Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 60951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Besides, I’m not here for that. I’m here to get my hands on the Williams files, to pull apart the puzzle of my father’s conviction, to find out who really screwed him over. But underneath it all, there’s a steady pulse that doesn’t care about justice, or revenge, or anything but the chance to be devoured by the two men who nearly ruined my life.
I walk faster, chasing the feeling all the way home.
Tomorrow, it’ll be me in the room with the wolves. And to be honest … I can’t wait to be eaten by two handsome, dominating alpha males.
2
CHAPTER TWO – MY TWO BOSSES
Marnie
Ishow up at 8:30 a.m. even though my meeting with the partners isn’t until nine because if I’m not at least thirty minutes early, my mother’s voice starts up in my head about how “late is a character flaw, not just a habit.” I tell myself I’m here early so I can go over my answers, but the truth is, I’m afraid if I wait at home, I’ll lose my nerve and never make it in at all.
I take the elevator up with a gaggle of paralegals. They wear the same kind of uniform as me, only better tailored—black sheath dresses, razor-sharp blazers, shoes that cost more than my monthly rent. I try not to feel like a Target knockoff in my navy pencil skirt and cream blouse, but I do. The skirt is tight enough to be slightly risqué, but long enough to pass as “classic,” and my blouse is the kind that tries hard to look like silk but only manages polyester. I spent half an hour debating if I should wear my ballet flats, but in the end, I went with my heels because the outfit just doesn’t look right with flat shoes. Now, I can already feel an ache beginning to develop in the ball of my right foot. Serves me right.
The doors open on the twentieth floor. My pulse thumps like a bass drum. Oh god, it’s Ms. Jenkins again, who manages a freezing smile before waving me down the hall to the main conference suite. It’s not a room so much as a statement of intent: glass on three sides, a slab of mahogany the size of a ping-pong table gleaming in the center, and chairs that look imported from the lair of a Bond villain.
I step in and instantly feel like I’m trespassing because it’s so goddamn professional, while I’m a lowly “pretend paralegal” in her shabby, not-quite-appropriate Target outfit. Sunlight pours over the city skyline, blinding and surgical. On the table: a pitcher of water, two crystal tumblers, a single legal pad, and a neat stack of coasters, each monogrammed with the firm’s logo. I clutch my notebook to my chest, trying to get my heartrate under control.
You’ve already been hired, Marnie, the voice in my head soothes. This is just a formality. Besides, Mr. Gibson and Mr. Grant would never care about someone as plebian as you.
Still, my fingers are going numb when I hear footsteps in the hallway: long, unhurried, and expensive. I straighten up and do a quick double check—skirt not riding up, hair not frizzing out, lipstick not on teeth. I’m trying so hard to look competent I barely notice the door opening.
And then Brent Gibson walks in.
I recognize him before he even says a word. You don’t forget a face that’s been on the cover of every law review and city magazine in the last decade. He’s even bigger than he looks in photos—six-three, minimum, with shoulders like a linebacker packed into a custom charcoal suit. His hair is black, not just dark, but the kind of ebony that looks blue under certain lights, with a sharp streak of silver at the temples that makes him look both distinguished and dangerous. The eyes are the color of frozen lakes, pale blue and icy, taking in the room and everything in it—including me—in a single sweep.
I’m so busy processing his size and presence that it takes me a second to realize he’s already extending his hand.
“Ms. Williams,” he says. His voice is so deep it rattles my bones. “Brent Gibson. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I reach for his hand, but he gets there first, enveloping mine in a grip that’s equal parts iron and velvet. It’s not a standard handshake—it lingers, palm to palm, hot and meaningful, for at least two beats longer than what’s legal in most states. I feel my fingers go limp and then overcompensate, squeezing back like I’m trying to prove a point. His mobile lips tick upward in the briefest smirk at the corner, and at once, I know I’m in big trouble. Still, I have to pretend like I’m a sentient human being who can earn her keep.