The Billionaire Bribe

"Do you have a boyfriend," Luka Brankovich questions. He takes a long sip from his glass of sparkling water with a twist of lime, his steely gaze piercing through me as if he's a human lie detector that could sense bullshit from a mile away. Even though Luka Brankovich is my best friend, Katarina's older brother, in the four years I'd roomed with her at Princeton University, I'd only met the man a handful of times, and each encounter I'm sure I left him with quite the impression but not in the good sort of way. I feel my cheeks heat as I experience secondhand embarrassment for my nineteen-year-old self, who first met the man at Katarina's twenty-first birthday bash about a year ago. I'd been tipsy, and somewhere between a bathroom break and my fourth whiskey sour, I'd lost one of my contacts, causing me to have double blurry fucking vision. Therefore, in my quest to find my missing contact without getting on all fours on the ground of a luxury hotel ballroom like a clumsy baby elephant, I crouched at my waist, walking in a circle looking for the damn thing until I swung my arms up in frustration which was an awful mistake in a crowded ballroom. My balled fist connected with a waiter's throat that was quickly maneuvering through the partygoers and sent the poor man ungracefully flailing in the air, causing his tray full of sparkling champagne flutes filled to the brim to land on the nearest person walking by.

Of all the people in the world who could have been unfortunate enough to be rained on by the sticky golden substance, Luka Brankovich, the heir to Brankovich's billion-dollar empire, had to be the ill-fated recipient—time seemed to slow as I watched in gut-wrenching horror as the scene played out like an NFL game instant replay broadcasted on ESPN. Before the poor man even knew what hit him, a shower of golden bubbles and champagne flutes descended upon him, drenching his once-pristine classic charcoal gray tailored Tom Ford Suit, crisp white designer dress shirt, and expensive-looking silk navy blue tie in a cascade of commotion. I felt like the wind had been knocked out of my lungs as the once rambunctious grand ballroom filled with laughter and pop music fell into a hushed silence, only punctuating the obnoxiously loud clatter of the shattered crystal glasses on the marble floor. For a moment, Luka stood frozen, his face expressionless, champagne dripping from his sandy brown hair and soaking through his suit, making the high-quality white cotton cling to his muscular chest and chiseled abdomen. I let out a loud, audible gasp, causing his stony expression to flitter in my direction. A low murmur of concern and disbelief swept through the room of elite guests as their eyes volleyed between our disgraced trio.

Yet, all eyes were on Luka, awaiting the typically cold billionaire heir's response. With a deep breath, Luka composed himself, a faint smile breaking through his ordinary mask of aloofness. Shaking off the droplets with a throaty chuckle, he waved off the mortified server's profuse apologies, assuring him he wasn't to blame for the humiliating ordeal. His laughter, coming off genuine, and his demeanor seemingly devoid of any anger, gradually eased the uneasy tension in the ballroom, encouraging some of the other guests to join in on his laughter.

"Looks like I'm the toast of the evening," Luka joked, his piercing, nerve-wracking gaze never leaving my face, causing my stomach to churn in agony, even if his attempt at humor diffused any lingering awkwardness from the laughing crowd, my gut instinct told me I was on his shit list. Unsure how to apologize for the situation, I rushed to his side, trying to help the waiter dab his suit with spare cocktail napkins as the party continued around us.

Luka waved off the waiter with a dismissive flick of his wrist, but before I could make a move to disappear into the crowd, he grabbed my wrist painfully, holding the disintegrating napkin against his chest, lowering his head to whisper in my ear, "I guess, I need to send you my fucking dry cleaning bill for ruining a twelve thousand dollar suit, huh, you fucking klutz?"

I tried to swallow around the lump in my throat but couldn't, balking at the price. As a broke-ass scholarship student at Princeton, I could barely afford ramen noodles. There was no way in hell I could pay to replace his suit; hell, I probably couldn't even afford his dry cleaning bill. As he pulled away from me, pinning me with the angriest glare, the only thing I could muster in response was, "I guess golden showers aren't your thing, then?"

Luka clears his throat, giving me an annoyed glare. He glances at the white gold Patek Phillipe on his wrist, a reminder that his time is invaluable. This pulls me from my nightmarish thoughts and back to the here and now as I confusingly ask, "A boyfriend?"

My palms are getting sweatier by the second as his beautiful face searches mine. His expression is a subdued mask working as protective armor, not allowing anyone a sliver of a glimmer into his thoughts or genuine emotions.

"Or a girlfriend," he inquires, picking up his fork, spearing a piece of grilled sea bass, and popping it into his mouth. My mouth feels like sandpaper, and my throat goes dry from watching the sexiest man I've ever seen in my life chew. Hell, my brain turns to slush, and I can't think of anything other than how amazing it would feel to kiss those nice, pouty, full, rose-colored lips. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, my panties growing damp under my simple black shift dress as my eyes follow the movement.

Well, I'll be damned. Who knew watching someone eat fish could be such a damn aphrodisiac?

"A person you fuck," Luka asks, making my skin feel prickly and tight and causing my stomach to do cartwheels like I'm on a roller coaster ride, suddenly dropping from the highest track. My eyes snap to his at the crude question, bringing my wayward thoughts back to why I'm here with my best friend's gorgeous older brother, dining at a high-end restaurant in one of the most luxurious hotels in Princeton, New Jersey.

What the hell? Why does he have this sudden interest in my sex life? I try to rack my mind for illegal interview questions, but I'm coming up blank. Damn, I should've paid closer attention to my career development course at Princeton University before I graduated, but instead, I had chosen to devote all my time and attention to my senior developmental psychology thesis, which became highly acclaimed in Princeton's psychology department due to it being about nurturing resilience in traumatized adolescents within low-income environments. I was still patting myself on the back for that win even though I had experienced nothing but L's since graduation. I swear, adulting sucks ass, and with a rating of nine out of ten, I highly don't recommend it.

"I think that's an illegal question to ask in an interview. Plus, what are you even going to do with that information," I ask, taking a nervous sip from my glass of water and choking on the carbonation from the lukewarm sparkling liquid that tastes like flat ginger ale and old gym socks.

How do ultrawealthy people drink this shit like it's going out of style? My poor ass would rather take my chances drinking straight from the tap of a sink faucet than subject myself to this crap again.

The corner of Luka's mouth turns up in a small, unbelievably genuine smile like a gorgeous, sadistic prick enjoying the sight of me choking and wheezing. My eyes blur and burn with tears as my chest feels like heavyweight boxer Mike Tyson is pummeling it, each swallow a sucker punch to the heart. When I finally recover from my coughing fit, the asshole doesn't say sorry or ask if I'm okay. Instead, he raises one perfectly groomed eyebrow like he's asking if I'm done having a moment rather than making sure I won't keel over and die in this fine dining establishment.

