The Canary Hears His Loudest Secrets

I had been Wesley Ashfords kept canary for three long years.

The rules were incredibly simple: show up, perform our routine business, and then go back to my own room.

Tonight, just like any other night, I sat up and prepared to slip away.

Fuck, is that it? I barely even got warmed up! Now I have to wait another goddamn half-month?

A harsh, thoroughly frustrated voice roared clearly inside my head.

I froze, slowly turning around. Wesleys face was still its usual ice-cold mask, his eyelids not even twitching.

But that voicethere was absolutely no mistaking it. It was him.

Somehow, I could suddenly hear this man's inner monologue.

It seemed our quiet little cage was holding two very confused birds.

My name is Fiona.

I've been Wesleys kept canary for three years now.

You probably wouldn't believe me, but this arrangement is a million times easier than the grueling eighty-hour-a-week corporate grind I used to have.

On the fifteenth of every month, his assistant promptly wires a generous sum of money to my account. It is more than enough to let me live a very comfortable, elegant life in the city.

The price?

Once every two weeks, I have to go to his bedroom.

The process is strictly fixed. I walk in, the lights are already off, I lie down on the bed, we finish, and I leave. The entire sequence never takes more than twenty minutes.

He doesnt speak, and neither do I.

We are more punctual than employees punching a timecard, and colder to each other than distant coworkers. For three years, I haven't even had a proper look at his face in bed to see what kind of expression he wears.

It isn't that I don't want to look.

It is just that he has strict rules. The lights must stay off. And the moment it's over, he rolls over, turning his back to me.

The signal is loud and clear: You can leave now.

Ive always been sensible. I put on my clothes, quietly slip through the door, return to my room to put on a face mask, scroll through my phone for a bit, and go to sleep.

Life went on like this, quiet and still as a stagnant pond.

Until tonight.

Tonight, everything started out exactly the same. Twenty minutes, done. He rolled over, presenting his back to me.

I sat up, reaching into the darkness to find my clothes.

And then

Shes leaving again.

A deep, masculine voice, laced with a heavy, repressed irritation, suddenly exploded inside my brain.

My hand paused.

What?

Who was talking?

I instinctively looked toward the door. No one was there.

I looked back at Wesley. He was still turned away from me, completely motionless, his breathing slow and steady.

I figured I was hallucinating and went back to dressing myself.

Every single time. She just takes off the second we're done, like she's racing to her own funeral. What am I to her? A glorified vibrator?

I froze entirely.

That voice. That tone. That volatile mix of irritation and sheer, wounded pride.

I slowly turned my head, staring at Wesleys rigid back.

His mouth wasn't open. He definitely wasn't speaking out loud. But the voice was undeniably coming from his direction.

No, not just his direction. It was echoing directly inside my head.

Whatever. She doesn't care anyway. Next time... should I make it last longer? No, that's too obvious. She'll notice. Damn it, Wesley, you pathetic loser.

My mind went entirely blank. I sat on the edge of the bed like a statue, my brain working in overdrive.

I could hear Wesleys thoughts?

How was this possible? Was I losing my mind? Should I book a psychiatric appointment?

Why isn't she leaving yet? Did she figure something out? Keep it together, Wes. You're acting completely normal.

The muscles across his back visibly tensed for a split second, though he still didn't move.

My lips twitched.

Normal?

You call this normal?

If the version of me from three seconds ago had heard what was going on in your head, I would have thrown myself off the twenty-eighth floor.

I took a deep breath, deciding to retreat for now. Whether this was a bizarre hallucination or some supernatural phenomenon, I needed space to process.

I finished dressing and walked to the door. Just as my fingers brushed the cold metal handle

Just go. It's not like you've ever looked back at me anyway.

There was a distinct note of self-pitying defeat in his mental voice.

My fingers tightened.

Urged by some inexplicable impulse, I turned my head. Just a glance.

Wesley hadn't moved an inch, but I heard him loud and clear:

Wait, did she just turn around? Is she looking at me? What does this mean?!

His heartbeat suddenly spiked, thumping so loudly it sounded like a frantic drumbeat in my ears.

Don't move. Don't you dare move. Wesley, if you turn around right now, you are a clown. A total clown.

I couldn't stop the corner of my mouth from curving upward.

I stepped out, closed the door, and returned to my room.

Lying in bed, staring up at the dark ceiling, my mind was flooded with his unspoken words.

"I barely even got warmed up."

"Now I have to wait another goddamn half-month."

"What am I to her? A glorified vibrator?"

I buried my face in my hands, letting out a silent, breathless scream.

Wesley Ashford.

The head of Ashford Enterprises.

A billionaire.

The notoriously cold-blooded titan of the business world.

How on earth was his inner self a frustrated, brooding tragic hero?

For three years, I thought he felt absolutely nothing for methat I was just a physical outlet. But it turned out he believed I felt nothing for him, that I was only here for the paycheck.

Well, then.

It turned out this cage was holding two very stubborn birds playing dead.