectâgentle enough to tease, firm enough to make your knees weaken.
You bit your lip hard to stifle the moan that wanted to spill out, fingers digging into his shoulders.
He kissed your neck again, then lifted his head to meet your eyes. One hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb tracing your lower lip.
âMy sweet girl,â he crooned, voice soft and almost tender as he squeezed your cheeks just enough to make your lips part. âYouâll get exactly what you want⊠but first, I canât leave these perfect tits without the attention they deserve.â
Patrick looked smug as ever as he began unbuttoning the Armani shirt youâd stolenâhis shirtâslowly, deliberately, like he was unwrapping a gift heâd already claimed. You didnât dare interrupt; your breathing came in heavy, ragged gasps, chest rising and falling under his gaze. When his snow-white teeth grazed one sensitive nipple, then bit down just hard enough, a sob tore out of you.
âOhâGodââ
He purred against your soft skin, leaving a wet trail of small, bruising hickeys down your cleavage before taking both peaks into his hot mouth at once. His huge palms squeezed your breasts together, kneading roughly while his tongue flicked and sucked. A pitiful wail slipped from your lips; you tilted your head back, trembling helplessly in the cage of his strong arms.
âDaddy⊠a-ah,â you gasped, fingers digging into his right bicep like it was the only thing keeping you afloat. âIt feels⊠so⊠good.â
âAnd whatâll you say when I fuck you senseless?â he murmured, voice low and filthy.
He didnât wait for an answer.
In one effortless motion he lifted you like you weighed nothing and set you on the bar counter behind you. His hands roamed constantlyâpossessive, greedyâsqueezing your waist, tracing the curve of your hips, petting every soft inch he could reach. Then those same hands gripped your thighs and spread your legs wide, opening you completely for him.
Heat flooded your face instantly. You looked up at him through wide, innocent eyesâplaying the part he lovedâwhile his own gaze burned with raw lust, pupils blown black.
He groaned like a starved animal, leaned in for a sloppy, devouring kiss, then dropped lower until his face was level with your dripping core.
Patrick licked his lips, slow and hungry. âMmm⊠my precious girl.â
He hooked your soaked panties to the side and dove in without hesitation. His tongue was masterfulâprecise, relentlessâlapping at your folds, circling your clit with perfect pressure, sucking just hard enough to make your toes curl. There was nothing left to do but moan his name over and over, hips twitching helplessly in his iron grip.
Your desperate little cries were music to him; every squirm, every arch toward his mouth made his cock throb painfully against the confines of his trousers. He muttered something filthy and unintelligible against your clitâthe vibration hit like an electric shock, sending shivers racing through your whole body. The sweet, building rapture coiled tighter by the second, ready to snap.
âCupcakeâŠâ His gruff voice suddenly cut through the haze, pulling you back. âCupcake, look at me.â
You obeyedâand immediately regretted it.
His face was flushed, hair completely wrecked from your fingers and his own frantic movements. Those dark eyes locked on yours while his tongue flicked mercilessly over your swollen clit. The sight alone made your inner walls spasm violently; tears pricked hot at the corners of your eyes.
Right then he slid both hands under your lower back, lifting your hips slightly off the counter to angle you even better against his mouth.
âCupcake,â he rasped again, softer this time but no less commanding. âI want you to look at me.â
âI canâtââ you whimpered, voice cracking.
âJust do it for me, baby.â He pressed a slow, soothing kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. âLet Daddy see that pretty face when you come.â
âDaddyâI canâtâitâs too much,â you choked out, thighs trembling around his head. âItâs just⊠too much for me.â
He hummed against you, the sound vibrating straight through your core, and kept goingâtongue never stopping, eyes never leaving yoursâlike he was daring you to fall apart while he watched every second of it.
âOh, I know, Cupcake,â Patrick murmured, smirking as he watched your face twist. His long fingers toyed lazily with your clitâslow circles, just enough pressure to keep you on the edge without letting you tip over. âYou want me to ground you a bit?â
You noddedâquick, desperateâand gave him that wide, innocent look you knew drove him insane. It worked. His eyes darkened instantly.
With one smooth motion he slid his thumb past your lips, pressing it against your tongue. âSuck,â he ordered quietly, then went right back to devouring your dripping cunt, face buried so deep his cheeks glistened with your slick.
âA-ahh⊠P-PatâŠâ You tried to keep your eyes on him, sucking hard on his thumb like it was the last shred of control you had left. He never broke eye contactâthose dark, unblinking eyes locked on yours while his tongue flicked mercilessly over your swollen clit, sucking with wet, obscene pulls.
âMmm.â He tugged your clit between his lips with a filthy pop, voice low and amused. âYou taste expensive, sweetheart.â
You were shaking, thighs trembling around his head. âD-Daddy⊠ahhââ
The word alone made his hips twitch against the counter. He growled something low and unintelligible against your folds, the vibration ripping through you like current. Your inner walls clenched hard; tears pricked hot at the corners of your eyes as the orgasm built too fast, too bright.
He didnât let upâkept licking, sucking, prolonging every pulse until your vision whited out. Stars burst behind your eyelids, then nothing but a blinding veil. You gasped desperately for air, mouth open, body limp against the counter.
But Patrick wasnât done.
You barely registered how you ended up bent over the kitchen islandâass arched, cheek pressed to cool glass, his body caging you from behind. The memory was hazy, overwritten by the sound of his zipper coming down.
