Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 31800 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 159(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31800 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 159(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
The executive floor is eerily quiet compared to the chaos of my normal floor. The carpet is thicker. The lighting softer. Everything whispers money in a way that makes my Target clearance outfit feel like it might spontaneously combust from inadequacy.
I stop in front of the massive double doors at the end of the hallway. There’s no nameplate. No sign. Nothing to indicate that beyond this threshold waits the man who now owns my company and, apparently, my career’s death warrant.
Just breathe, Scarlette.
I raise my hand to knock, but before my knuckles can make contact, a voice calls from inside.
“Enter.”
Sweet mercy, even through a door his voice does that...thing. That electric, tingling thing that makes my insides feel like melting caramel.
I push the door open and step inside, trying desperately to channel the confidence of someone who didn’t just compare their new boss to a predatory animal in a company newsletter.
The office is exactly what you’d expect from a man worth billions. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing Manhattan like it’s his personal chess board. Furniture that probably costs more than my student loans. Art on the walls that looks like it should be in a museum.
And there he is.
Sheikh Lykan Qahiri.
Standing by the window, his back to me, a dark silhouette against the city skyline. He doesn’t turn immediately, which gives me an unwelcome moment to notice how his bespoke suit fits his shoulders like it was painted on. How his hair, dark as midnight, curls just slightly at the nape of his neck. How he stands with the kind of confidence that comes from never having been told no.
“Miss Hood.”
He turns, and I nearly swallow my tongue.
Photos don’t do this man justice.
Not even close.
His face belongs on currency. All sharp angles and perfect symmetry, with cheekbones that could cut glass and a jaw you could sharpen knives on. His skin is a warm bronze, his eyes so dark they’re almost black, and when they lock onto mine, I forget how to breathe.
“You’re thirty seconds late,” he says.
I’m about to smile weakly...until I realize he isn’t joking.
“I’m s-sorry,” I stammer. “I—”
“I said five minutes.” He glances at his watch, which looks properly expensive. Like, billionaire-expensive, if you know what I mean. “You took five minutes and thirty seconds.”
My mouth opens and closes.
I just sprinted across the building like I was qualifying for the Olympics, and he’s timing me?
“I apologize,” is all I can think of saying. “I promise it won’t—”
“Sit.”
Is it just me or is he inordinately fond of cutting people off?
Honestly, I feel just the slightest bit tempted to refuse, on principle.
But when he raises a brow, my body automatically starts moving, and I guess I’m not as principled as I thought.
I take a seat on the chair he gestured to earlier while the sheikh walks to his desk and leans against it, arms crossed, looking down at me from his considerable height. The power move is so obvious it would be funny if I weren’t busy having a silent meltdown.
“Do you know why you’re here, Miss Hood?”
Several possible answers flash through my mind. Because I’m about to be fired? Because I compared you to a predator in an internal newsletter? Because someone in Vista Lending hate-tattled on me?
“You said something about acquiring Vista Lending,” I manage.
“Yes.” He reaches behind him, picks up a folder, and drops it in my lap. “And several other properties.”
I open the folder, confused. Inside are photos of buildings. Ordinary buildings in what looks like a small town. It takes me a moment to recognize—
My heart stops.
“This is Chisa,” I say, my voice suddenly hoarse.
“Yes.”
I flip through the photos faster. There’s the town square. The old movie theater. The row of shops along Main Street. And—
“Grandma Jackie’s bakery.”
The words escape in a whisper. My fingers tremble against the glossy image of the red-brick building I’ve known all my life. The place where I spent every summer. Where I learned to bake cookies and balance books and crush on boys with messy hair and kind eyes.
“You own this?” I look up at him, disbelief warring with a horrible, creeping dread.
“As of last week.” He says it so casually, like he’s talking about buying a coffee, not uprooting lives. “The entire block, actually. Prime location for redevelopment.”
“Redevelopment?” The word feels like ash in my mouth. “You mean demolition.”
He shrugs, one elegant shoulder rising and falling. “The structures are outdated. Inefficient. The land value far exceeds—”
“That bakery has been in my family for four generations,” I cut in, the words rushing out before I can stop them. “My grandmother lives in the apartment upstairs. The whole town depends on it as a gathering place. You can’t just tear it down.”
“Actually, I can.” His voice is still perfectly even, perfectly controlled. “That’s the thing about ownership, Miss Hood. It grants certain rights—”