like a lady

Once inside the suite, Seto ushered Joan into a shower, gingerly removing his trench coat and what remained of her clothes and testing the temperature of the water before granting her privacy. He then paced for a minute while he figured out his next move. He spotted the silvery shell of his laptop and decided that would be a good place to start. He knew her name was Joan now, but he still didn't have a last name. His fingers dumbly typed it into his private internet browser's search bar. He stared at meaningless results until he realized there was a better way to narrow his parameters.

Seto logged into his personal financial management system and typed her first name there. Bingo! Joan Saunders. He went back to the search bar, typing in the full name this time. Again, there were still too many results. He added Michael and hit the search button again. Both names, apparently, were all too common. What if she didn't even take his last name? Seto thought with a shred of hope.

Seto began poking around Facebook. He hadn't navigated Facebook since high school; his social media manager did that for him to keep the gold diggers at bay, but it couldn't be too hard to find her, right? Mokuba's friend list had no Joan, so he went to Marc Aurelio's page. Marc's friends list was private. Laura's friends list was private. He could probably hack into Facebook to figure out what he wanted, but his fingers felt leaden and he couldn't decide which route to attempt first. Seto shut the laptop in frustration and sat with his head in his hands.

"Thanks," Seto looked up to see Joan wrapped in a plush Hyatt bathrobe, her hair damp and dripping, "for what you said about the vultures. That helped a lot."

Seto pushed his chair away from the desk and stood. "Joan . . ." Her name felt cumbersome on his lips, too formal for someone he'd fucked.

Joan detected the awkwardness and let it hang in the air a moment before saying, "I liked it better when you called me whore."

"Whore." Seto's lips widened as he reclaimed the familiar word. It represented every scrap of gratification he'd had in recent years, something he fervently wanted with her but hadn't quite managed to attain.

Joan stepped forward and slung her arms around the back of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. She savored it for several seconds. The feeling of a warm, honest mouth that had paid for her presence. Then she remembered that she was actually on the clock for Mokuba, not Seto. And Mokuba was outside placating reporters. "This night is so fucked up," she whispered as she rested her head on Seto's shoulder.

"Come to bed," Seto said softly.