âFuck, Cupcake,â he growled through gritted teeth, shrugging off his jacket and yanking his tie loose in one impatient motion. âLook at this pretty little body. Practically begging to be used.â
He bit his lower lipâhardâas he lined himself up, thick head nudging your swollen entrance. One slow, deliberate push and he bottomed out, stretching you to the point of ache and bliss in equal measure. The wet, filthy sound of him filling you echoed in the kitchen.
âAwâP-Patrick⊠ahhââ
âShhhhit,â he hissed, eyes fluttering shut for a second as he savored the tight heat. âYou take me so fucking well. Like you were made for it.â
Then he started movingâhard, relentless thrusts that slammed your hips into the counter edge. Flesh slapped against flesh, loud and obscene, filling the entire apartment.
âD-Daddyâahhh! Slow downâpleaseâŠâ
He laughedâlow, dark, almost pityingâwithout breaking rhythm. âSlow down?â His hand slid up your spine, fingers curling around the back of your neck, pinning you in place. âYou donât get to make requests, sweetheart. You get to take it. And youâre going to take every inch until I decide youâve earned a break.â
His other hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise, pulling you back onto him with every punishing drive. âThatâs it. Cry for me if you want. It only makes me harder.â
You forgot how to breathe for a second. Your mouth fell open in a silent, frozen moan as your overstimulated walls started throbbing again. No time to recover from the last orgasm; the next one was already coiling low and vicious in your gut.
âIâIâm gonnaâahhhââ You twisted to look back at him, words breaking on every brutal snap of his hips against your cervix. âDaddy, Iâm gonna come⊠awww.â
âYou love being fucked like this, donât you? Reduced to a whining, dripping mess. Tell me. Say it.â
It was almost impossible to speakâevery thrust punched the air from your lungsâbut you knew he wouldnât let it go.
âYeah⊠yes⊠I do⊠oh my GodâŠâ
âShit,â he hissed, teeth flashing in a sharp grin. âYouâre clenching so fucking hard around me⊠I hope youâre still on the pill, because Iâm about to fill this tight little cunt until itâs overflowing.â He gritted his perfect white teeth, pace turning punishing. âYou. Are. Mine. Cupcake.â
Each word landed with a deep, rough thrust.
You moanedâloud, brokenâas the knot in your belly finally snapped.
Pleasure ripped through you, white-hot and merciless; his thick cock kept stretching you through every spasm, dragging the orgasm out until it felt like bliss and torment at once.
âP-PatâPatrick!â you cried, body jolting, fingers scrabbling uselessly at the smooth surface.
He held your neck in a firm grip, squeezing just enough to keep you exactly where he wanted you. His heavy balls slapped against your tender skin as he chased his own release.
âF-fuckâŠâ
With a guttural sound he buried himself to the hilt and came hardâhot pulses flooding deep inside you, plugging you full.
He stayed there, twitching, letting every drop stay buried.
You both gasped for air, minds blank, bodies trembling.
After a long moment Patrick eased his hold, pressing lazy kisses along your neck before letting you slump forward onto the cold marble counter. Slowly he pulled out, eyes dropping to the mess heâd madeâhis cum leaking from your swollen, ruined pussy. Still smirking, he spread your cheeks with both hands, admiring the sight like it was a masterpiece. You were shaking too hard to move, let alone protest.
A sudden, sharp slap landed on your ass. You hissed, barely audible, and twisted to look at him.
Patrick stood by the fridge now, arms crossed over his wide chest, looking utterly composed despite the sweat on his brow and the undone shirt hanging open.
âSo,â he said casually, âwhat was that dish you made? I think Iâm ready to try it now.â He stepped closer, voice dropping to that low, amused drawl. âIt canât possibly be as tasty as you, but Iâm starving.â
He delivered a few more lazy spanksâlighter this time, almost playfulâthen leaned against the counter beside you, watching as you struggled to stand on wobbly legs.
Cursing under your breath, you wondered how anyone could be so exhausting, so relentless. But then the thought hit: it was Patrick. Heâd always been like this. He always would be.
With as much composure as you could muster, you straightened the rumpled white Armani shirt clinging to your sweat-damp skin and turned to face him.
âOne moment, Daddy.â
You turned to the stove, legs still unsteady, and carefully plated the frittataâgolden edges, flecked with chives and bacon, still warm from the oven. You set it in front of him on the island, along with a fork and a linen napkin folded just so, the way youâd seen him do it himself a hundred times.
Patrick watched every movement with that lazy, predatory interest, then slid onto one of the bar stools. He took a biteâslow, deliberateâchewing like he was judging a five-star restaurant.
âNot bad,â he said after a moment, nodding once. âAlmost edible.â
You managed a small, shaky smile, leaning against the counter opposite him to steady yourself. The shirt rode up your thighs; you tugged it down self-consciously.
He took another bite, then set the fork down and fixed you with that calm, unblinking stare.
âHowâs your father doing, by the way?â The question came out casual, almost bored, as if he were asking about the weather. âLast I heard, the treatments were going well.â
Your stomach dropped. You hadnât mentioned your dad in weeksânot since the hospital bills were paid. The fact that he was bringing it up now, so casually, sent ice through your veins.
âHeâs⊠stable,â you said carefully, forcing your voice to stay even. âDoing better. Thank you again forâfor helping with that.â
Patrick hummed, cutting another piece of frittata.
