Angelo loves his Lamborghini. He loves its perfection, how it is the ménage of beauty and form and power. He loves the feeling, right now, how it seems to dig into the road, carves a hard turn to the right as his body fights the pull to the left. He loves how he needs to drop his right shoulder and tilt his head as his hands, left overtaking right, caress the warm leather of the wheel. He loves how the car responds to his touch, and how, now that the turn is nearly finished, he can touch the gas pedal, ever so delicately, and the engine screams in pleasure, comes alive with excitement and throws him back against the seat, demanding more. He loves knowing he that must be gentle with her.

The road ahead is empty. The Pacific, on his left, is a shimmer of pink and purple. The sage brush hill, on his right, is in shadow. Angelo teases the accelerator and the jet black convertible roars into the straightaway ahead.

This is where he comes to clear his head. The stretch of Highway 1 south of Jenner, is in his mind, one of the best drives in the world. He used to come here on Sunday mornings, early, but lately it seems that there are too many cyclists on the weekends. It is Wednesday before daybreak, and there is not a soul here.

And he needs to clear his head about what went on last night. That is why he left his home at four-thirty in the morning. He has this feeling, a burning in his chest, that he is hoping the roar of the engine, the feel of the road, the wind in his hair and the smell of the ocean, will extinguish. And it does, until he thinks about her again.

There is a gravel exit up ahead on the right that switches back to a small parking area that overlooks the Pacific. It is a trailhead where hikers often park, but this morning, he is alone. He points the hood of the car towards the sea, and turns off the engine. The rumble beneath him ceases, and he is left with the deep groan of the surf hitting rock. He wants some time to think and to watch the sun turn the dim purple grey of the morning sea into shining brilliance with the clarity of a new day.

Last night. Last night. That was fucked. He is thinking this, thinking about her, wanting to replay the night's events, detail by detail, but is afraid to, afraid of what he might discover. Not only about her, but about himself.

He didn't want to go out for dinner, but the meeting with the Japanese development team had been booked long ago. It was best, for everyone, that he attend. Meetings are now, for him, no longer about details or ideas or strategy, they are about appearances and handshakes, about creating a superficial relationship, about acting like you care. Really, it is this: if you want my money for your little project, then let's at least do dinner. It's the difference between paying an escort and paying a whore. So, he played his part, said the right things, smiled at the right time, while he knew that at home, Isabella would be waiting.

The deal between them had been worked out in advance. Text messages, a brief phone call, and finally, there was a contract, of sorts, struck between them. Young Miss Measures was very particular about how this would happen. Angelo didn't mind that. He likes a woman who will negotiate with him, who will try to stand her ground, put up a fight. As long as, in the end, he comes out on top. And he almost always does.

His thoughts turn to Mariana, back to their time together. It was her skill as a negotiator that really turned him on. Throughout the buyout process, she fought relentlessly to eek out every last penny she could from Alpha. Even her own team, he could tell, were frustrated by the woman's tenacity. Faces would frown or there would be a note passed; they would adjourn to a private meeting, hushed whispers in the corner or a sudden chat in the hall, and each time they would return, it would be on her terms. Angelo remembers how she would creak a tiny smile when their eyes would meet and he knew he had to have her. The business deal was one thing, having her as his mate, was what began to really matter.

Two motorcycles roar in front of him, flying down the coastal highway, and Angelo is brought back from the past. There is a sudden feeling of regret as he leaves the memory of Mariana behind. He doesn't want to leave her, again. But the burning in his chest returns with the whine of the passing motorcycles. His stay in the present is brief, as his thoughts soon slip back to last night. He buries his forehead into the leather of the steering wheel.

He needs to recap, play it all back. He needs to figure out what the hell happened. The deal was all worked out. He knows that. Everything played out as agreed: he sent Isabella a text message as he was leaving the restaurant; she had a taxi drop her at his back gate, as agreed; the taxi would remain there, waiting, for the entire duration of their short tryst. That was important to her–in case she needed to run away or something. Isabella was very clear that she would not be staying the night, which was fine with Angelo. He had given her the entrance code that bypassed the alarms and unlocked his private entrance, the one leading directly to the master chamber. And, as a precaution, Angelo waited until he had entered the house before he activated her temporary code. He didn't trust this girl, and certainly didn't want her snooping around his home.

When Angelo entered the front door, he checked the security cameras. A taxi was waiting in the back lane, and he felt his heart jump. He knew she had gone this far. He checked the log for the code, looking at the time of entrance for the door and for the door to his private suite. The times made sense. She had just entered his bedroom, minutes before. Angelo checked the log to make sure that all the staff had cleared out of the buildings. Everything was in order, as it should have been. He put down his briefcase and made his way to the back wing of the mansion, the heels of his shoes echoing off the tiled walls.

