There was a knock on the door of my bedroom suite and a moment later, my housekeeper entered.

“Didn’t I tell you not to disturb me, Stacey?” I said, irritated. “I know it’s the weekend, but I’ve got a busy morning. I’m getting ready to take Arabella to her tennis lesson, then I have to receive the ladies from the Garden Club.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Kim,” Stacey said, her tone contrite. “But I have a woman downstairs, Farah Hojjat. She says it’s important.”

I knew Farah Hojjat was Jack Grierson’s long-time executive assistant. She began with Jack after my time with him, so I didn’t know her personally. Casey du Paige, the former Foncault Group Executive Vice President had arranged my care and support after the two times Jack had impregnated me. I’d only had a few phone and online interactions with Farah.

“Tell her I’ll be right down,” I said with a sigh.

I went into my boudoir and touched up my makeup. I plumped my breasts in my bra through my translucent silk blouse and put my hands on my hips. ‘I’m thirty-seven but everyone says I still look in my twenties,’ I thought. ‘I hope it’s not just flattery.’

I walked down the wide sweeping staircase to the reception room. Farah was standing by the mantelpiece. I shook her hands and led her to a comfortable set of club chairs in the large glassed-in alcove of the large reception. She sat down and looked out at the view of the manicured grounds. Our mansion was set on a rise, and we could see all the way down to the Hudson.

“You’ve done well,” she said without a preamble. Her clipped British accent sounded very formal. “Senior Vice President of Marketing of a Fortune 500 company, a seat on the board, one of the top management team. Last year, your pay and benefits on your company’s 10-k filing amounted to over a million dollars. And that doesn’t include stock options, which were estimated at over six million.” She paused to take a breath. “This mansion and estate with the view of the Hudson is valued at over twenty million. You drive a high-end Maserati.”

“I’ve worked hard for my success,” I said with a touch of conceit in my voice.

“I’m sure you have,” she said. I was surprised that her tone verged on unfriendly, and it showed on my face. “But you and I both know that eight years ago you were a junior sales representative on the verge of being fired for failing to meet your targets. With a sales manager that only kept you on because he wanted to fuck you.”

“My career has had its ups and downs,” I said, defensively. “Like everyone else. But I found my stride, and I –”

“Bullshit!” Farah’s voice was like a whiplash. “It was Jack Grierson that made your career. He bought your firewall software for all Foncault Group companies, a sale that netted you over a hundred thousand dollars in commissions. And he made calls to his contacts that enabled you to book millions more in sales. You were made regional sales director on the strength of those results, then national sales director. All within two years of being on the verge of being fired.” She stabbed a finger at me. “Without him, you were nothing Miranda. Nothing. Just another beautiful woman who was going to sleep with her boss to keep her job.”

“Why all this vitriol?” I asked.

“Because you’re trying to say you did all this on your own,” she moved her arm around, indicating my office suite. “I was hoping for a little more gratitude for the man who made it happen.”

“It was a deal,” I said, setting my teeth. “Jack also impregnated me – twice. My daughter is now sixteen. And my son is eight.”

“They’re also Jack’s children. Have you told them that?”

“Of course, not! Stan thinks they’re his, and Jack wanted it that way.”

Farah suddenly sat back in her chair and unbuttoned her jacket. I saw her white chiffon blouse was damp around her nipples – she was lactating! But she was slim, trim, and fit – she wasn’t pregnant, she must have delivered recently.

“You’re breastfeeding,” I said. “Jack’s baby?”

“Yes, my second by him. Like you.”

Her eyes went moist. I could see she was on the verge of tears and trying hard to hold them back.

“Why are you here now?”

“I’m here to tell you something. It wasn’t in the news, all traces of it were buried.” She sniffed. Now the tears that were threatening to flow spilled out of her eyes and down her cheeks. “Jack is dead. He was killed a few weeks ago. His father-in-law, Reginald St. James orchestrated it.”

“No,” I said, thunderstruck. “That’s impossible.”

“I wish it wasn’t true. But it is.”

“I read about St. James. He sexually assaulted you and you killed him. It was ruled self-defense, it was in all the headlines.”

 “Yes,” she said. She wiped her eyes and they hardened. “I’m glad I killed the bastard.”

I sat back in my chair. It was hard to accept that Jack was dead – he had seemed indestructible.

“Well!” I said. “Jack’s dead. The way he carried on, I suppose it was inevitable.”

“When was the last time you saw Jack?” Farah asked.

“Eight years ago,” I said. “When he impregnated me the second time – and gave me my son.”

*

I handed my boarding pass to the gate agent, hoping desperately. I was on the last flight out and I could see the whirling snowflakes outside through the glass behind the check-in counter. The snow was accumulating on the tarmac and many flights on the departures board had already been canceled.

“I'm sorry, ma'am,” said the gate agent. “Your flight is canceled. We'll re-book you on the first flight tomorrow.”

“But where will I stay overnight? The airline will put me up in a hotel, right?”

“No, I'm afraid not, ma'am,” said the gate agent apologetically. “Bad weather is an Act of God. We are not responsible.”