âGood. Familyâs important.â He chewed, swallowed, then tilted his head. âAnd your therapist? When was your last session?â
The question landed like a slap. Your breath caught. You hadnât told him about therapyânot recently, not since the early days when youâd let slip too much in a moment of weakness. How did he...
âI⊠havenât been in a while,â you said quietly, eyes dropping to the counter. âItâs been busy.â
He nodded slowly, like heâd expected the answer. âI know a good one. Top-tier. Discreet. I could pay for itâcover the sessions, the commute, whatever you need.â His tone was almost kind, almost concerned. âYouâve been under a lot of stress lately. It shows.â
Your pulse hammered in your ears. It wasnât concernâit was control. A reminder that he knew everything: your fatherâs illness, your breakdowns, your secrets. And he could fix them⊠or withhold them.
âIâll⊠think about it,â you managed, voice small.
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Childhood friends to lovers to something far more dangerous.
Becca Rice grew up alongside Patrick Batemanâthrough the golden Newport summers, the cruel nicknames, the stolen panties, the violence, the mutilations, and the long years of silence.
Chapter 2: A gala, a speech, and a name she wasnât expecting to hear again. Some people change. Some people only get better at hiding what they are.
Tags: Slow Burn, Dark Romance, Toxic Relationship, Biracial Character, Russian Culture, POV First Person, Mental Health Issues, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Obsession, AO3.
A/N: Hey, guys! Thank you so much for your comments and support of this story! I am very gratefulâit means a lot!
Spring, 1986
The two weeks after that night at Pastels flew by in a blur of gallery meetings, late nights cataloguing new acquisitions, and the familiar ache in my shoulders from hunching over provenance files. I told myself I hadnât thought about Bateman much.Â
Not really.
The name slipped into my head sometimesâsharp and unwelcomeâbut I pushed it away like a half-finished sketch I didnât want to look at. I had work. I had routines. I had the quiet comfort of my Russian icons watching over me from the shelf. Two weeks was enough time to convince myself the man Iâd seen at the Met had only been a trick of the light, or a stranger with a similar jawline.
People changed. Masks improved.
I almost believed it.
Until Friday evening, when Mama called.
âRebecca, darling, youâre coming with us tomorrow night,â she said without preamble, her voice warm but laced with that steel she reserved for family obligations. âThe renovation opening at the business school. Your father has been working on this for months. Itâs important.â
I pinched the bridge of my nose, phone cradled between my ear and shoulder while I tried to finish labelling a set of early Repin prints. âMama, I have plansââ
âYou always have plans,â she interrupted gently. âThis time youâre making time. Your father needs the family there. Mark will be coming too.â
Mark. Of course. My little brother had been working at Pierce & Pierce for almost two years nowâsome junior analyst or associate role he never talked about in detail. He was proud of it in that quiet, ambitious way of his, but he still lived in the same modest apartment in Murray Hill and complained about the hours like any normal person.
âAnd Iâve already prepared a few words for you to say,â Mama continued, as if that settled everything. âNothing long. Just a short thank-you on behalf of the family. Youâre good at these things, solnyshko (sunshine).â
I closed my eyes. The Russian endearment usually softened me, but tonight it felt like a gentle trap closing. âMama, I really donâtââ
âRebecca Grace Rice.â Her tone shiftedâsoft but final. âYour father has done a great deal for that institution. The least we can do is show support. BesidesâŠâ She paused, and I could almost see her tilting her head the way she did when she was reading me too well. âYouâve been a little off lately. Quiet. Distracted. Is everything all right?â
The question landed like a small stone in still water. I hated how easily she noticed. Mama had always been like thatâpart Russian intuition, part motherly radar. She could spot a crack in my armor from three boroughs away.
âIâm fine,â I said automatically. âJust tired. Work has been busy.â
A thoughtful hum travelled down the line. âIf you say so. But you will come tomorrow. Wear the white Gucci suitâthe one with the subtle pinstripes. It makes you look professional and elegant. And please, try to smile. For your father.â
I exhaled through my nose, already knowing Iâd lost. âYes, Mama.â
âGood girl. Weâll pick you up at six-thirty. Donât be late.â
She hung up before I could offer any more excuses.
I stared at the phone for a long moment, then looked over at the nightstand. Patrickâs photograph still sat there, face up, his wrong smile staring at the ceiling. I hadnât been able to put it away. Every night I told myself I would, and every night I left it exactly where it was.
Two weeks. I had almost convinced myself it was nothing.
Now I was being dragged to some business school gala where Iâd have to make polite conversation and deliver a speech I hadnât even written. Perfect.
I dressed on autopilot the next evening.
The white Gucci suit came out of its garment bag like a verdict: sharp shoulders, clean lines, the kind of armor that reassured donors and trustees you were serious, tasteful, and utterly harmless. I buttoned the jacket, studied myself in the mirror, and tried on a few different versions of my faceâpolite, engaged, mildly impressed. Nothing too sincere.
The photograph on the nightstand stayed exactly where it was. I avoided looking at it while I did my makeup, but the awareness of it lingered at the edge of my vision like something dead in the road you decide not to examine too closely.
By six-twenty I was perched on the arm of my sofa, clutch in my lap, listening for the elevator. The apartment felt smaller on evenings like this, my books and sketches and Russian icons suddenly juvenile next to the life my parents preferred to present to the world.
They arrived at six-thirty-two, which meant Mama would be in a good mood and Papa would complain about traffic. Both expectations were met. He kissed my cheek briskly, already halfway into a conversation about endowments and capital campaigns. Mama stepped back to inspect me, tugged a stray hair into place, and gave a satisfied nod.