Standing tall, he tightened his core and straightened his back, as though he was about to pull up on a barbell; he grasped the door handle, twisted it, and entered his suite. His personal quarters are massive, an entire wing of the mansion. He knew she would be waiting, as agreed, in the farthest room, in his bed.

Isabella had been very specific about these things. One: that she would in no way enjoy this. She made that clear. Two: that she would not make eye contact with him, would not look at him. She might submit to his wishes, perhaps, but would not leave herself scarred by the visual memory of the, as she described it, event. Three: that the room be dimly lit and a small night light would allow her to see the door. Four: she would not speak a word to him, would not utter a sound. Five: that she would not fight or resist. Six: that he wear a condom. Seven: that, in exchange for Isabella's submission, her brother Claude would get his job back and his fiancée, Juliette, would be laterally transferred to a position in another building.

Angelo had told her that he agreed to her terms. But he knew that number seven was already out of his hands, un fait accomplis for which there was nothing that could be done. He had already expedited Claude's termination before he agreed to Isabella's terms, so, in essence, she was asking him to do something that he could not do. A severable clause; the rest of the agreement held fast.

And item number one, well, it was up to Isabella whether she would enjoy it or not, and it was unlikely that she would remain true to that clause. He would see to it.

Angelo added a few of his own. One: that she wear her kilt and blouse, the schoolgirl uniform she wore the other day, the one that made her look so innocent, so pure, so tempting. Two: that he takes her from behind, doggy style.

And he added a third. A silent, personal clause: he would not let himself be weak. He would be strong, be a man, be in charge. He would not let himself fall again.

The gulls squawk. The waves crash against the rocks, far below. There are signs that the new day is beginning. The morning air is still cold, still and damp. Angelo sits back in the driver's seat and looks upwards to the pale pink of the sky. He spreads his fingers wide and runs his hands across his scalp, letting long locks of his hair run through his fingers, pulling his hair back, pressing his hands hard on his neck, massaging the stiffness. He exhales a deep sigh and remembers her hair running through his fingers.

Angelo wants to be strong right now. But he can still smell her. She is on his hands, in his hair. The wind from his morning drive hasn't blown her scent from him; her taste still lingers on his fingers. It is the fragrance of a memory, and that is the problem for Angelo: the memory is powerful, stronger than his will to forget. It is more than the memory of the girl, it is a glimpse of a life passed, something he put away, and now, because of Isabella, he can't let it go. 

Mariana appears before him, again. It is her scent. He knows her smell. It has been nearly eight years, and still he tastes her. He hates that. He needs to get out of the car, right now, drop down and start doing push-ups, go until he can't get his arms to lift him anymore, go until the burn in his chest is replaced with the penance of the tearing of his pectoral muscles. But he can't. He is dressed, still, from last night: D&G dress shirt, Armani pants, and Italian leather shoes. Hardly workout wear. It was the first thing he grabbed as he flew out of his room last night, or was it this morning; it is all one blur now. He didn't want to hurt her. Them. Either. Both. He didn't need to choke Isabella. 

With Mariana, he merely did what was needed to save himself, and to save her. If he hadn't, they both would have perished. By breaking off their engagement he left her alone, but rich. She did okay from the sale, while he struggled to rescue his professional career from the ruins of a bad deal. It was Angelo who had to convince his team that her cash terms were better than the stock options that Alpha was presenting, and his own neck was on the line. He didn't hate her for that as much as he hated himself for being weak. How could he live with that, with her? He had to learn from that mistake, had to get tougher. He had to suffer because of it. He is sure that Mariana didn't suffer much. She is one of these serial entrepreneurs who sees opportunity in everything and knows how to pull the team together to make it happen. She is now on what, her third start up? 

 Angelo looks back to the ocean. The morning is brightening now, but he is still searching for answers. Did Isabella suffer? She hadn't moved, hadn't made a sound. For a long time. His last image of Isabella is her lying face down on the bed. Her legs are spread open, her skirt folded up in a pile on her back, her ass, bare and smooth, pink patches from where she was slapped. Her hair, like dead kelp, is washed over the pillow. 

Was it fear? Was it shame that made him run? The burn started deep in his chest, and like a fire that flamed its way upward, the heat rose through his arms, to his face, igniting his scalp. He reached down, snatched his boxers, one foot hopping into his pants, threw his arms into a shirt, and ran. Looking back, he saw her body, her arms stretched forward, one hand gripping the stuffed animal. Near her other hand, a blue page with a photo of a bearded, bald man.