“But I can't afford a hotel!”

“I'm sorry, ma'am,” said the gate agent, clearly keen to get to the next customer. “You can stay in the airport till tomorrow. It's the best we can do.”

The gate agent returned my boarding pass and I turned away. I was on the verge of tears. The business trip had been a disaster: I had failed to close a single deal, and there was no way I could afford a hotel! I was on probation at work – my boss had already given me two warnings. He would fire me for this unless I ... gave him what he wanted. He made no secret about his desire to fuck me.

I was twenty-nine, a Korean American born in Chicago, with degrees in chemistry and business. I was tall for an Asian woman, five foot nine in my stockings with soft, jet-black shoulder-length hair. My eyes were quite narrow, even for a Korean, but my face was symmetric, and people said they complemented it well. I retained the athletic figure I had developed as a varsity swimmer in college. My breasts were rather small but very firm, and my waist was narrow. My ass was tight and pert enough to tempt my boss to brush it with his hand every time he passed me in the office. Overall, without being overly vain, I can say that I always turned men's heads.

The business suit I wore was in the modern style - a tight skirt that was on the short side, a diaphanous white silk blouse, and a short jacket. My Balenciaga choker was made of black pearls and featured an intricate silver pendant. My suit skirt was short enough that it rode up when I sat down to expose the tops of my black stockings. My black open-toe strappy pumps had small leather bows and heels that raised my height to almost six feet.

“My flight's been canceled too.”

I looked around quickly – it couldn't be! But it was. Jack Grierson, my former client. He was as tall, athletic, well-dressed, and good-looking as ever. He had a cocky expression, not looking at all unhappy with the situation.

“What are you doing here, Jack?”

“Like every red-blooded man here, I'm staring at your black bra through your translucent blouse.”

“How's business?” I asked, trying to ignore his eyes that were undressing me.

“Better and better.” He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. “How about you?”

“Terrible! I didn't make a single sale on this trip.”

“What are you trying to sell?”

“Firewalls for industrial sites. Our systems are particularly good for continuous process industries.”

“What's special about them?”

“They have an inbuilt neural net – they continuously mutate as they respond to hacking attempts. So you don't need to keep buying upgrades every few months.”

“So why haven't you sold any?”

“Our systems are very expensive. The competition is 20% cheaper.”

“That's too bad. Let me buy you a drink and commiserate. We've both had long days and we're stuck here for the night.”

I hesitated before responding.

“I'm way behind on my quotas and my boss told me that if I don't make a sale on this trip, he's going to fire me.”

“You should never have stopped handling my account. You were just out of college, and I was giving you enough business for you to make your quota, month in, month out.”

“Yes, but the price was that you also gave me the business in bed. You impregnated me!”

“We had a good thing going. I’ve fucked you, off and on, for almost a year. I didn’t see any problems.”

“I couldn't go on living a lie with Stan.”

He began walking toward the Vino Volo wine bar that was a hundred yards from our gate. I fell into step beside him. He got us a table at the back, ordered a bottle of champagne and we clinked glasses.

“Jesus, I miss you, Miranda,” he said. “We had great sex, didn't we? Even when you were heavily pregnant, we had so many positions: you rode me cowboy, reverse cowboy, I fucked you doggie style.”

“Sex was never our problem. But I never enjoyed cheating on my husband.”

“Is it any better with Stan now?”

“He's a great father to our daughter. She’s eight now. He thinks she's his.”

“Does he fuck you regularly? Did he get you pregnant with a second child?”

I buttoned my jacket to cover my breasts and hide my bra from his unrelenting eyes.

“No,” I admitted after a pause. Then I went on in a more aggressive tone. “But he doesn't force me to have sex at two in the morning with another woman's sweat on his body and her fluids on his dick.”

“That happened one time! And it was after the Christmas party your company threw for clients. I was drunk.”

“You fucked one of the teenage cocktail waitresses at the party. And later came to my hotel room and forced me to have sex with you.”

“Hold on!” Jack protested. “I seem to recall you cumming quite a few times that night. And begging me to fuck you harder.”

I felt my face grow warm and redden at the memory. I drained my champagne flute to avoid responding.

When the champagne was gone, Jack ordered another bottle. I ate some nuts and olives, but I could feel the wine going to my head. I knew I should refuse, but when the waiter popped the cork on the second bottle, I didn't stop him from refilling my glass. I unbuttoned my jacket again, disregarding the way Jack's eyes caressed my breasts through my black bra.

“I'm sorry I took you for granted when we were sleeping together, Miranda. You're looking really sexy tonight. Sitting here, all I can think about is how we fucked in the restroom on that flight to London – three times!”

“I'd have happier memories of that flight if we hadn't later discovered that my boss was back in economy. He saw you with your hand up my skirt. He put two and two together and has been pestering me for sex ever since. He figures that if I cheated with one man at work, why not with another?”

“My God, Miranda, must you be so negative? We're together on a snowy night, drinking champagne, and can do anything we want.”

“Maybe you can. I can't afford a hotel. I'm going to spend the night on an uncomfortable airport chair.”

I took a deep draught of my champagne and Jack refilled my flute.

