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 make myself another coffee in the French press, eyeing the clock and counting the minutes until I can start phase two of day one.
The rich aroma fills the apartment—a deliberate taunt. I don’t offer her any. Don’t speak. Don’t acknowledge the soft groan she makes when shifting her weight again.
The hours crawl by. She’s overtaken my living room like a quiet invasion. Receipts stretch across every surface—floor, counter, coffee table. Even the armrest of my couch now holds a precarious stack. Her fingers tremble slightly as she adds another invoice to it.
My space no longer feels like mine.
She’s claimed it without a word.
By eleven, sweat glistens on her brow and upper lip. The yellow cardigan is gone, folded over the desk. The oatmeal tank top underneath clings to her back as she bends, revealing shoulder blades and the delicate curve of her spine, all wrapped in effort. A bead of sweat slides down her neck and disappears beneath the fabric.
I shift, feeling a low pull of heat I have no business indulging.
The coffee is bitter and strong against my tongue. I savor both the taste and the silence, noting the slow shift in power between us. She’s still standing. Still trying. Still unaware of just how far this test will go.
She thinks this is the worst of it.
She’s wrong.
At noon, I glance over at Miss Take from behind the counter that separates the kitchen from the living room.
She’s been at it for nearly four hours without a single complaint. No water. No bathroom breaks. Just methodical, focused organization of the mess I deliberately created for her.
Her fingers move with precision, sorting invoices with surprising efficiency. The system she’s created across my apartment is... intelligent.
Almost impressive, if I cared to be impressed.
“Lunch break,” I announce, setting my mug down with a deliberate clink against the granite.
I watch her face carefully. There it is—that flicker of relief, a spark of hope that bleeds through before she can mask it. Her shoulders relax a fraction of an inch. Her hands hover over the papers, uncertain now.
I stand, reaching for the Lambo key fob on the kitchen counter. The hope drains from her expression as she tracks my movement.
“You’ll need to pick something up for me first,” I say, rolling the Lamborghini key between my fingers, feeling the weight of the metal warm against my skin. “From my house. “That one—up there, on the hill.”
I pause for effect, watching her eyes follow mine to the window, tracking her gaze as it lifts to the mansion perched like a sentinel above the city.
The morning light catches on the distant windows, making them flash like warning signals. I can practically see her mind working, calculating the distance, weighing her options, wondering what kind of errand I’m sending her on.
The confusion that crosses her face is delicious—brows pulling together, lips parting slightly as she processes what I’m asking. Her gaze fixes on the mansion perched on the hillside overlooking the town, then back to me, trying to understand the game.
“In the master bedroom,” I say, voice low, deliberate. “There’s a walk-in closet. Find me a suit. Dark, pressed, respectable.”
She blinks rapidly, processing. “Wait—you want me to go to your house? By myself?”
I let a smile form—slow, cold, sharp-edged. The kind that doesn’t reach my eyes because it isn’t meant to comfort. It’s meant to unsettle.
“Take my car.” I toss the Lambo fob underhand across the room.
She fumbles but catches it, her fingers closing around the metal just before it hits the floor. A small victory for her. Her eyes drop to the key in her palm like it might be radioactive. The tiny metal Lamborghini emblem catches the light slashing across my loft floor.
The Lambo key fob is uninspiring so this one is custom made. Black Matte, like the car, with sterling silver accents.
That key fob costs more than she’ll make in a month. The car costs more than she’ll make in two decades.
The calculation is right there on her face—risk versus reward. Drive a $300,000 vehicle up a winding hill to a stranger’s mansion to retrieve a suit.
She’s wondering if it’s a trap.
It is.
“Go on,” I say, opening my laptop. “I’ve got a conference call in three minutes. The sooner you finish the errand, the quicker you can take a break.”
I turn away from her, dismissive, making it clear the conversation is over.
She shifts her weight in those ridiculous shoes, the soft scrape of leather against the hardwood floor.
Those heels must be killing her feet by now.
I look up, annoyed. “Why are you still here?”
She takes a step back, then another.
I return to my laptop screen, dismissing her a second time.
But I’m tracking every movement in my peripheral vision. The cardigan is awkwardly shrugged on. She hesitates at the door. That glance back as her fingers tremble, gripping the key fob.