âBeautiful,â she said. âThey will eat you up.â
âIâm not on the menu,â I muttered. She caught it, of course, and rolled her eyes in that practiced, glamorous way sheâd perfected somewhere between Moscow and Midtown.
The car ride uptown blurred into a stream of my fatherâs monologue about trustees and my motherâs low reminders about names I should remember. Buildings slid past the window with that glossy, damp sheen Manhattan gets after a late-afternoon drizzle. I watched my own reflection instead. The suit looked expensive. The woman in it looked like she belonged.
Inside, something small and feral paced.
The gala sprawled across the renovated lobby of the business school: glass and steel, aggressively modern lighting. Champagne flutes sailed past on silver trays. Men in dark suits clustered in neat, identical knots. Women in jewel tones laughed a little too brightly. A jazz quartet in the corner produced tasteful, unobtrusive noise.
I stepped into the room and felt the familiar shiftâmy spine straightening, my expression smoothing into something magazine-ready. This was performance art. Everyone knew their role.
âRebecca.â
My fatherâs hand settled against the small of my back, steering me toward a group near a donor plaque. Names were etched into the metal in smug serif fonts. A dean, two law firm partners, someone from a bank. I smiled, shook hands, said the right things about how inspiring the renovation looked. They praised the Met in return as if it were my personal achievement.
At some point I became aware that I was scanning the crowd.
It started as a habitâlooking for Markâs face, his familiar freckles, the slightly too-soft tie he usually wore. But the longer my eyes drifted, the more single-minded the search became. Shoulders. Profiles. A head of medium-brown hair at the bar that made my heart slam once, stupidly hard, before the man turned and the jawline was wrong.
I told myself I was simply checking the room the way I always did: lighting, art, potential donors. My pulse didnât get the memo.
âHave you seen your brother?â Mama asked under her breath, refilling her champagne. âHe said he was coming straight from work.â
âProbably buried under spreadsheets,â I said. The joke came out thinner than I meant. She darted a quick, assessing look at me, then released me with a little wave.
âGo find him. And be readyâthey want you at the podium after the dean.â
I wove through the crowd, pausing when required to acknowledge acquaintances and nod at someoneâs wife I half-remembered from a Christmas party. Conversations washed over me: arbitrage, leveraged buyouts, the Yankees. Everything sounded like white noise tuned to money.
He saw me first. His face lit up with that real, unguarded grin that still made him look twelve for a split second. He excused himself and crossed the space in a few quick strides.
We huggedâbrief, careful, but enough to make my chest unclench a fraction. Up close he looked tired, a little wired around the eyes.
âYou look very official,â I said, adjusting his tie out of habit. âDid they promote you to human, or are you still property of Pierce & Pierce?â
He laughed and rubbed the back of his neck, launching into something self-deprecating about eighty-hour weeks. Then his voice dropped conspiratorially.
âYouâre going to be surprised who Iâm working with.â
A thin, unpleasant thread unspooled along my spine.
âWho?â I asked.
Mark tipped his chin toward the small group he had left behind. âBateman. Patrick Bateman. Ring any bells?â
The sound in the room warped.
The air seemed to thin by half an inch. The chatter and clinking of glasses continued, but everything slid slightly out of focus at the edges, as if I were watching a badly tuned television.
I followed the direction of Markâs nod slowly, deliberately, buying myself an extra heartbeat or two.
âHey, are you zoning out?â Mark asked, sounding concerned. âI know itâs been a while since we used to spend time togetherââ
âStopââ I gritted my teeth.
âI havenât said anything,â he cut in, laughing. âPierce & Pierce is huge. No one here knows you couldâve built sandcastles with someone you work with now.â
He took a sip of his scotch and licked his lips just as deliberate footsteps clicked behind us.
âSo, your father arranged all of this?â a familiar male voice asked.
We both turned at the same time.
Patrick Bateman stood there with a gorgeous, elegant blonde on his armâthe same woman Iâd seen him with at the Met weeks ago.
âNot bad,â Patrick said, scanning the room with a smug little smile. âVery chivalrous of him. Everyone has to start somewhere.â His gaze settled on me. âRice.â
The way he said my surname was mocking, but deeper now. More mature. More masculine than I remembered from high school.
âOh, Iâve listened to your lectures at the Met!â the blonde exclaimed suddenly, her face lighting up. âThey were fantastic! I never thought Iâd be so fascinated by Russian art.â She offered me her hand, grinning widely. âIâm Evelyn. Evelyn Williams.â
I stood frozen.
My blood turned to ice. My nails dug into my palms.
âMark Rice,â my brother chimed in quickly. âAnd this is my lovely older sister, Rebeccaââ
âRebecca Troublemaker Rice,â Patrick interrupted, his lips curling, eyes bright with something aggressive and pleased.
The word Troublemaker slid between us like a razor.
For a second I watched his mouth rather than heard the rest of the sentenceâthe way his lips shaped the syllables, how satisfied he looked with himself. There it was: Newport, age twelve, freckles and blood and broken shells, compressed into three neat words in a business school lobby.
I did not offer my hand.
Evelynâs hand stayed suspended in the air for a moment, pale and manicured, before she recovered and smoothed it over her skirt instead. She laughed, high and tinkling, glancing between Patrick and me as if sheâd walked into the middle of a joke she didnât quite understand but very much wanted to join.