“No need to do that. I've got a room at the airport Hilton. Come stay with me.”

“No.”

“Come on. You know you want to.” He leaned toward me. “And loosen up a little. We're done working for the day.”

He reached forward quickly. Before I could stop him, he undid the two top buttons of my blouse.

“There! You look much more comfortable, and your black pearl choker shows up much better.”

“You're incorrigible, Jack.”

He drained his glass, and I followed suit. He raised the bottle, but it was empty.

“No more champagne. Let's go to my room.”

“Oh no," I said, wagging my finger and giggling. Two bottles of champagne between the two of us! I had a nearly empty stomach and was really beginning to feel the wine now. My mind was clear, but I had a hard time speaking without slurring. “I want you and I'm tipsy. So I'm not going up to a hotel room with Jackhammer Grierson.”

“You look so pretty, giggling like that.”

He took out his phone and took several pictures of me. I was leaning forward on my elbows. With the top buttons of my blouse undone, he was able to fit my tight cleavage and the tops of the cups of my black bra into the pictures. He attached the most revealing one to a text to my husband, Stan, with a copy to me. He texted, “I’m with your beautiful wife tonight. Her flight is canceled, but don't worry, I'll take good care of her tonight. Jack Grierson.” I only saw the text later.

“Come on, Miranda. You can't spend the night in an airport chair. Not when you can sleep in a comfortable bed.”

He stood up. I got up as well, teetering slightly on my high heels.

“Okay,” I said. I knew I was slurring now. “But I want to sleep, not fuck. I'm not starting with you again.”

“We'll do whatever you want,” he said, taking my roller suitcase and hooking it to his.

Just as we started walking, my phone rang. I fished it out of my bag and looked at the screen. It was my husband, Seho ‘Stan’ Kim.

“How are you, darling?” He sounded worried and his Korean accent was thicker than usual.

“Fine, fine,” I replied, my accent turning even more American in response. “My flight's been canceled, that's all. I'll be home on the first flight tomorrow.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You're slurring.”

“I've had a long day. I had a glass of champagne.”

“Are you alone?”

I glanced at Jack before replying.

“I ran into an old client, Jack Grierson. We had a quick drink together.”

“Are you with him now?”

I looked over at Jack again and said, “I'm just saying goodbye to him.”

“Good, good. I'll call you back in half an hour. Then we can chat privately.”

“Okay.”

“Is your Asiatic husband being the mother hen again? ‘Now don't be naughty, Miranda, cluck, cluck!’ I can't understand why you married such an old man.”

“Stan and I are both Korean-Americans.”

“You look and sound All-American,” responded Jack patting my firm rump. “You were a cheerleader in high school, a varsity swimmer in college! He sounds like he arrived from Korea yesterday.”

“He's not that old! He's fifty-one!”

“That's pretty old,” said Jack. “And he acts older.”

“Well, age is just a number. You're a mature man and you act like a high school boy with raging hormones. You try to fuck every woman you come across!”

“Every woman is special to me. If anyone is starved for love, it's me.”

“My heart breaks for you.”

“Oscar Wilde said that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.”

“I'm not trying to be funny,” I snapped.

We entered the lobby of the airport Hilton and Jack led the way to the elevators. He pushed the button for the top floor. Once there, he led the way to the corner suite. It had a brass plate on the door that read ‘Regal Suite’.

“Who's paying for this?” I asked.

“I've got a gold membership in the Hilton Club. I almost always get an upgrade.”

We entered. There was a large sitting room with ornate furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto the airport runways. There was a silver bucket with a bottle of Dom Perignon champagne and a tray of nuts, olives, and gherkins. Jack popped the cork, poured out two glasses, and handed one to me without a word.

“No...” I began.

“Just to toast. To our snowy reunion in my hotel upgrade.”

“Okay,” I said reluctantly.

We clinked glasses and I took a sip. I was about to put the glass down when my phone rang again. It was Stan.

“Shit,” I said.

I chugged the glass, ignoring Jack's expostulation, “Hey! That's expensive champagne!”

“Hi, Stan,” I said, slurring badly now.

“Miranda! How much have you had to drink?”

“Probably too mush, I mean mush, I mean mush much,” I said and giggled. “I've been a bad girl.”

“Are you with John Grierson?” he asked.

“John? Oh, you mean Jack. I always forget his official name is John." I clicked my tongue. "No, I told you I was just saying goodbye to him. I'm alone. I'm goin’ to shleep now in an airport chair ...”

“Miranda! Stop drinking! I mean, like right now!”

“Okay, sir!” I said in a mock subservient tone.

“Miranda!” Stan was pleading now. “You sound very drunk! I hope you really did say goodbye to Grierson. Don't do something you will regret.”

“No, sir,” I said. “No more drinks!”

“Oh, good, good,” said Stan, relief plain in his voice. “Just keep talking to me. As long as you like.”

I looked at Jack and giggled again. Jack came up to me and began unbuttoning the rest of the buttons of my translucent white blouse.

“No!” I said to him in a loud whisper, catching one of his wrists with my free hand. I slowed him but...