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)
I banish the thought immediately, disgusted with myself for the momentary lapse in discipline.
But even so… the electricity between us crackles with dangerous potential. A seed planted.
Power isn’t about indulging impulses—it’s about mastering them. About making others surrender while giving nothing of yourself away.
None of these thoughts leave the vault of my mind. “Absolutely not.” My voice drops an octave, turning to ice. “What do you take me for? I’m your boss, Emmaleen. It’s in your best interest to remember that.”
The rebuke lands with heat. Her shoulders drop a fraction of an inch—relief mixed with something else. Disappointment? Unlikely. Embarrassment at her own presumption? More probable.
I turn away, creating distance before my body betrays thoughts I’d rather keep hidden. The heat in my blood contradicts the coldness of my words.
Despite the reward of the game, the urge to touch her and ruin everything is there.
I will resist.
Wanting is weakness. And I am not weak.
Emmaleen tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “Then what are these punishments?”
“I take away your desk chair.”
Her expression freezes, the machinery behind those pale green eyes grinding to a halt. Gears jammed. System error. Recalculating.
“What?”
Perfect. Confusion is the first step in rebuilding someone’s reality to your specifications. Demolition before construction.
“Make you stand up all day.” I shrug, keeping my voice flat, matter-of-fact. A statement of natural consequences rather than punishment. “Sore feet are a suitable punishment for being late.”
The confusion spreading across her face is disbelief chased by indignation, followed by the dawning realization that she doesn’t have the leverage to object.
I’ve seen this sequence play out in boardrooms across Pittsburgh when the opposition realizes they’ve miscalculated their position. But hers has a certain... transparency that the practiced poker faces of businessmen lack. Authenticity. Refreshing, in its way.
“I don’t even have an office,” she stutters, hands fluttering uselessly in the air as she gestures around my apartment. “Is this where I work? I don’t understand. This is all... very confusing.”
The urge to smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. I suppress it. Smiling betrays satisfaction, and satisfaction reveals intent.
“Oh.” I feign surprise, glancing around my apartment as if seeing it through her eyes for the first time. As if I hadn’t calculated every inch of this space for maximum psychological impact. “Don’t mind all this domestic furniture. I don’t usually live here. I own that mansion on the top of the hill over there.”
I motion toward the window, watching as her gaze follows my hand. Her eyes widen slightly at the sight of the Victorian monstrosity looming over Riverview like a fortress. Another data point collected. Another lever identified.
“But I’ve decided to live here while you’re in training. There are too many women over there.” I pause, weighing precisely how much information to divulge. Too little creates paranoia. Too much creates familiarity. I need her balanced perfectly between both. “My associates bring them in every Sunday. The noise gets tiresome. The walls are thin, and the women they choose are... enthusiastic. It’s become a distraction I don’t need.”
Her expression shifts again—processing, buffering. I watch her mind work, trying to fit these new pieces into whatever narrative she’s constructed about me. Good. Let her try. The more she thinks she understands, the less she’ll question.
Confusion is a state I can exploit. People who are off-balance reach for anything stable—even if that stability is the hand of the person who pushed them.
“I’m bringing in a desk,” I continue, deliberately changing subjects before she can ask questions. Whiplash keeps her defensive systems compromised. “It should be here...” I check my watch, counting down the seconds I arranged hours ago.
On cue, a truck rumbles in the alley below. The timing is immaculate. Not luck—preparation.
I move to the window, gesturing down at the delivery truck. “Well, right now, it appears. I’ll be right back.”
6
I’m standing in a mob boss’s apartment holding his phone like I’ve won a particularly horrifying game show prize. Congratulations, Emmaleen! You’ve unlocked the Psychological Torture Round! Your reward is crippling uncertainty and the growing suspicion that you’ve accidentally joined a cult!
What exactly is happening here? I’ve gone from bakery disaster to... what? Personal assistant to a man who owns a mansion but prefers to live above his restaurant because his associates have too much sex? A man who punishes tardiness with furniture deprivation? This is either the worst job interview or the weirdest episode of Undercover Boss ever filmed.
My brain is frantically running calculations like a malfunctioning supercomputer. Twenty-one days until homelessness. Minus one if I walk out now. Plus however many days I can tolerate... whatever this is. Divided by my rapidly diminishing self-respect. The math is not mathing.
The phone in my hand vibrates, jolting me back to this dystopian HGTV nightmare. A text message appears from someone named Lucia: “Were you at my apartment last night? Please tell me it was you and some rando didn’t break in to steal my Loubs. My red ‘So Kates’ are missing. Call me when you get this.”