âOh, so you two go way back,â she said. âIsnât that charming?â
Charming.
Mark barked an eager little laugh, grateful for the cue. âYeah, our parents have houses in Newport. Summers, you know. Sean and Iââ
Patrick tilted his head slightly, eyes still locked on me. Everyone else might have thought he was listening to Mark. I knew better. There was a weight to that stare I remembered from much closer distances: behind tree trunks, through cracked doors, up from under the dock as my legs dangled in the water.
He had filled out. The boyish sharpness had hardened into something more deliberate. The Valentino suit sat on him as if it had been tailored to his bones. His slicked-back, immaculate hair framed a face that could have been in a cologne adâif I hadn't known what he was capable of.
âRebecca Rice from the Met,â Evelyn murmured, beaming again, as though repetition could force me back into motion. âI dragged Patrick to that lecture you did on⊠what was it? The Itinerants? Those gloomy Russians with the peasants and the mud.â
Her hand rested on his forearm in that practiced, proprietary way. Patrick shifted just enough that her fingers nearly slid off before she readjusted. The tiny rejection sent something unpleasantly warm coiling low in my stomach.
He finally broke eye contact and glanced down at her. âTheyâre not gloomy, Evelyn. Theyâre socially conscious.â The way he stated itâdroll, almost affectionateâtold me heâd memorized the phrase, probably from my notes. His gaze flicked back to me. âIsnât that right, Rice?â
My brother, sweet idiot that he was, looked between the three of us like he was watching a tennis match. âBecca works on that stuff all day.â He nudged my elbow. âTell them about that painting with the guy and theââ
Evelyn giggled too loudly, half a beat late. She watched him like he hung the moon. Or the stock prices. Patrickâs attention tracked me through the entire practiced spiel. That focus had always unnerved me, even when we were kids. Other men in this room looked through women. He watched as though cataloguing me, as though I might later be reconstructed from whatever data he collected.
âYour father must be proud,â he croonedâtone smooth as the scotch in Markâs glass. âThe Met, a speech tonight⊠quite an ascent for the girl who used to fall off the dock every summer.â
A faint line appeared between Evelynâs brows. âYou pushed her, didnât you?â she teased, looking up at him. âThatâs the kind of thing you would do.â
His smile widened, but his eyes stayed flat. âAllegedly.â
The summer flashed before my eyes in a staccato slideshow: water in my lungs, his hand on my ankle, the snap of a porcelain doll's neck in his grip while I screamed. Suddenly, the lobbyâs air conditioning felt too aggressive, licking cold down the back of my neck.
âPatty,â Mark said fondly, clapping Patrick on the shoulder, completely oblivious to the way my spine stiffened at the nickname coming from someone elseâs mouth. âHe probably saved Becca from drowning, honestly. She was alwaysââ
âCareless,â Patrick supplied. That bright, hungry glint flashed in his eyes, there and gone. âDistracted. You still are.â
I forced myself to look directly at him, past the suit, past the carefully curated tan and the watch peeking out from his cuff. Close up, his skin looked almost unreal, poreless. His cologneâ expensive, citrusy, sharpâthreaded through the sterile chill of the room.
The freckles on my own hands stood out sharply against the bloodless grip I had on my clutch. One of us wore our imperfections openly. The other hid his beneath Valentino and Rolex.
Somewhere behind me, a microphone screeched softly as someone tapped it. The deanâs voice boomed, calling people to gather for the remarks. Conversations around us began to knot and drift toward the podium.
Evelyn brightened. âWe should get seats near the front,â she said to Patrick. Then, turning to me with eager politeness: âYouâre speaking after the dean, right? I canât wait to hear you. Youâre so⊠passionate up there.â
Patrickâs eyes skimmed lazily over my face, down the line of the suit, pausing at the open V of the lapel where my skin showed. His gaze snagged for a heartbeat on the tiny beauty mark above my collarbone. I could practically feel itâthe weight of his attention touching that spot.
âDonât be nervous,â he murmured. âYou always did enjoy an audience.â
The implication hung there, sharp and private, disguised as a compliment. Mark smiled at it anyway.They began to drift toward the gathering crowd. Evelyn latched onto Patrickâs arm again, already pointing out some deanâs wifeâs dress.Â
Mark fell into step beside them, glancing back at me. âYou coming?â
Patrick didnât wait for my answer. As he pivoted away, his hand brushed the back of my wrist â no accident, too precise. Barely a touch, more of a suggestion, but the contact sparked up my arm like an electric current.
He leaned in just enough that his breath ghosted my ear, his words submerged beneath the deanâs amplified welcome, meant only for me.
âTry not to be boring for once, Rice.â
Then he was gone, swallowed by the sea of suits and silk, leaving me standing at the edge with my heart hammering and the faint scent of citrus lodged in my throat like a swallowed seed.
I knew my mother would give the most pompous and grotesque speech imaginableâall about how generous and kind my father was, how his mind was always occupied with thoughts of charity. Half of it was even true. But I didnât have the mental energy to dwell on it.
I had a much bigger problem now. One named Patrick Bateman, who was watching me from his seat as I stood on the small podium with a stupid microphone in my hand.