"I ask because your best friend's with my wild child little sister who loves to share how much she likes to fuck and has no filter in sharing her sexual escapades as if it's a normal response to asking how's the weather," he grimaces, his beautiful rosy golden complexion turning a tinge of green, bringing a smile to my lips at the mention of my free-spirited best friend and how her lack of inhibitions make her stick up the ass brother sick to his stomach, I'm sure he's someone who probably only fucks in missionary and couldn't find a woman's clitoris to save his firstborn child, which is a shame because the man is any woman's sexual fantasy come to life. He clears his throat, continuing, "I can't have strange people on my estate and coming in and out of my home at all hours of the night or day, even with you having your own living space as the caretaker of my kids, I need to know that won't be a problem for you, Ms. Emily Moore."

"My name is Emma, not Emily," I state, slowly licking my lips, which are painfully chapped and cracking from all the stress. Luka's gaze follows the slow movement of my tongue, causing the base of my spine to tingle and me to clench my thighs under the table. For a moment, it's as if the rare violet irises of his gaze darken to a deep plum shade as his chest noticeably heaves as he bites his full bottom lip as if me moistening my chapped lips caused him to feel something rivaling desire for me rather than his usual annoyance.

Get a grip on yourself, Emma. Now is not the time to get delusional. Luka Brankovich looks like a breathtaking mix between Simone Susinna and Christopher Mason, with a mouthwatering muscular build and standing well over six foot tall coupled with those jarring purple eyes; there's no chance in hell of all people that I could give Toronto's most eligible billionaire bachelor a hard on. My eyes wander from his mouth back to his strikingly beautiful eyes that rest inquisitively on my face. No one this grumpy should be this fucking hot. It's almost like that permanent scowl on his face adds to his sex appeal. I feel out of my element sitting here with this man at this expensive restaurant nestled within the best hotel in town. Even the Maître D, who escorted me to this table, took one look at me in my thrift store black shift dress and T.J. Maxx clearance blazer and immediately knew me receiving any of Luka's Brankovich's time and attention is a dauntless punch well above my weight class.

I should've never confided in my best friend and roommate my dilemma of either selling my eggs to continue pursuing my dream career of becoming a licensed clinical child psychologist or making the logical choice, as a jobless new college graduate, of moving back home to my hood in Compton until I could save the money I needed for graduate school. My biggest fear is that if I moved back home, I wouldn't be so lucky as to achieve a second great escape from the clutches of poverty that swallowed so many girls like me whole, leaving behind a trail of broken dreams and unheard wishes in its path. Kat had informed me she had the answers to my prayers since I refused her help, not wanting to feel like a freeloader by staying in our apartment; at the same time, she gallivanted around the world on her "eat, pray, love" saga of finding herself. While a mere peon like me applied for grad school and job hunted for a post-college job that would look good on my grad school application and help me pay to advance my education in developmental psychology.

When she suggested I apply for the nanny gig to her older pretentious brother's twins, I wasn't completely sold, but having helped raise my four younger siblings, I thought, you know, why the hell not?

I'd get free room and board and a six-figure salary. I knew I couldn't pass up this opportunity, so I practiced answering the traditional interview questions like those generic ones you google and find on the internet. The "So tell me about yourself" and "What's your greatest strength or weakness" kind of questions, I was unprepared for the "How many dicks are you bouncing on at this current time" interview questions. I peer into this gorgeous man's unsettling eyes, weighing between my two greatest evils. Did I want to work for this elitist asshole and spend the summer wiping Brankovich brats' asses and possibly dealing with a bitter baby mama, or did I want to go back to feeling trapped in my childhood home, co-parenting and risk not being able to crawl out the gutter a second time and squander the opportunity to achieve my career ambitions?

There was only one correct answer to the perilous battle warring in my mind, and I knew I couldn't look at myself in the mirror if I didn't become a child psychologist and fulfilled my lifelong ambitions.

"I don't have sex, or even like it, at least I don't think I like sex," I blurt out and continue to word vomit, "I mean, I'm no virgin, but I was too busy making dean's list at Princeton to spend my time having sex. So, trust me, you won't have to worry about me having loud sex until the early morning and strange men coming and going as they, please. I love and adore Kat, but we differ in many ways. Our sex lives are one of them."

Luka looks at me bemused, nods, and dismissively responds, "I’ll be in touch. Feel free to order whatever you want off the menu on me. I’m an extremely busy man, so I have to run.” He unfolds his tall, muscular frame out of the dining room chair. He’s impeccably dressed in one of his signature designer suits that perfectly molds to his delicious body. If this man wasn’t the COO of the number one automotive company in the world, he could easily find work as a high fashion supermodel or well-sought-out fitness influencer.

“Wait, that’s it? You’re not going to ask me about my background or work experience or why I need this job,” I question, annoyed; he had me catch a fucking ride share all the way here for a twenty-minute meeting of being asked about my relationship status, sex life, and watching him eat lunch.

Luka shrugs, giving me a look of boredom, and firmly states, “I don’t like to be questioned. It’s annoying and clearly a waste of my time, Miss Emma Bailey Moore,” pausing before he continues emphasizing each syllable of my name to make a dig at me that earlier his calling me Emily was a power play, to make me feel small, “You were born June 21, 2003, you’re a new graduate with a bachelor’s of art in psychology from Princeton University with a 3.89 GPA, you’re the oldest of five children to a young single mother, you grew up in one of the worst neighborhoods in Compton, California graduating not only a year early from high school but as valedictorian. You have no criminal record, not even a speeding or parking ticket. Do you want me to announce your bra size and how many cavities you’ve had as an adult? Trust me, I’ve done my research and will not have someone looking after my kids without doing my homework. If I’m interested, I’ll get in touch. Enjoy lunch on me.”

He gives me one more once over before turning and confidently striding out without even a backward glance. I sit back in my chair, feeling emotionally exposed and trying not to fixate on if this interview could’ve gone any worse. I think about ordering the entire menu and not eating any of it just to be petty, but I doubt Mr. Billionaire Brankovich would even blink an eye at my childish antics. I fight back tears, feeling defeated and my stomach churning in agony. I fish my phone out of my small crossbody to text Kat about this horrible experience when I notice an email notification from ten minutes ago with a job offer and details to meet Luka Brankovich in two weeks at an airport I didn’t know existed in Princeton, New Jersey.

I see fucking red, my body furiously shaking as I realize that the jackass was going to hire me before I even sat down and endured the most awkward fucking interview in my almost twenty-one years of life. Luka just wanted to make me squirm, feel uncomfortable, and humiliate me, like any alpha who saw himself at the top of the food chain in the animal kingdom toying with its prey.

This first encounter with my new employer, Luka, left me feeling repulsed and uneasy. I was beginning to think that home sweet home in Compton was starting to look like a newfound holy grail; it was quickly becoming the lesser of the two evils.

