The Glass
Ceiling

He was Anthony Bridgerton — heir to a tech empire, cold-eyed and controlled behind a hundred-million-pound boardroom smile. At a rooftop party crawling with the gossipy élite of modern London, a shared cigarette on the fire escape became him pinning me against the glass doors of his father’s office, the whole glittering city spread below us like a promise. He took me hard and wordless, my lipstick smeared across his collar, my thighs trembling from the pressure of the glass at my back. When he finally spoke, his voice was wrecked and possessive: ‘This is not a one-night thing, sweetheart. You need to understand that.’