The Man Who Has No Love (Soulless 3)

It was a really nice event, and that was saying something coming from me, because I did this stuff all the time. I ran into Theresa, and we talked for a bit since she often saw me stop by his office. It didn’t seem like she knew about the times Deacon had fucked me on the desk because she didn’t behave differently toward me.

When I turned to walk back to him, I saw him talking with a beautiful blonde, a tall woman in a skintight black dress, her long hair in pretty curls. She was tall, taller than me, just a few inches shorter than him in her heels. With fair skin, light-colored eyes, and thick lashes, she was gorgeous.

Deacon spoke to her, his hands in his pockets, and he looked comfortable, like he knew her well.

I had no idea who she was.

I had no reason to be jealous, to be insecure, but seeing this blonde bombshell with a great rack and an awesome ass talk to my man…was a little terrifying. Maybe someone had brought her, and she was making a pass at him, like most women usually did, but the conversation went on too long for that.

I walked back to them, suddenly insecure, suddenly warm and cold at the same time. When I reached them, I heard her speak in a language I couldn’t understand.

“The coefficient is off. I think I may be looking for the right thing but with the wrong approach. When I took my samples out of the incubator, I was expecting to see a higher number…” She trailed off when she looked at me, and she flashed a bright smile, like she was friendly. “Hello, I’m Dr. Hawthorne.”

This was Dr. Hawthorne?

I held the beer out to Deacon, pausing for a second because I didn’t know what to do. “Uh, hi.”

Deacon watched me for a second before he took the beer out of my grasp.

She extended her hand, her smile fading as she waited for me to greet her in return.

Deacon cocked an eyebrow, having no idea why my behavior was peculiar.

The new researcher he hired was a six-foot blond Sports Illustrated model? She was drop-dead gorgeous and brilliant? Was he fucking kidding me?

Deacon stepped in when I stayed quiet. “This is my assistant, Cleo.”

I felt my heart plummet into my stomach, hearing my title as it paled in comparison to hers. “It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Hawthorne.” I finally recovered myself and shook her hand.

She had a firm grip. “You as well.” Then she turned back to Deacon, talking to him as if I didn’t exist.

She sat beside him at dinner—which annoyed me.

All his other colleagues had brought their spouses. She was the only one without a date.

That worried me. Because easily she could have brought someone, with looks like that.

She talked his ear off, fascinating him with her science lingo, talking to him about her work as well as his own—even making him laugh.

I felt sick to my stomach.

I just sat there in silence for thirty minutes—suffering. I hardly ate my food, didn’t touch my wine, barely paid attention to the silent auction as the winners were read off.

Deacon hardly said two words to me.

Maybe she was just a friendly person, but none of Deacon’s other colleagues talked to him so much. Maybe since she was a new employee, he was the only person she knew. But she was far too invested in him for it to be purely professional.

When dinner concluded and the auction was over, the British bitch excused herself to the restroom.

Deacon turned back to me, finally, and acted like nothing was wrong. “We raised more money than we did last year.”

“That’s great…” I couldn’t even pretend to be normal, pretend I was fine. It was the first time I’d ever felt insecure in our relationship, felt threatened by someone else. I was a simple woman of average intelligence. I wasn’t even that beautiful. She had it all—the whole fucking package. And I knew she wanted Deacon. How could she not? How could any woman not want him? They were the same intellectual level, the same age, the same level of attractiveness…

Deacon watched me for a bit, like he could see the stress all over my face. “Something wrong?”

“I’m fine.” I blurted out the sentence, not wanting to talk about it, not address it in public.

He didn’t pull his eyes from my face. “Why are you lying to me?” He asked it matter-of-factly, like he was genuinely confused rather than annoyed.

I sighed. “We’ll talk about it later.”

“Are you ill?”

“No.”

His eyes stayed on my face, examining me like I was something he was studying. His hand went to mine under the table.

I pulled it away even though I had no idea why. I was behaving emotionally and irrationally, which wasn’t like me at all. It was embarrassing, and my unreasonable behavior just made me more upset. It was like digging my own grave, bringing me closer to death.