I can hear nothing but the roaring of my loud heart beating a mile a minute in my chest as I try to figure out what the hell kind of mess I allowed Kat to get me into this time. I place a clammy palm on my forehead, rubbing my throbbing temples as the telltale signs of a cluster headache strike me. I lean against the heavy wooden door of my new living space, an anything-but-modest townhome attached to Luka Brankovich’s extravagant sprawling estate, allowing the coldness of the townhome door to cool my overly heated flesh.

“Ugh,” I wail loudly, letting out two more grunts as I bang the back of my head against the door as I try to fucking process the whirlwind of the last few hours after waking up at the ass crack of dawn to meet Luka, at the private airstrip. When my rideshare driver pulled up to the executive airport, he let out a low throaty whistle and chuckled at the sight of the impressive massive Brankovich private jet. I gazed at the airplane’s sleek, glittery silver fuselage glinting in the streams of early morning sunlight; my hands began to tremble as I wrestled with the door handle of the car, noticing the discreet yet unmistakable Brankovich family crest adorning the side of the plane as an obnoxious status symbol of the elitist world I’d be stepping into. A luxurious world in which I had no business trying to infiltrate. My confusion about this unknown airport in Princeton became crystal clear because, of course, someone like Luka Brankovich wouldn’t dare fly commercial with the likes of the average person.

That was only the start of the morning’s events replaying in my mind like a bad 1980s slasher film, each event getting more heinous than the last. If I thought the interview was a mindfuck, I should’ve braced myself for the private jet ride that was nothing short of awkward, tense, and uncomfortable with Luka and the cute late twenty-something man he tersely introduced to me as his personal assistant. I couldn’t tell if Luka’s frosty demeanor was the norm I had to look forward to in my new employer or if he had just woken up on the wrong side of the bed that morning. The man was a serious fucking grouch, and he was unnerving to be around, especially when he turned a violet death glare on me and his personal assistant, letting it be known that his preferred language to be spoken on this flight was silence. Luka’s cold detachment and the asshole air he exuded left me feeling like an unwelcome guest in his presence the entire plane ride. There weren’t enough psychology classes in the universe for anyone to take and thoroughly comprehend to get a good read on a gorgeous, mysterious enigma like Luka; he proved to me with every encounter that maybe I couldn’t read people as well as I thought.

Then there was the dossier thrust into my hands by his personal assistant this morning, even before I took my last step descending the private jet’s stairs to the black luxury SUV and its driver, who doubled as a bodyguard, that awaited me. The dossier, a hefty black binder that I swore held more pages than the holy bible, a meticulously organized detailed summary of my role’s “responsibilities,” now felt like a three-hundred-pound weight in my backpack, a tangible reminder of the reality I’d just stepped into with both eyes glued tightly shut.

I snort to myself at my audacity to think I would only serve Luka as a nanny. No, that would’ve been way too simple. My beautiful sadist of an employer was going to make me earn every single cent of my paycheck. When I opened the dossier on the car ride from the airport, my eyes bulged out of my head when I read the words house manager on the first page. A house manager of his ostentatious ten-acre forty thousand square foot fortress, and as part of my job, I’d be responsible for overseeing the intricate workings that kept his mansion afloat and smoothly running.

I cursed Kat’s name under my breath because proposing to me a job as Luka’s nanny was a bit of a stretch. And speaking of the word nanny, I couldn’t help but roll my eyes and scoff at the thought of it because I was now the luckiest woman alive with the privilege of being the “nanny” to two elitist ultrarich teens with stank-ass attitudes that personified privilege. Both took one look at me when sliding into the back of the SUV and regarded me with blatant disdainful looks of contempt, their dismissive sneers making it clear that they viewed me like an annoying piece of gum stuck to the soles of their designer shoes.

But my favorite part of meeting them was when Mila, Luka’s teen daughter, turned her beautiful violet eyes on me, choosing to take a short break from her cell to give me a quick once over and snidely remark to her twin brother, Milo, that she guessed their dad went slumming for a new caregiver and house manager, so the men in this family could actually learn how to keep their dicks in their pants. I sat there in shock, stunned silence at the young girl’s remark as her brother rolled his jade green eyes at the car ceiling and pretended to ignore my existence.

My initial mental images of cuddly toddlers were hysterically naive. Instead, I’d be dealing with teenage terror twins, whom I could best describe as Bargain Bin Kardashian and Chief McBroody. Only two spawns from Luka himself could seem to ooze an air of disdain that only a bottomless bank account could afford to indulge.

Yet, even after all of those mishaps, my anxiety hit a new high when we arrived at Luka’s Millionaires’ Row Toronto estate, which was a daunting culture shock in itself. Even reading the words in the dossier about the ten-acre, forty-thousand-square-foot estate couldn’t prepare me for the sheer size and luxury of the property that left me absolutely fucking speechless. It made my head spin from the tiny glimpses of the meticulously landscaped gardens that seemed to stretch endlessly as the car sped through the wrought-iron gates of the estate. The enormous mansion was a marvel of architectural genius, its imposing façade blending classic and modern design, paying homage to Luka’s eastern European heritage. I had a sudden urge to pinch myself because I had to be dreaming. This wasn’t my current life. How would I be capable of navigating Luka’s glamourous world when I had grown up with the mean streets of Compton as my etiquette and life skills teachers, scraping by with next to nothing? I mean, how was I, a girl from the ghetto, supposed to navigate this world of fame, power, and riches?

Taking a long heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose, wrestling with feeling overwhelmed, I fish my phone from the pocket of my jean shorts, dialing the number of my overly helpful best friend, who’d gotten me mixed up in this disaster—Kat, who I was beginning to believe deserved a demotion from that role after this fiasco. As I get ready to call Kat, my phone rings, and her name appears on the screen as if she has a sixth sense when I’m distressed. Her airy voice on the other end of the phone is a mixture of excitement and haste, starkly contrasting with my boiling frustration.

“Baba! Lu told me you made it to Toronto in one piece. Thanks bitch for letting me know. How do you like his palace?” Kat’s voice chirped through the speaker, her usual bubbliness annoying and soothing me all in the same breath. I even feel myself holding back a smile from her using her annoying nickname for me—baba, Russian for grandmother, a term of endearment she chose for me in one of her native tongues. Any other time, I’d pay no mind to her sarcasm about growing up as a Brankovich. However, her use of “palace” to describe Luka’s home is far from an exaggeration.

 “Palace, I feel like that’s an understatement,” I huff, my voice laced with annoyance. “Katarina Brankovich, I’m a little fucking piss at you at the moment. You could’ve mentioned that I’d be managing an estate the size of a small country and not just chasing after little tyrants. Also, why didn’t you tell me your niece and nephew are teenagers? And how old is Luka to have kids who are not that much younger than us? Plus, these teen attitudes make the Kardashians kiddos look humble.”