âGood evening, ladies and gentlemen,â I began in the practiced tone I used for art presentations. âFirst, I want to thank everyone for coming here tonight.â
My brother winked at me when I glanced his way. He sat with my parents, both of them radiating pride. A hush fell over the room in stages, the way a stain spreads through linen. It started near the front with the trustees and their polished wives, then rippled outward to the younger men from Pierce & Pierce, the adjunct faculty, the women in pearls clutching stemware.Â
By the time I finished the line about greed dressing itself up as civic virtue, you could have heard a diamond earring hit the floor.
For one long second, I heard only my own breathing amplified through the microphone.
Then came the applause.
It started scattered and awkward. One pair of hands, then another. Someone in the back laughed, startled, as though Iâd told a dangerous joke at the wrong table. A few students near the side wall clapped harder than everyone else. One older man near the podium looked offended enough to choke. My father kept his smile fixed in place with heroic effort. My mother had gone completely stillâwhich was far worse.
And Patrick⊠God, Patrick was enjoying himself.
He sat with one ankle crossed over his knee, expression calm, almost bored to anyone who didnât know where to look. I knew better. The corner of his mouth had tipped up in that tiny, private smirk. His eyes held mine with the bright, satisfied gleam I remembered from childhoodâevery time I broke something in public and he got to watch the pieces fall.
Evelyn leaned toward him and whispered something. He answered without ever breaking his gaze from me.
I finished somehow. I added a few closing words about artâs duty to tell the truth even when money preferred softer lies, then stepped back from the microphone before I said something even worseâsomething useful, something my father could never forgive.
The dean returned to the podium wearing the waxy expression of a man whose evening had sprung a leak. He thanked me with excessive warmth (which meant he hated me) and launched into a set of closing remarks so polished they practically squeaked. People laughed in all the correct places. The room resumed breathing.
The second I stepped down from the riser, my mother intercepted me.
Her face remained perfectly arranged for companyâeyes bright, mouth lifted, shoulders elegant in emerald silk. Only the pressure of her fingers on my forearm betrayed her.
âWhat,â she said through a smile meant for onlookers, âwas that?â
âI spoke honestly.â
âYou spoke like a girl trying to humiliate her father in public.â
My father appeared on my other side, slower and heavier, carrying his irritation with legal precision. âRebecca.â
That was all. My name, flat and clippedâenough to send me straight back to age fourteen.
âI thanked everyone,â I said. âI mentioned the school, the renovation, and philanthropy. I only added a few thoughts of my own.â
âA few thoughts,â he repeated. âAt an event funded by the very people you just insulted.â
âTheyâll survive.â
My mother gave a tiny laugh for the benefit of a passing couple, then lowered her voice again. âYou sounded unstable.â
âHow chic.â
âStop this.â
Her nails bit in for a moment. My father looked past me toward the mingling crowd, already calculating damage. He had the strained composure of a man mentally drafting apology calls.
Mark appeared then, half-grinning, half-appalled. âJesus, Becca.â
âThank you.â
âI didnât say it was bad.â
âYou looked delighted.â
âI was terrified,â he confessed, and that only made his grin wider. âDadâs going to have an embolism.â
âMark,â my mother snapped.
He straightened and swallowed whatever else heâd been about to say.
A red-faced trustee with golf-club shoulders stepped over to praise my âcourageâ in the oily tone people used when they wanted to signal open-mindedness without actually agreeing. I thanked him. Another woman called me refreshing. A faculty member said art needed more fearless voices. Their approval felt thin, like cocktail chatter. None of them would have invited me to say the same thing in their dining rooms.
Then Patrick arrived at my shoulder as neatly as a blade sliding from a sleeve.
âThat was excellent,â he said.
My father turned to Bateman with obvious relief, grateful for a familiar ally from the world of respectable young men in expensive wool. âPatrick. Good to see you.â
Patrick shook his hand firmly. âRichard. Congratulations. Tremendous turnout.â
My mother softened instantly. âPatrick, how kind of you to come,â she then turned to look at Evelyn. âAnd you areââ
Patrick glanced at me. âThatâs why it worked.â
My father gave a short exhale through his nose. âI suppose Pierce & Pierce has a broader appetite for political theater than I imagined.â
Patrickâs expression remained perfectly smooth. âI appreciated the spontaneity.â
He appreciated disruption the way some men appreciated modern sculptureâonly when someone else had to clean up the mess.
My mother sensed the tension rising and turned to Evelyn, steering her gently toward safer conversational waters. âTell me, who is your hairdresser, darling?â
They drifted a few paces away. Mark hovered, clearly trying to decide whether to stay. Patrick settled the matter for him.
âCould I borrow your sister for a moment?â he asked lightly. âIâd like to congratulate her properly, without competing with trustees and deans.â
Mark blinked, glanced at me, then at our father. My father, still attempting to salvage the evening, nodded as if this were perfectly ordinary. âBriefly.â
âOf course,â Patrick said.
He guided me toward a side corridor off the lobby where framed architectural renderings hung under discreet lighting. The noise from the reception dulled here, reduced to a civilized murmur. People still passed occasionally, but far fewer. Public enough to feel proper. Private enough for old poisons.
He stopped in front of a watercolor of the renovated atrium.
âYou did that on purpose.â
âI said what I said.â
He smiled. âYou always did like setting rooms on fire.â
âEvelyn finds most original thought bewildering.â
The cruelty was so casual I almost laughed. âCharming.â
âI never claimed to be.â
His eyes moved over me, slower now, with the thoroughness of someone inventorying an object he once owned and had unexpectedly found in mint condition. The corridor felt warmer than the ballroom.
