Awareness returned to Grant slowly, discomfort immediately, and overall, confusion reigned supreme. What the hell?

He opened his heavy eyelids to see that he still sat in his office. I must have fallen asleep. That's odd, because the last thing I remember is eating dinner.

Grant tried to shift his stiff body into a more comfortable position, but discovered he couldn’t. His forearms were bound to the armrests of his chair, and his torso was lashed to the back.

“What the fuck?” He pulled at the ties holding him, straining and cursing. After a few minutes, he realized he couldn’t break free. His many hours on the squash court were no match for the superman strength required to liberate him from the silver duct tape wound around his forearms.

Still unsure how he’d gotten into this position, he debated calling for help. What if whoever did this to me is still here, though? They might come back and do something worse. And wait a second-where’s Isabelle? I remember her bringing me my dinner. Did they do something to her, too?

At the thought of his secretary, burning shame crept through him. He’d noticed the way she’d expectantly watched him all week. Confusion had filled her eyes each time he’d met her gaze and pretended not to see her silent plea. Yes, he’d taken the cowardly route and ignored her, even if he couldn’t forget what had happened on Saturday night. The most glorious, passion filled night of his life.

But one night of bliss was not enough to make him throw away years of dedication. Why the hell am I even thinking about that now? Who cares if I want to touch and taste her again? I need to find a way to free myself.