Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know enough.” He leans back, casual confidence radiating from every perfectly tailored inch of him. “You don’t rattle easily. You measure your words, then pretend you don’t. You wear defiance like perfume—something to remind the world you’re still standing. And under all that independence—” his gaze sharpens, almost curious, “—there’s discipline. A willingness to take the hit and the strength to stay standing after. The kind of endurance that only comes from surviving what should’ve broken you.” He leans forward a little, eyes locked on mine so hard, I feel like a prisoner. “I like that in a woman.”
My pulse jumps. Just a little. Barely noticeable.
He’s guessing, obviously. Reading posture, tone, whatever little tells people like him collect for sport. A high-functioning sociopath with a side of Sherlock.
Still, the accuracy stings.
And the way he said woman—like a claim, not a category—sends a current straight down my spine.
I swallow it, straighten in my chair, and pretend I’m not the one being read like an open book.
“Do you want the opportunity? Or not? Because I have to say… you’re a little... snobby, Emmaleen. Self-righteous.”
I huff. The nerve of this man—with his forty-thousand-dollar watch and his three-hundred-thousand-dollar car—to call me self-righteous.
He leans forward, stunning rainforest-green eyes locked with mine. “Yes. You. I know what you’re thinking. I’m one to talk, right? But it’s different.”
“How is it different?” I ask, too quickly. “Because I don’t see it.”
“Hmm,” he hums. “Maybe you don’t. Should I explain it? Or are you one of those learn-as-you-go kind of gals?”
Gals? Who the hell uses the word “gals”?
No one, Emmaleen. He’s insulting you.
He is, actually. That’s exactly what he’s doing. Riling me up. Yanking my chain.
I huff again.
The chain.
Because if I accept this offer, I’ll have yet another one around my neck. I’ll lose a few—the homeless situation. The desperation.
But nothing is free. Nothing has ever been free.
“No,” I say, meeting his intense glare. “I’ll take good advice when I can get it.”
He wants to smile, I can tell. But he doesn’t. It’s almost pathological the way he controls his expression, like he’s carefully measured every twitch of his facial muscles and decided which ones are allowed to move. I wonder how much effort it takes to maintain that level of restraint, to police your own face so rigorously that even the most natural human response becomes something to be suppressed.
It’s unnerving, watching someone with that much self-control—someone who treats emotion like an intruder instead of an experience.
“Good for you. Here’s how it’s different. You’re desperate, I’m not. You reek of bad luck. I don’t believe in luck; opportunities are mine to make. You’ve got a chip on your shoulder. I’ve got responsibility on mine. The world hates you and you hate it back. I’m sitting on top of it. That’s how it’s different. I’m not self-righteous, I’m self-made.” He leans back in his chair again, satisfied with his little speech.
I let out a breath, a little deflated. Because he’s right. Everything he said is true.
“I’m sad,” I say.
His eyes narrow. “What?”
“That’s what you’re thinking. I’m sad. Like... pathetic.”
For a moment, he goes silent. His eyes searching mine.
It makes me super uncomfortable, so I sigh and look away. “I want the job.”
“Good. Because in my head, you already have it.”
I don’t know what that means. Is it a threat? A promise? Something else entirely?
I have no clue.
“Be here Monday morning at 8:00 a.m.”
He doesn’t ask if that works for me. Of course he doesn’t. My time is now his time. My availability is now his availability.
“Don’t be late,” he adds, already looking back at his phone, dismissing me.
My chains, my choice.
3
I devote my Saturday afternoon to digital conferences with my father and siblings regarding Pittsburgh operations. Numerous complications have surfaced recently, with tensions mounting over connections to other “organizations” in Philadelphia and Newark, and, predictably, the LaRiccia Family out of New York.
Nothing I care to contemplate now that evening has arrived, so I dismiss work matters and drive to the Victorian estate our building firm spent twelve months restoring before my relocation.
A peace offering from my father for dispatching me to this godforsaken backwater. I wouldn’t claim I despise it—that wouldn’t be accurate. But it certainly doesn’t align with my vision for this stage of my life.
When I thrust the front door open and enter the foyer, cold, polished marble meets my feet. The chandelier captures the evening light, scattering fractured diamonds across the space. The Monet adorning the west wall exceeds the value of most mansions. The space stands perfect. Immaculate. Vacant.
Home?
The term rings hollow. This estate serves as a declaration, not a refuge. In Pittsburgh, the family estate buzzes with noise. Vitality. Here, silence carries weight.
I remove my jacket, fold it over my arm. My footsteps reverberate as I traverse the extended hallway toward the kitchen. The sound trails me like an unwelcome shadow.