Remy

She is two people ahead in the queue, carry-on at her feet, the careful makeup she has worn since the night on the floor. Mia walks up to her before Adam can suggest they pretend.

Remy turns. The color hits her face at once.

“Mia.”

“You’re on this flight?”

“The project,” Remy says. Her voice is small. “They added me yesterday. I thought you knew. Maybe you missed the name.”

Mia pulls the itinerary up on her phone. There it is, under the team list, between two people she does not care about. Remy. Same city. Same six months.

“I missed it,” Mia says. “I won’t miss you.”

Remy glances at Adam, then at the floor.

Mia steps close enough that the queue cannot hear the filth and can still see the posture.

“Six months,” she says. “You and me. Same office. Same hotel if they are lazy. And you are not getting fucked. Not by him. Not by anyone I don’t approve, and I will not approve. I will be watching you the way I watch you at your desk. If you smile at a man, I will know. If you go back to a room that isn’t yours, I will know. You don’t get a cock for half a year. You especially don’t get his.”

Remy’s ears burn.

“His cock stays here,” Mia says, quiet, mean. “In our bed. In other women. Not in you. You already had it. You slept on the floor. You handed me your panties. Abroad you get nothing. You get to sit next to me and remember what his cock felt like in your throat and know you are not getting it again. Not on this trip. Not in that city. If you touch yourself thinking about him, you can. You still don’t get the real thing. I will be close enough to see it on your face when you want it.”

Remy swallows. “Okay.”

“Say it.”

“I don’t get fucked,” Remy says. “I don’t get his cock.”

“Good.”

They check in. The agent is bored. The bags go through. Adam walks them as far as the security line and stops, because that is as far as he goes.

Mia kisses him.

It is not a peck for the airport. It is a married kiss, mouth open, her hand on his jaw, long enough that Remy has to stand there and see it. When Mia pulls back, her lipstick is on him.

“Six months,” Adam says. “It’ll go.”

Mia looks at Remy. She smiles, thin, and slaps her ass. Hard enough that Remy jolts. Hard enough that a man in the line glances and then decides he did not.

“I’ll enjoy them,” Mia says. “She won’t.”

Adam watches them join the queue. Mia does not look back again. Remy does, once, and then faces forward because Mia’s hand is on her elbow.

He drives home in a quiet car.

The apartment is unlocked. He opens the door.