âYou were shaking when you got up there,â he said. âThen you steadied. Somewhere around the part where you insulted everyone funding the building.â
âI wasnât shaking.â
âYou were.â He stepped closerâhis voice no longer needed to travel. âYour left hand gave it away.â
I looked down despite myself. My fingers were still curled tightly around the edge of my clutch, knuckles pale.
He noticed. A small, satisfied tilt of his head.
âThere she is,â he murmured. âI was wondering whether youâd become completely housebroken.â
âI work at the Met. Iâm surrounded by donors every day. That requires a stronger stomach than Wall Street.â
âIt requires better hypocrisy.â
A faculty wife passed the mouth of the corridor and offered us a vague smile. He waited until she was gone.
âYou frightened them,â he said.
âGood.â
âYou frightened your father.â
That landed harder.
I lifted my chin. âAnd you enjoyed it.â
âWatching you say what everyone else is too disciplined to say?â His gaze sharpened. âYes.â
A beat passed. He looked almost pleased with meâwhich was somehow worse than open mockery. Childhood came back in unpleasant scraps: mud smeared across my sketchbook, him yanking my braid, his hand on my wrist checking my pulse.
âYouâve been to the Met more than once.â
He didnât blink. âYes.â
âTo hear me.â
âYes.â
Evelynâs laughter floated faintly from the lobby, threaded through my motherâs smoother tones. Somewhere beyond them, glass touched glass.
âWhy?â I asked.
Patrickâs mouth shiftedâalmost a smile, stripped of any warmth. âBecause I wanted to see what survived.â
It should have sounded melodramatic. On him it sounded clinical. A diagnosis. A field note.
âAnd?â I asked, steady now.
His gaze dropped briefly to the hollow at my throat, then returned to my face. âMore than I expected.â
The vulgarity lay beneath the sentence like a concealed blade. Clean on the surface. Not underneath.
Evelyn appeared before either of us could say more. She rounded the corner carrying two champagne flutes, relief softening her expressionâas if sheâd finally found the right door in an unfamiliar place.
âOh, there you are,â she said to Patrick, then offered me one with an earnest little smile. âI thought Rebecca might need this after all the excitement.â
Patrick took the flute before it reached me. âShe probably does.â
He held it a moment, looking at me over the rim, then passed it across. His fingers brushed mineâdeliberate, light. Too precise to be accidental.
Evelyn slipped her arm through his. âMrs. Rice was just saying we should all do dinner sometime. Wouldnât that be fun? Since you all have that Newport history.â
Fun.Â
The word almost made me choke.
Patrick looked at me, waiting. The polished mask had returnedâthe one meant for rooms where everyone lied in perfect diction.
âThat sounds excellent,â he said. âProvided Rebecca can fit us in between peasant suffering and anti-capitalist speeches.â
I rolled my eyes. âIâve been very busy latelyââ
âOh, Iâm sure youâll find time for an old friend,â he cut in smoothly, âyou havenât seen since high school.â
Evelyn watched us, bright and hopeful. I couldnât quite reconcile that with him.
âIâll think about it.â
I pretended someone had called me over. Patrick noticed, but didnât interfere. I moved quickly toward Mark, who was standing beside a banquet table crowded with appetizers and sweating glasses. He was chewing a toast point when I caught his sleeve.
âCan you help me get out of here?â
He nearly choked. âSorryâwhat?â
Crumbs scattered across his tie. He coughed into his fist, swallowed, then stared at me as though Iâd asked for a shovel and a fake passport.
âBecca, Papa wants us in the donor line. Mama is already furious. You picked one hell of a night to become a Bolshevik.â
âI picked a perfect night. Look at them.â
His eyes flicked past me. Conversation had resumed, but with that charged hum that follows a car crash no one admits to watching. A few heads still turned. An elderly woman in pearls gave me a long, frosty once-over before leaning toward her husband with obvious relish.
Mark lowered his voice. âYou really hit them where it hurts.â
âI know.â
âThat wasnât praise.â
âIt sounded like praise.â
He almost smiled, then caught my expression and sobered. âWhat happened? Is this about him?â
The fact that he had to ask almost made me laugh. âYes, Mark. Itâs about the man you introduced me to like we were all about to roast marshmallows in Newport.â
He grimaced. âI didnât know youâd react like this.â
âYou knew enough.â
That landed. He had the decency to look ashamedâfor a moment.
âAll right,â he said. âMigraine?â
âToo vague. Mama will send a doctor.â
âFood poisoning?â
âYou ate three olives.â
âThen say Iâm about to be sick in the ladiesâ room and spare the family a scandal.â
âA little late for that.â
A smooth voice arrived at my shoulder.
âYour brother makes an excellent point.â
I turned too quicklyâmy heel slid on the carpet.
Bateman stood an armâs length away, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a lowball with two fingers of amber liquid. He wore the expression of a cat beside a tipped birdcage: attentive, pleased, almost lazy. I had no idea how long heâd been there. Long enough.
Mark let out a breath. âJesus, Bateman. You float now?â
âI walk quietly.â
He looked even more at ease after my little detonation. Something in him had straightenedâor maybe I only imagined it, needing a reason for the way my skin tightened whenever he came too close.
Mark glanced between us. âSheâs leaving. Iâm trying to help.â
Patrick took a sip. âRichard will hate that.â
âIâm aware.â
âHe already hates this evening,â I said. âOne more disappointment wonât kill him.â
Patrickâs mouth twitched. âOptimistic.â
Mark shoved the napkin into his jacket pocket. âCould you maybeâjust for a secondâstop enjoying this?â
âNo.â
The answer came so promptly that Mark stared at him.
