Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23854 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 80(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23854 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 80(@300wpm)
No wife. No girlfriend. No attachments.
Women come and go through my life. Models at high-profile events, analysts who think fucking the boss is a viable career move, socialites who hear the word ‘billionaire’ and show up at the building with their tits out, looking for a taste of the fortune.
I use them when I need to, but I don’t remember any of them.
You might call that harsh. I call it efficient.
By eight-thirty, I’ve hit the gym and showered and am reviewing our overnight positions in my office when Marcus walks in. He hands me a coffee and sets a tablet down in front of me.
Marcus is my COO. He’s an ex-con who I pulled out of Rikers ten years ago. The guy hacked three federal databases before his twenty-first birthday. Keeping him behind bars was a waste. He’s been my right-hand man ever since and the only guy in the office who isn’t afraid of me.
“Thought I’d just run this by you,” he says, swiping the screen awake. “Nineteen-year-old girl sent in a blind resume. No real experience and currently three months behind on her rent.”
I casually raise an eyebrow. “And you’re showing me this because…?”
He smirks. Here it comes. “Because I ran her background, and she’s got nobody. No husband, no boyfriend, no money. Her only friend is a bartender. She’s applied to thirty-seven jobs in the last seventy-two hours.”
“And you know all that how?”
“I went to prison for hacking, boss,” he laughs. “And this surprises you?”
That’s true. I nod and watch as he flicks his finger again and pulls up her photo.
Every thought in my mind disappears. Stops. Like a fuse blowing and causing an electrical failure.
She’s not a supermodel, but she’s not trying to be. And that’s what makes her devastating.
Her face is soft and round, the kind of face that belongs in a painting. Her headshot is amateur, not corporate, and she’s makeup free. No contouring, no filler, no practiced angles or poses.
And her eyes—big and hazel—look almost startled by the camera, like she wasn’t sure anyone would actually ever see the photo.
Her lips are full and natural. The kind most women pay for these days. The kind that would look so perfect wrapped around my—
No, don’t. Calm down.
She’s half-smiling, but it’s not the smile of a woman who knows she’s beautiful. It’s the smile of a girl who’s been passed over her whole life. Who’s convinced herself that she’s forgettable.
“What’s her name?” I ask.
“Hazel. Hazel Briggs.”
Hazel…Just like her eyes.
Something cracks inside my chest and goes right down to my core. All the way.
“Boss…you okay?”
No. I’m not okay.
I’m staring at this photo of a nineteen-year-old girl I’ve never met, and my hands are gripping the edge of my desk so hard my knuckles are starting to ache. My cock is also swelling against my thigh, and there’s a pressure deep in my stomach that goes beyond lust.
It’s hunger. And not the kind I know how to handle.
This is something different entirely.
“Three months behind on rent?” My voice is raspy, almost angry.
Marcus studies me. He knows me better than anyone here, and I can see he’s trying to read what’s going on behind my eyes. “That’s right. Her landlord’s about to start eviction proceedings.”
“Build a job listing to make it look legitimate. Executive Assistant.” So she’s desperate. Desperate to sign something she hasn’t even read…
The thought should disgust me, but it doesn’t. I’m overwhelmed right now.
“And pull up the full contract template,” I tell him.
Marcus pauses. “The full template?”
“You heard me.”
“We’ve never actually used that before, boss—”
“Pull it up,” I snap.
He stares at me for a second, like he’s weighing whether or not he should push back. But he doesn’t. He’s too smart for that.
He may not know what’s going on inside me, but he knows the look I’m wearing right now—the same one I wear before making a trade that everyone thinks is insane but makes us millions.
Only this isn’t a trade. No, this is far more dangerous.
Marcus pulls up the contract template on the tablet, an unused relic from the early days of the firm when I thought I could systemize every aspect of my life.
Buried deep in the boilerplate language, past the salary terms and health benefits and standard NDA language are two clauses no legitimate contract would ever contain.
Relief services. The employee agrees to make herself available for the personal, physical needs of the CEO whenever needed, during and outside of standard business hours.
Non-termination. The employee may not resign, abandon, or otherwise vacate the position without the express written consent of the employer or will face financial penalties.
No sane woman would read this and sign it. But if I’m right, this girl won’t read it.
“Send it over to her,” I say. “Along with the NDA and an acceptance letter. Make it look standard.”
“Dominic—”
“She’s not gonna read it, Marcus.” My eyes move to the photo again, and my chest tightens so hard it almost hurts. “She’s broke and scared of being tossed from her apartment. She needs money and probably didn’t even expect a response from us. She’ll sign anything. Send it!”