Copyright © 2025 by Laura Bishop

All rights reserved (i.e. back off)

No part of this book may be reproduced, copied, screenshot, telepathically transmitted, or otherwise stolen in any form—digital, mechanical, magical, or cursed—without written permission from the author. Brief quotes for reviews are cool (and encouraged, actually, hype me up), but if you try to pirate this book or repost spicy scenes on Wattpad… I will send a very tall, very fictional man to haunt your dreams. And not in a fun way.

Edited by Mara White, who debugged my prose like a pro and ensured the smut-to-plot ratio stayed within optimal parameters.

Cover by Momir at Proi Designs, who deserves hazard pay for translating my chaos into visual perfection.

Art by @imikuyya

CONTENT WARNING

This book may contain themes that are triggering to some. Reader discretion is advised.

For a full list of triggers, please visit:

https://laurabishopauthor.com/#content

For your vibrator

This book might edge you for 400 pages,

but you’re the real MVP who finishes the job.

CONTENTS

Playlist

He’s serving trauma with a side salad

Not My Business. I make It My Business.

If She Falls, I’m the Ground

Just Another Day in the Patriarchy

Dinner. Dessert. And Unrestricted Admin Access.

Wine. AI. Regret Coming Soon.

Protective. Confident. Intense. Me.

Now chatting with Caleb

It’s the forearm tattoos for me

I say Good Morning. She sends Filth.

The not-bread bread fiasco

He made her cry. I'm going to end him.

Now Chatting with Caleb

If You Think About It, It’s Amanda’s Fault

He Calls Her a Project. I Call Him a Corpse.

Did We Just Trauma Bond?

Someone better mop the floor

She Calls Me Comfy and I get Hard

Now chatting with Caleb

My Vibrator, His Abs, and My Shame

Parallel Parking Nearly Killed Me, But I’d Die for Her.

Please Hold While I Self-Actualize

She Has a Boyfriend. She Also Has My Mouth on Her.

Now chatting with Caleb

Self-Aware, Sexually Doomed, and Kinda Laughing About It

Pasta plus Existential Dread

Now chatting with Caleb

I’ve passed the point of no return and I’m fine with that.

I Should Have Left Sooner

He Unzipped His Pants. So I Unhinged His Jaw.

I’m Not Afraid When He’s Here

If It Takes Cameras in Every Corner, So Be It.

Now chatting with Caleb

Make Me Dinner or Make Me Come

She Licked It. I Saw God.

I Licked Him. Zero Regrets.

Keep Her Safe, Keep Her Close, Keep Her Mine

Amanda has zero filter

Now chatting with Caleb

Her Orgasm, My Obsession

He Took Leftovers. They Took My Sanity.

Every word she thinks turns her on has been mine.

Orgasms: 3 Sex: 0 Math isn’t mathing.

There’s No Version of This Where I Let Go

This Is Not In the Employee Handbook

Amanda Has a Glock in Her Gucci

I Don’t Cry over Monsters Anymore

Amanda has a body count. Probably.

I Let Him Talk. Then I Make Him Bleed

Turns Out Caleb Was Real All Along

I Say ‘I Love You’ Mid-Thrust

Now chatting with Callahan

Epilogue

About the Author

PLAYLIST

Greedy by Tate McRae

Feather by Sabrina Carpenter

Never Ending Song by Conan Gray

Gonna Make You Sweat (Everybody Dance Now) by C+C Music Factory

Give It to Me by Timbaland

You Broke Me First by Tate McRae

Up All Night by Khalid

Hot To Go! by Chappell Roan

Right to It by Louis the Child

Stupid Love by Lady Gaga

6s to 9s by Big Wild

HE’S SERVING TRAUMA WITH A SIDE SALAD

ISABELLA RUSSO

There are exactly three ways I know a date with Evan is going to be a disaster before we even sit down.

One: He takes a work call on the way there. It's not a quick, polite, Hey, I'll call you back in a bit situation. No, this is Evan in full corporate shark mode, barking into his Bluetooth like a hedge fund manager who just lost a million-dollar deal. By the time we arrive, he's already so deep in business-mode that I could shave my head at the table and he wouldn't notice.

Two: He insists on choosing where we go. In theory, this wouldn't be a problem if he had decent taste. But Evan's definition of "a nice place" falls into one of two categories: steak houses where the sides are extra and the clientele is 95 percent older men in Rolexes, or trendy fusion spots where the portions are laughably small and plated with a side of smugness. He once took me to a place where the "main course" was a single scallop on a plate decorated with edible foam. I left hungrier than when I arrived.

And finally, Three: He does the thing.

The thing where he barely glances at me the entire night, scrolls his phone like it holds the secret to immortality, then—just when I think he might actually engage in human conversation—he says a remark so colossally douchey that I have to remind myself that jail time isn't worth it.

Tonight, we've already hit all three.

I watch my reflection in the polished chrome elevator doors as we ride up to the restaurant, mentally preparing myself for disappointment. I actually put effort into getting ready tonight—a formfitting black dress that’s tight but doesn’t cling so much that it makes me self-conscious when sitting down, heels that pinch my toes and will have me limping in an hour, and hair styled in loose waves that were supposed to look effortless but are already losing the battle against the biting New York wind that whipped around me on the walk from the cab. I even put on red lipstick, a bold choice considering Evan once told me he doesn't like when I wear "loud" colors. I guess I was feeling rebellious.

I catch my reflection again and try not to fixate on how different I look now compared to when we first started dating. Three years and thirty pounds ago, I was the girl who didn't think twice about wearing form-fitting dresses. Now I'm the kind who strategically shops for clothes that hide the curves and softness that Evan has deemed "problematic."

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, releasing a wave of conversation, clinking glasses, and the rich aroma of seared meat and butter. The soft elegance of the restaurant unfolds before us. A hostess with a sleek ponytail gives us a practiced smile as we step forward. Before I can even speak, Evan's phone vibrates against his hip and he answers immediately.

"Yeah?" His tone is clipped and distracted as he motions for me to go ahead with a flick of his wrist, already absorbed in whatever urgent crisis the financial world has thrown at him.

I should've just stayed home, curled up on my couch with pasta that doesn't cost half my paycheck.

The restaurant is one of those overpriced steakhouses that thinks mood lighting means customers should barely be able to see their food. I blink repeatedly, adjusting to the low lighting as we follow the hostess to our table, my heels sinking into plush carpet with each step. We're surrounded by rich mahogany paneling, deep red leather booths worn smooth by years of expensive suits, and walls lined with backlit liquor bottles that cast amber shadows across old-money ambience. The air is thick with the scent of aged scotch and expensive cologne. If you squint, you can almost see the ghost of Gordon Gekko and his Wall Street cronies smoking cigars in the corner.