The distinction annoyed me. He had a talent for making basic reactions sound like failures of taste.
Mark dragged a hand down his face. âFine. Hereâs what weâll do. Iâll tell them youâre sick. You go get your coat. Ten minutes, tops.â
Patrick glanced toward the crowd, then back to me. âToo slow.â
âExcuse me?â
âRichardâs coming over.â
I followed his gaze. My father had detached himself from a cluster of men and was moving toward us with the deliberate pace of someone about to do damage decorously. My mother floated behind him, every inch arranged, every inch furious. Evelyn trailed farther back, concerned in that decorative way of hers.
Mark muttered a curse.
By the time they reached us, Bateman had already slipped into perfect public mode. He touched two fingers lightly to my elbowâa gesture that read helpful from a distance and proprietorial up close.
âRichard,â he said, calm and courteous. âI was just telling Rebecca she ought to sit down. She looks pale.â
My fatherâs eyes snapped to me, assessing. I could have kissed Patrick for the lie. I also wanted to smash his glass into his face for delivering it so neatly.
âIâm all right,â I said. It sounded flat even to me.
My mother stepped closer and pressed the back of her fingers to my wrist, as though checking a child for fever. âYour hand is icy.â
Patrick continued smoothly, âShe powered through the remarks, though I suspect adrenaline did most of the heavy lifting. Fresh air would help.â
My father studied me, then the room, weighing paternal concern against optics. Optics almost wonâuntil I let my shoulders sag a fraction. The gesture came easily after the real performance.
Mark stepped in. âI can get her a cab.â
âAbsolutely,â my mother said. âShe should go home at once. Call when you get there.â
The rebuke hid neatly inside the concern. Years of practice.
My father gave a curt nod. âRest tomorrow. Weâll talk later.â
Which meant tonight in his head, and tomorrow aloud.
Patrick retrieved his drink and stepped back half a pace, every inch the considerate family friend. âIâll walk her out,â he said.
âThatâs unnecessary,â I retorted quickly.
âItâs hardly a burden,â he replied, already smiling at my parents.
Mark looked like he might object but lacked the grounds. Evelyn saved him. âIâll stay with your mother,â she said brightly. âShe looked a little overwhelmed too.â
My mother accepted at once. She adored lovely women who knew how to hover.
So Patrick won. Of course he did.
âŠ
The elevator ride down felt too intimate for public machinery. Brass doors closed, mirrored walls caught us from three angles, and the hum of cables filled the silence. I took one corner. He leaned against the rail opposite me as though we were on our way to dinner.
âYou let me lie for you,â he said.
âYou volunteered.â
âYou looked grateful.â
âI looked trapped.â
âThat too.â
The numbers slid downward. My reflection looked composed enough to fool strangers. My pulse gave me away. The white suit suddenly felt ridiculousâsomeoneâs daughter, someoneâs speaker, someoneâs old doll laid out for inspection.
âYou enjoyed that up there,â he murmured.
âI enjoyed upsetting you.â
He smiled, almost kindly. âYou failed.â
âThen why are you glowing?â
That made him laughâa short, low sound that lived in his throat rather than his mouth. âBecause you reminded me of yourself.â
The doors opened onto the lobby before I could answer. A doorman fetched my coat. Rain had started while we were inside, a fine silver mist turning the steps slick and the street into smeared light. Cars edged along the curb with patient menace. Manhattan always looked expensive in wet weather.
I reached for my coat. Patrick took it first.
âI can manage.â
âI know.â
He held it open anyway. I slipped my arms into the sleeves. Refusing him here would have caused another scene, and I had already spent my appetite for spectacle. His knuckles grazed the nape of my neck as he settled the collarâa fraction too long.
At the curb, Markâs plan dissolved. No taxi stood free. The doorman raised a hand toward traffic and received nothing.
Patrick lifted two fingers. A black town car pulled up almost immediately, as though it had been circling with instructions.
âThatâs⊠obscene,â I said.
âItâs called access,â he replied.
âIâm not getting into your car.â
âYouâre standing in drizzle wearing ivory wool.â
âIâd rather drown than get into your car.â
He opened the rear door and looked at me. âYou always did choose dramatic options.â
The driver stared straight ahead. The doorman hovered. Two couples spilled out behind us, wrapped in chatter and alcohol. My choices narrowed the way they always seemed to around himâincrementally, politely, under good lighting.
âAll right. Iâll take the ride. Youâll stay here.â
He considered me for a beat, then gave the driver my address.
I froze. âHow do you know where I live?â
His eyes met mine, unreadable and faintly amused. âYouâre in the book.â
âWhose book?â
âMarkâs desk calendar. Sloppy system.â
I believed that. I also believed heâd enjoyed looking. Both felt equally true.
He reached into his inner pocket and drew out a fountain pen. For a moment I thought he meant to hand over some polished absurdity. Instead, he took the gala program from my clutch before I could stop him, braced it against the roof of the car, and wrote in a quick, hard scrawl.
âThere,â he said, handing it back. âFor when you stop pretending.â
I looked down after the car had already started moving. A phone number sat beneath three words in his slanted hand:
Tuesday. Eight-thirty. Arcadia.
And below that, smallerâmeaner, intimate enough to make my stomach drop: