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)
This is so weird. Demerits. Standing desks as punishment. One desk in a living room does not transform an apartment into an office. It’s like putting a litter box in your kitchen and calling it a cat café.
And then there’s the elephant in the room—or rather, the word still electric on my tongue. Spanking. I said it out loud. To my boss. On day one. My brain keeps replaying it in high-definition humiliation-vision, complete with surround sound and director’s commentary.
For fuck’s sake, Emmaleen. Get a grip. You’re standing here getting aroused over a standing desk punishment. What’s next? Sexually charged fantasies about the copy machine jamming? Office supply fetishes? Will you start finding staplers erotic?
Giovanni clears his throat, the sound cutting through my internal spiral like a knife.
“So what’s your decision?” He gestures to the phone in my hand. “I need to know now so I can cancel the temp I hired for this afternoon.”
I blink. “Temp?”
“I don’t know how you spend your days, Miss Take, but I work.” His voice is all smooth edges and sharp corners. “If you remember correctly, you were eight minutes late. At the five-minute mark, I called my temp agency. The girl will be here at one. So are you signing the contract, or not? Because if so, we’ve got things to discuss. And if not, you need to be on your way.”
The temp agency. Of course. This man has a backup plan for his backup plan. Probably has a warehouse full of desperate women waiting to be summoned to standing desks across town.
My finger hovers over the signature line on the screen. A tiny rebellion flashes through me—a second where I consider walking out, preserving whatever shreds of dignity I have left, and spending the next three weeks hustling for minimum wage jobs before officially becoming homeless.
But the math is brutal and unavoidable. Twenty-one days minus zero dollars equals zero options.
I press my finger to the screen and trace my signature.
When I look up, Giovanni’s face has transformed. He’s smiling—a real, dark, predatory satisfaction that makes his previous expressions seem like blank paper. It’s the look of someone who’s just watched their elaborate trap spring shut exactly as designed.
Oh god. What have I done?
The realization crashes through me: this wasn’t about the job, or the desk, or even the eight minutes. This was about getting me to surrender. To choose the chains. To sign on the dotted line and hand him the power he didn’t even have to demand.
And right behind that panic comes a second, more disturbing realization that hits like a slap: he’s fucking hot.
Not in the conventional, Instagram-model way. Hot like a storm system. Like something dangerous you shouldn’t stand near but can’t look away from. The kind of hot that makes you hate yourself a little for noticing.
I hate it. Love it. Want to crawl inside it and smash it all at once.
His eyes hold mine as he takes the phone back, our fingers brushing in a contact that shouldn’t feel like anything but somehow feels like everything.
“Excellent choice, Miss Rourke. Let’s begin.”
His words hang in the air like a threat. A promise. Something in between.
I swallow hard, trying to figure out what exactly I’ve signed up for. The desk looms between us, a sleek chrome and glass monstrosity that feels more like an altar than office furniture. I resist the urge to take a step back.
“Begin what, exactly?” I ask, aiming for professional detachment but landing somewhere closer to wary confusion.
Giovanni walks around the desk, trailing his fingers along its surface like he’s introducing two old friends. “Your job, Miss Take.”
I stiffen, my spine going rigid. “My name is Emmaleen Rourke.”
He stops. Looks up at me. And then—he laughs. Not the controlled, calculated sound I’d expect, but something full and genuine. Low and dangerous, like thunder rolling in from miles away.
“Mistakes,” he says, green eyes gleaming. “That’s all you’ve been making. Little Miss Take.”
The nickname burns into me like a branding iron. It’s not just the casual cruelty of it that stings, but the potential for public humiliation. I can already hear it echoing through the restaurant, following me like a shadow. His private ownership stamped on me for everyone to see.
I open my mouth to object, but he continues speaking as if the matter is settled.
“To burn your ten demerits for being late this morning, you will not have a chair today.” He gestures to the empty space beneath the desk where the chair should be. “You will stand at the desk and complete the tasks I assign you.”
His tone is clinical. Dismissive. Like he’s reading nutritional information off a cereal box. Not even worth negotiating.
“You’re serious?” I say, but the words lack conviction. We both know I have no leverage here.
“I’m always serious about business, Miss Take.” The nickname slides off his tongue with practiced ease now, like he’s been using it for years. “And this is business.”