There’s a pause, a pause so long, I begin to think she hung up on me, and when I’m about to ask if she’s still there, I hear an obnoxious burst of laughter from her end. “Oh, come on, Emm. Milo and Mila aren’t that bad. They’re just… I love them, but they're, well, a lot, sometimes. And that’s probably because Lu is a bit absent. He’s a busy man with the weight of the world on his shoulders, being not only the COO of our family’s automotive company but also the chairman of our family’s world-leading energy company. Then, they don’t have their mother. She died during childbirth. Luka had them at twenty-two, right after college. They’re dealing with a lot. But as far as taking care of them and managing Luka’s home, girl, you have that shit in the bag. You can handle it. You’re a total boss, babe. You’re the most organized, ball-busting, no-nonsense person I know. Plus, you’d be doing all that stuff helping your mom out, anyway! Now, you’re at least getting paid for it and living in luxury, baby girl. That’s at least not the end of the world, right?”

A small piece of my heart breaks for Luka, and an even bigger piece breaks for his twins. I sigh and respond, “Luxury and a paycheck is quite the step up from Compton, but you threw my ass into the deep end without any warning! Girl, I was mentally prepared for bedtime stories, diaper duty, not…whatever the fuck this is, kitty kat.” 

“You’ll be great, Emm. Don’t worry, girl. Besides, consider it an opportunity to pad your grad school application to Columbia. You wanted a job that showcased the real-world application of all that psych mambo jumbo you learned—and caring for the twins will probably feel like an extended psychology case study.”

I can’t help but laugh; Kat is fucking ridiculous; her sense of humor eases my tension. “Yeah, you’re not wrong. Being a nanny will help boost my developmental psychology graduate program application. Nevertheless, I know you had my best interest at heart, but you could’ve given me the entire picture, not the watered-down pretty version.”

“Well, Emm, let’s be real. Would you have taken it? I highly doubt it. It’s my job as the bestest friend on the planet to give you a nudge in the right direction, and that’s what I did, babe. You, Luka, those little lovable shitheads, you all will be good for each other. Have a little faith in your girl, baba—oh, shit. Hey, I gotta run—the plane’s about to leave. Plus, Emm, it doesn’t sound like you’ve allotted time for a daily bean flick. Trust me, masturbation is good for the soul. Just… go grab your monster smut, your fave vibe, and rub one out; this is nothing a little finger fuck, can’t fix. You need to unwind,” Kat suggests, her tone half-joking, half-serious.

Rolling my eyes, I retort, “Oh, yeah, solid advice from a sex maniac. Of all the to-do’s I need to do tonight to get everything settled to start my day tomorrow, that’s not really at the top of my list.”

“Shit, babe. I really got to go. Remember, Emm, you got this. Call me if you need to vent or anything,” Kat says, her voice softening. “Baba, you’ll always be the peanut butter to my jelly, the essential balance to my sweet and crazy life. And I love you more than all the grains of sand on every beach in the world.”

My heart warms uncontrollably, and my face breaks into a smile at my best friend’s sweet words.

“And you, Kitty Kat, are the marshmallows to my hot chocolate, making every bitter moment sweet. I love you more than all the stars in the sky. Safe flight.”

Hanging up, I take a slow, deep breath. The enormity of my new reality is settling in, but I feel more confident and less like the underdog in this situation. My conversation with Kat provided me with the much-needed spark of determination that I’ll be able to kill it in my role as house manager and nanny.  I rub my stiff neck, walking toward my luggage, which the lead housekeeper had delivered to my new home, and I grab my two duffle bags and suitcases and roll them into my massive bedroom. It had been a long, grueling, and emotional day, and I desperately wanted a shower.  So I wasted no time stripping out of my clothes and digging in my duffel bag in search of my toiletries. As I shift through my belongings, I gasp in utter horror when I spy a huge, vibrant yellow and green tie-dyed octopus tentacle at the bottom of my bag buried beneath my underwear.

“Damn it, Katarina,” I exasperatedly exclaim because I swear I had thrown this old gag gift away when I was organizing my belongings for my move to Toronto. Yet, here I am, the owner of a ten-inch, vibrating, vibrant-colored alien octopod dildo. Kat had got it for me as a Valentine’s Day gift our sophomore year of college when she found out I’d never owned a sex toy and that I am a total smut slut for monster-themed romantasy books. Out of sheer curiosity and in desperate need of a distraction, I mash the “on” button on the little slender black remote, and the vibrating alien tentacle dildo pulses to life. Its long, tapered, cylindrical-shaped shaft begins to vibrate hard, the tip of the tentacle waving back and forth swings in a complete three-sixty motion, causing me to erupt into a fit of laughter as I slam the flared suction base to the hardwood floors and dig around some more in my duffel bag coming up short while in search of my toiletry bag. Instead, I find an unopened bottle of water-based lube.

Well, shit, maybe Kat’s words ring true, so true, that the universe is sending me signs that the best cure for this stressful day is an orgasm. I look at the huge vibrating dildo shaped like an octopus tentacle; its suction cup designs adorning its base pique my curiosity, wondering how it would feel if I rubbed them against my aching clitoris. My mouth waters, my nipples pebbling as desire begins to course through my body. The throbbing of my clitoris becomes hard to ignore as it begins to thrum like my body’s grown a second heartbeat between my thighs. I pry open the lid of the water-based lubricant, sucking in a deep breath, convincing myself that today’s events haven’t made me lose my marbles, and I’m not having a psychotic break by toying with the idea of using a monster alien dildo to masturbate. I begin to convince myself that it’s okay to fuck a tentacle-shaped dildo because it’s not like anyone will find out. Plus, everyone has their kinks, and I shouldn’t be ashamed if this damn well maybe be mine. I slather a generous amount of the slimy, lukewarm lube onto the smooth silicone octopod tentacle that bends and twists under my touch. I position it a few inches away from the edge of my bed so I can hold onto the bedframe’s footboard as I lower myself in a squatting position, allowing the slender tip of the alien dildo’s tentacle to vibrate gently against my clitoris.

I gasp in surprise, letting out a soft moan of ecstasy at the heavenly sensation of the soft yet firm suction cups against the erect bud between my thighs. I press my clitoris harder against the dildo, gently rolling my hips up and down against the sleek cylindrical shape, which provides more delicious pressure on my clitoris. The gentle vibrations tingle against my swollen clit creating a soothing experience that makes every muscle in my taut body relax, the stress and tension from today slowly slipping away. As relaxing as it feels to rub my clitoris against the sex toy, the gentle sensation just isn’t enough. My aching, throbbing pussy becomes needy, demanding me to seek more pleasure. I close my eyes, pushing my conflicting feelings of shame and embarrassment to the side as I fully commit to fucking this octopod tentacle dildo. I position my body in a reverse push-up position with my palms resting on the edge of the footboard as I carefully and slowly impale myself on the sex toy.

The narrow tip of the dildo slides into my hot, wet pussy with ease, my eyes rolling to the back of my head at the phenomenal sensation of the vibrating suction cups on the vaginal walls of my pussy. I slowly bounce up and down a few times, just riding the tip until my pussy gets accommodated to the thick shape of the dildo, and I can easily glide down a little further onto the toy. I rock my hips back and forward, panting loudly and loving the feeling of the tentacle massaging my pussy. As I grow wetter and wetter, I’m able to ride it harder, my pussy clenching and rippling around the monster dildo the deeper I can take it. When I’m finally comfortable enough to take about eight inches of it in without the uncomfortable burning sensation of the dildo stretching my pussy wide, all I begin to feel is hot, horny, and desperate for an orgasm. Unexpectedly, I love how full the alien dildo makes me feel. I’m in complete shock at how pleasurable the tentacle feels shoved inside of my pussy.  I switch from relying on my hands for leverage to leaning back on the footboard with my elbows on the mattress, so I can fuck myself hard as I rock my hips back and forward and up and down on the dildo as I bounce on my toes. I hit the on button for a second time on the remote, and it speeds up and begins to thrust inside of me, dragging against my G-spot with every movement. I throw back my head in euphoria, pounding my pussy down on the cylindrical dildo.

I slam my pussy up and down on the sex toy, changing up my pace and rhythm; my loud throaty moans fill the room as short raspy breaths tear from my throat, and the super-wet, sloppy sucking noises of my pussy clamping around the toy becomes the soundtrack of my masturbation session. I twist my hips in a circular motion, my ass cheeks practically swiping the floor as I fuck the shit out of my ten-inch alien octopod dildo until I feel the walls of my pussy begin to ripple, my clitoris erratically throbs, my legs begin feeling like Jello as they start to shake, and I uncontrollably suck in my stomach as I begin to barrel towards my orgasm. I see fucking stars and fireworks bursting behind my eyelids as I clench my eyes shut, letting out a loud screech of pleasure as my orgasm tears through my body. My legs give out, and I flop on my back on the floor, the dildo still vibrating between my thighs, as I feel like I’ve transcended to another dimension and allowed my earthly body to freefall. I hear the clang of the tiny remote skitter out of my weak grasp and toward the door as I lay there limp, exhausted, and too satiated to move.

I feel a lazy, relaxed smile tug at the corners of my lip as I bask in the afterglow of my orgasm, feeling as if I’m in a drunken stupor. With my eyes still closed, I go to remove the vibrator from between my thighs. However, it seems to take on a life of its own, surging into a higher speed and a more intense vibrating pattern until I’m writhing on the floor, arching my back, and clenching my thighs until another orgasm is wrangled from my body.

“What the fuck,” I scream as I feel another tingle on the base of my spine as my third orgasm begins to build. Oh my gosh, I need to get this possessed alien dildo out of me before I orgasm to death. I pry my eyes open so I’m not blindly feeling for the remote to shut this damn sex toy off. As I yell out my third orgasm, I can’t help but cry, “Dear God, please make it stop; I promise I won’t ever masturbate again; I can’t take it anymore.”

Abruptly, the dildo shuts off, and I look toward the general direction in which I think the vibrator’s remote fell and I’m mortified as my eyes connect with the dark plum eyes set in the flustered, handsome face of the one and only Luka Brankovich that’s stooping to pick up the small black remote control while I lay on the floor like a dead cockroach with a ten-inch bright yellow and green tentacle dildo wedge into my pussy.

He barks out a cough like he’s trying to mask his laughter. “I think I may have accidentally stepped on the remote when I entered your room. So, I don’t think the multiple orgasms were a punishment from God for masturbating.” He deadpans, making the experience all the more humiliating. I quickly wrench the dildo free from my pussy, tossing it to the side, where it bounces straight up in the air, re-suctioning to the hardwood floor. The tip swings from side to side, hitting the side of the bed with multiple loud thumps like a drummer finding their rhythm in a solo performance, each thud resonating through the room. His aloof mask shatters for the first time since I’ve met Luka, and he grabs his stomach as he bellows out big belly-shaking laughter.

I roll to my feet, trying to quickly find something to cover my body, as my new employer composes himself. I feel his hot piercing gaze perusing my naked body, causing my pussy to clench around emptiness as I cover myself in an oversize Tupac shirt I sleep in at night.

“Jeez, do you fucking knock,” I angrily question, giving him my best death glare.

“I did, but you didn’t answer the front door, and as I neared the bedroom, I heard a scream and a loud commotion like you fainted and possibly injured yourself, so I rushed into your bedroom to ensure everything was all right,” he explains, looking a little bashful, making him all the hotter. I get a peek at the true Luka, the real man, and not the cold, austere businessman I’m usually exposed to.

“Next time, knock,” I retort. “Did you need something?”

“I just wanted to come in and see if you were settled in okay. But, clearly, you’ve had a gratifying conclusion to your day,” he jokes, making me wish the floor would open up, swallowing me whole, and transporting me to a parallel universe where this mortifying moment never occurred.

“I’m settling in just fine, now do you mind,” I ask, unwilling to make eye contact with him.

“Do I mind what?” he asks as I shuffle towards him, his tall, large frame towering over my petite body.

“Getting the fuck out,” I yell, catching him off guard as I push him as hard as possible until he stumbles out of my bedroom. The last thing I see is a myriad of emotions cross his face, from complete shock to anger, as I slam the door, shutting him out of my “supposed” safe haven.

I lean against the door, sliding to the ground and burying my head into my palms.

When I didn’t think things could get any worst, Luka Brankovich caught me fucking the shit out of an alien dildo; this would’ve never happened had I just moved back home to Compton.

Maybe it’d be in my best interest to just hand in my resignation because there’s no fucking way I can work with Luka after this shit.

I can’t believe it.

I have survived almost an entire month working for Luka Brankovich and taking care of his devil spawns that hatched from the most depraved ring of hell.

Nearly one painstaking month of every morning that I begrudgingly step into the role of house manager and nanny at the Brankovich estate feeling like I’m strapping on the crème de la crème of Kevlar battle armor, preparing for a war I’m not sure I’ll ever win. This leaves me still grappling with whether or not I thought trading in my familiar yet meager life in Compton for the glitz and glam of Toronto’s high society was the right decision. Honestly, I never imagined every day on the job feeling like I was riding the Kingda Ka, the world’s deadliest roller coaster, with no safety harness insight.

Every single damn day brings its own sets of trials, tests, and tribulations—and in some sick twisted joke, Luka has provided me with the wrong study guides that will guarantee I won’t prevail. Having to endure the arctic cold shoulder and resistance from the staff is palpable, especially from the lead housekeeper. There are only so many side-eyes a girl can take. The lead housekeeper’s death glares, sharp as daggers, are a daily reminder of my youth, inexperience, and the reality that I’m a rookie playing in the big leagues with the wrong all-star playbook. I didn’t anticipate it to be so demoralizing trying to direct a team that’s been in the luxury household game longer than I’ve been alive, making asserting my authority terrifying when every order I give is second-guessed. Then, to my dismay, the daily battles with Mila and Milo, whose affluent upbringing seems to shield them from being held accountable for any of their transgressions, have become my source of endless migraines no painkillers can cure. Unfortunately, teenage angst management wasn’t a psychology class offered at Princeton. If so, I must’ve skipped it.

From Mila’s neurotic perfectionism tendencies, with her challenging every boundary with every breath she takes to her malicious bluntness and teen girl hormonal mood swings fueling her frivolous demands, she puts everyone in the household on edge. Her volatile behavior creates a rift between her and the household staff that I'm constantly trying to mend. On the other hand, Milo is a storm of a different nature and never ceases to amaze me with his defiance, knowing no bounds. His affinity for being the prince of chaos never fails, due to his penchant for trouble-- parties, fights, outright ignoring my attempts at discipline—tests my patience and resolve to their absolute fucking limits. It's a battle of wills, one matched against the most disrespectful and rebellious teens on the planet, making it impossible for me to ever come out as victor.

And now, I see why Luka needed someone to man this fortress; he’s hardly around. His absence is a constant dark cloud over the estate, creating a gaping hole in this family, leaving me to fill these voids somehow. The twins’ acting out, the staff’s resistance—it’s all because he happily takes a backseat to any responsibilities that arise on the Homefront. He’s the missing piece of the puzzle I feel I won’t ever be equipped to solve.

Anytime I approach him with the weekly mandated performance reports on the twins, trying to explain to him that his rare appearances do little to bridge the gap between me, his staff, and the twins, that all it does is leave Mila and Milo fighting for a semblance of his parental attention, he glowers at me and tells me to do my job better.

When he finally provides a solution, it’s an impossibly rigorous schedule of summer activities for the twins in hopes that if they stay busy, they can’t stir up trouble. Luka doles out these activity schedules like a prison warden, turning what should be a time of relaxation and fun for any normal teen into a regimented routine that leaves me and the twins, exhausted and begging for the night to last forever.  I find myself more of an enforcer than a caregiver, a role that weighs heavily on me. The balance I'm striving to find between discipline and understanding seems forever elusive as I try to build some sort of relationship with my charges.

The worst part is that the stress of the job has become such a tangible presence, a knot in my stomach that continually tightens to the point that I’ll get an ulcer any day now. Entwining my life, even professionally, with Luka Brankovich’s has gotten in the way of me working on my graduate program application for Columbia University. I don’t even want to think about the undeniable real possibility that it’ll be a major struggle to balance the demands of this shitty job with a development psychology assistantship I so desperately need to blow Columbia’s admissions team out of the water with my application. An assistantship isn't just a step toward my dream; it's a lifeline toward accomplishing my lifelong ambitions.

My life is beginning to feel like I’m riding downhill in the fastest sports car with no brakes. The stress of the application, the heavyweight of my aspirations, and fighting to be a stable, trusted presence the twins so desperately need has left me stretched thin, trying desperately to keep my life from disintegrating, holding onto the belief that even the most threadbare dreams can be restored with enough courage and perseverance. Yet, I find myself internally struggling with the idea that there’s a greater reality that when everything comes to a head, it won’t only be my hopes and dreams; I’ll watch crash and burn.

But tonight, I didn’t want to fixate on how my life is spiraling out of control. Tonight is supposed to be different—a time for me to let loose and have fun. Tonight marks a celebratory milestone, a rite of passage I’d almost let slip from my grasp due to my relentless schedule.

Today is my twenty-first birthday.

Amid the chaos of managing the Brankovich estate and wrangling Bebe’s kids, I’d almost forgotten what today was. That is until I came home this evening and checked my voicemail to find one from my mother and siblings wishing me a happy birthday. Then, I received the most beautifully wrapped package from my Kitty Kat, the greatest best friend in the universe.

Of course, my best friend never fails to give me the most fabulous presents. The Honey Birdette Azalea dress, a sexy little number, is nothing short of stunning—a bold red skimpy designer dress that reminds me that I’m barely turning twenty-one and shouldn’t take life so seriously because it’s meant to be enjoyed.

But what’s better than receiving the sexiest dress I’ve ever owned is the note nestled inside the elegant tissue paper of the gift box. My heart flutters with a mix of excitement and joy when I recognize Kat’s handwriting on the white envelope. Tearing open the note, I can’t help but smile as I read her birthday message to me:

Hey Emm,

Happy 21st birthday, baby girl!

I hate that I won’t be there tonight to get you white girl wasted. Therefore, I had to send my baba the next best damn thing—a killer red Honey Birdette dress that screams buy me shots and fuck me all over Toronto. Trust me, it’s got a fun night and bad decisions written all over it.

Your life’s been crazy, I know. But let that shit go for one night. Forget my stick-up-the-ass older brother and his little turds; forget all the bull shit.  So, bitch, YOLO, you deserve it! It’s time to let loose, get a little wild, and make tons of cringe-worthy memories we can laugh about for years to come.

You better not stay in tonight; I’m demanding you to slip into the dress, step out, turn heads, and get into some serious trouble while you paint the town red. Remember, you only turn twenty-one once, and if you don't wake up with at least one questionable choice and a dozen stories, did you even fucking celebrate?

You've got a heart of gold and a spirit that can't be dimmed, and I'm so proud to call you my bestie.

Let's make sure your 21st is legendary, beautiful.

Remember, Emm, you are the anchor to my wild waves, keeping me grounded when I'm lost in the storm. I love you more than the sunset loves the sea. Endlessly, deeply, with every tide.

Meow,

Your Kitty Kat

P.S. If you end up causing too much trouble, call me. I’ll be ready with bail money and a getaway driver, even from across the world.

I quickly dash away the tears that have fallen as I read the note, so characteristically Kat, her sweet words making me miss her and wishing she were here to show me a good time. Her encouragement to get laid and promises to help me out if I partied too hard were hilarious and heartfelt reminders of the unspoken vow we shared to always have each other's backs, no matter the distance or the differences in our worlds.

As I placed the note safely in my desk drawer, I turned my attention to the red-hot dress lying on my bed, a symbol of Kat’s unwavering support, love, and desire for me to enjoy life. I feel my heart double in size as a surge of gratitude warms my soul. Thanks to Kat, I had to go out and party versus the quiet night I’d envisioned. Otherwise, my guilt of letting this sexy birthday gift go to waste would eat me alive, not to mention I found it impossible to lie to Kat, and she’d be heartbroken if I stayed in over celebrating the big two-one.

Slipping into the skimpy, red Honey Birdette dress, I feel like I’m entering my glow-up era. The tight fabric of the bodycon minidress hugs every curve of my body, clinging to me like a second skin. Even if for only a night, I feel sexy, confident, and like a total baddie. Kat is not lying when I admire my reflection in this dress. It definitely screams fuck me.

As I stand before the mirror, applying the finishing touches to my hair and makeup, I hear the door to my bedroom opening. Luka. I roll my eyes because this man never fucking knocks. However, when my dark gaze meets his intense violet stare, his standing behind me makes the butterflies in my stomach take flight. Luka’s eyes widen slightly as they take in my bombshell appearance, a side of me he had yet to meet. His violet eyes deepen to a fiery purple shade, lingering on the dip of my cleavage that’s barely contained by the red lace balconette cups of the dress, and he noticeably swallows at the way the tight fabric of the dress stretches across my round ass, which it barely covers. Yet, Luka’s air of mystery makes the weight of his heated gaze something I can’t decipher—surprise, appreciation, disapproval, maybe something more?

When his eyes meet mine in the mirror, we hold each other’s gaze, neither of us willing to look away first. The room begins to fill smaller stuffy, and my heart threatens to beat out of my chest as the intensity of the moment makes my skin feel prickly from the tension. I feel my panties begin to drench from my arousal. Luka is undeniably sexy. But he’s my boss.

“You forgot to knock, Daddy Brankovich,” I tease in a light-hearted attempt to cut the tension in the room that had begun to cloud my judgment.

He closes his eyes when the word daddy flies out of my mouth and inaudibly swears under his breath before composing himself and barking, “I may be a dad, but I’m not yours, so don’t call me fucking daddy.”

“Well, do you need something, boss,” I ask, applying my bright red lipstick to occupy my hands and keep me from doing something stupid, like pushing Luka onto my bed and spending my twenty-first birthday exploring his gorgeous body and figuring out what kind of man he is between the sheets? Is he bossy and domineering like in the boardroom and as my employer, or is he someone who likes to relinquish control and enjoys for his lovers to make him their little bitch, even treat him like a cuckold? 

“I came to ask you for my weekly update on the twins. It’s an hour late, and when I couldn’t find it in my email inbox, I thought I’d come to ask you in person what the hell they could have gotten into this week that would have delayed you sending it to me. However, it seems like you have a hot date or something. Is it with the octopus who owns the tentacle,” he jabs at me, causing me to die a little inside, still feeling the weight of the mortification of when he caught me in that compromising position. Luka takes in the box on my bed, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the tissue paper and gift bow lying abandoned on the bedroom floor. Doing some mental calculations and putting two and two together, he continues, “It’s your twenty-first birthday. I just realized it. What are your plans?”

I looked down at the ground, feeling embarrassed because I hadn’t had time to explore Toronto’s nightlife, make friends, or meet any hot guys. So, I planned to get dressed up and ask whatever security guy manning the front gates of the estate where to go for fun around here. I felt silly admitting to Luka that I was all dolled up for my birthday and had nowhere to go.

He lets out a deep breath and suggests, “You shouldn’t spend it cooped up here. I lived at enough Brankovich estates to know they have a way of making you lose your fucking mind. And you can’t walk around like that at night looking the way you do alone. Give me fifteen to twenty minutes, and I’ll take you out to celebrate.”

Luka’s offer to take me out is an unexpected surprise, like when Beyonce shockingly dropped the visual album of Lemonade on that one random-ass Friday. I’m stunned into silence, the shock clearly evident on my face by how his big, gorgeous body shifts uncomfortably as he runs his hand through his thick sandy brown hair, his teeth nervously sinking into his full bottom lip as he awaits my response. I’m sure his offer is disingenuous and riddled with the guilt of working me to death coupled with feeling sorry for me, having to turn twenty-one in a foreign country with no friends or family to celebrate. As I weigh the options in my mind, a part of me wants to decline, retreat into the safety of my solitude, take a few sexy mirror selfies in the dress, and devise a clever, foolproof lie when Kat asks how I celebrated. But the unsensible part of me that I keep buried deep inside under lock and key is screaming for me to be a little reckless and allow myself a night where I actually act my age. I steal a peek at Luka, his smoldering violet eyes drinking me in, confirming I look too downright sexy to stay inside; I’m feeling a little bold, not wanting to deny myself the opportunity to take this leap and see what trouble the night holds beyond the walls of this intimidating fortress, that’s beginning to feel like I’m trapped in a gilded cage. 

“I… thank you, Luka. I’d love that, actually,” I find myself stumbling through accepting his invitation, surprised at the exhilaration pumping through my veins at the once-in-the-lifetime opportunity to party with The Luka Brankovich, the most eligible billionaire bachelor of Toronto. Clearly, Luka’s a little caught off guard by my acceptance. His eyebrows shoot to his hairline as I witness a flicker of something that looks a lot like pleasure fill his purple eyes, quickly masked by his usual persona of aloofness and reserve.

“Meet me in the front in twenty, then,” Luka says with a tight smile before exiting my room.

The sound of my front door slamming shut behind Luka’s heavy steps brings me to my senses, leaving me with a sinking feeling in the pit of my gut.

What the fuck am I thinking accepting an invitation to party with Luka Brankovich, who I’m pretty sure is the same age as my mom, not to mention my best friend’s older brother and, even worst, my employer.

The once excitement I felt, now leaves a sour taste in my mouth. Could I trust myself to straddle the line of pleasure and professionalism with Luka without fucking everything up and crossing a line with him that would jeopardize my job or, even worst, the carefully laid out goals I’m trying to achieve?

I was royally screwed if anything went wrong tonight; one bad decision could change the trajectory of my entire future; did I really want to gamble everything I was working toward for one night of fun?

I had been looking forward to my twenty-first birthday since getting caught up in the glitz and bling of last year’s party planning process for my billionaire heiress best friend and attending her twenty-first celebration, where Hermes Finesse Bracelets were given as the party favors. I knew my birthday wouldn’t be anything like Kat’s, million-dollar blowout bash that all the gossip blogs covered for months to come, but I knew she’d ensure I’d have a night filled with booze, boys and batshit crazy shenanigans I’d look back on and laugh about for the rest of my life. It was one of the many reasons I had conflicting feelings about Kat’s need to spread her wings and gallivant around the world to find herself scratching her wanderlust itch after graduation.

I get it, and I admire her bravery, curiosity, spontaneity, and drive to find her purpose in the big, wide world.  I adore that about my bestie. I do. Yet, a selfish part of me hated she wouldn’t be here to attend. Honestly, with how my life had turned upside down in a matter of weeks, I hadn’t really thought about how I’d be celebrating this milestone birthday, if at all.

But never in a bazillion years did I think I’d be celebrating it like this, in the company of the other Brankovich heir. Either courtesy of Luka’s guilt, wanting to show me his appreciation, or a man that only knows how to show a woman a good time, had provided me with the ability to celebrate the big two-one among Toronto’s glitterati. In the lively, celebrity-studded VIP section of Toronto’s most sought-after bar, my world began to blur into a cascade of flashy neon lights and pulsating beats of the hottest hits. I feel giddy and warm, and it’s like the atmosphere crackles and pops with energy as the air hums with excitement from the celebrities and socialites buzzing around the exclusive plush and luxury area of the bar.

Sipping on the sweet, tangy symphony of this alcoholic beverage Luka ordered for me, it tastes like a burst of summer dancing on my tongue. Surprisingly, it manages to be both refreshing and indulgently satisfying. In fact, I can’t taste the alcohol at all, only the initial sharpness of the zing of the lemon zest that reminds me of sun-drenched Los Angeles afternoons with my younger brothers and sisters, sipping on lemonade that tastes like liquid sunshine at the rec’s public pool trying to stay cool during a southern Californian heat wave. I think I might have fallen in love with lemon drops. My first legal drink reminds me of home, and despite Luka’s warning to pace myself on the alcohol, I’m pretty sure I could drink a ton of these without the fear of getting drunk.

As the night wears on, five lemon drops in; Luka’s words begin to ring true in my ears while I try to decide whether or not I’m genuinely intoxicated. Oh, these lemon drops are most definitely traitors—dressed in delicious sweetness, sneaking up on you when you least expect it, hiding the damage they can inevitably cause with their sugary charm and citrusy punch. My world starts to soften around me, the edges blurring into hazes of psychedelic light strobes. I feel like I'm floating in a bubble, each sip lifting me further from the ground, the laughter a little louder, the lights a bit more blurred.

My eyes roam the room, and I’m unable to focus, taking in the fuckery unfolding before me. Those the world has deemed the most beautiful, all clad in the latest designer fashions, take lines of shots, drink bottles of patron from the spout, and bump and grind like there’s no tomorrow. The laughter of the rich and famous holds a musicality I’ve never heard, mingling well with the pulsating beat of the bar’s loud music. It feels like a scene straight out of A Wolf On Wall Street, and I can’t help but feel a twinge of envy at how carefree everyone seems to be because they have money to solve all their problems.

Yet, my bitterness doesn’t last when my drunken eyes continue to wander until they find one impeccably dressed figure that stands out above the rest in the room of those who possess wealth and charm, just not on his level. My sexy as fuck gracious host of fun for the night--Luka Brankovich. With his golden skin and strikingly beautiful European features, Luka annoyingly commands attention and effortlessly captivates any and every room he enters. His sandy brown hair is immaculately styled in a confident quiff brush-up, accentuating his flawless bone structure, drawing attention to that chiseled square jawline and those piercing hooded round violet eyes. The perfect face every woman in the room can’t help but want to take a seat on. I swallow hard around the dry lump in my throat as his mesmerizing purple gaze finds me as if he felt my eyes watching his every move. I place my empty glass on the coffee table in front of me, my alcohol tolerance waving its white flag. Glancing in Luka’s direction, his eyes are still on me. A mix of wariness and something akin to desire fills his heated gaze, leaving me unsure if it’s the way he’s looking at me or the liquor causing my body temperature to rise.

It's as if Luka feels the pull of something forbidden, something undeniable. Maybe it’s causing a giddiness to bubble up inside of him, too; he moves toward me with the grace of a panther, his tall, muscular frame my only focus as he strides across the room. The lemon drops lowered my inhibitions, coupling with the bold red freakum dress; I feel a rush of daring confidence flood my veins, making me emboldened to openly drink in Luka in all his sexiness as he heads in my direction. Dressed in a designer baby blue Fiore dress shirt, well-fitted navy chinos that mold to his perfectly sculpted ass, and retro designer sneakers, he oozes an air of magnetic, charismatic swagger that only serves to enhance his undeniable sex appeal, making every woman’s head turn and openly gape as he stalks across the VIP section; however, at this moment he only has eyes for me.

Those damn rare violet eyes, framed by long curled eyelashes that brush his cheeks, seem to hold a depth of mystique that draws me in despite my better judgment. My lips suddenly feel chap; I lick them, causing him to pick up his stride, his eyes darkening to a mulberry, making a surge of conflicting emotions wash over me as I feel my heartbeat quicken and my clitoris hammer between my thighs. The closer he gets to me, the more the tumultuous feelings war inside me beneath the surface. Maybe it’s the lemon drops creating falsities of the magnetic pull between us, the undeniable electric chemistry that sizzles as he closes our distance, ready to pop like a shaken champagne bottle. When he finally reaches me, I’m like a moth to a flame, and his mere presence fans the fiery desire that’s burning like an inferno inside me.

Yet, I can’t help but struggle with the pang of guilt, causing my stomach to feel as if it’s about to drop out of my butt, no matter how hard I clench my ass cheeks. These insane emotions raged inside of me, trying to reject the thought of me lusting after my boss—especially considering he’s also the much older brother of my Kitty Kat. That would break so many unwritten rules of the girl code that I can’t even stomach the feeling as if my sexual want of Luka is betraying my friendship with Kat, somehow. In my tipsy state, the lines between desire and duty I’d been straddling since he barged into my bedroom earlier tonight begin to blur as I wrestle with the forbidden nature of my feelings.

I tear my gaze away from Luka, forcing myself to focus on the tower of empty lemon-drop glasses in front of me. The way his arm brushes against mine when he takes the vacant seat next to me, invading my personal space, does nothing to taper my sexual attraction to him. Instead, it sends a jolt of awareness coursing through me, as if I’ve been shocked by the sexual tension crackling between us. The mouthwatering spicy and slightly sweet scents of sandal and rose wood wafting from his imposing body only managed to send my body further into sexual peril as my nipples pebbled against the lace of the balconette bra of the dress.

“Are you feeling okay, Emma,” Luka’s warm baritone voice rasps against my ear, sending shivers down my spine as if he’s blown against my sensitive, swollen clitoris, causing my hot wet core to clench around emptiness, making me feel desperate for a dick, and if I had my pick, it’d be Luka’s. Even before I’d drank one too many lemon drops, I’d caught myself a few times tonight wondering what it would be like to be held in his arms as he slowly fucked me, my legs wrapped around him, the heat of his touch against my clitoris, stroking it until the only thing I can do is scream out Daddy Brankovich.

I slowly nod my head silently, not trusting my actions to do anything more with him so close to me. My head buzzes not only from the alcohol but also from the surreality of the moment. A strong finger slips under my chin. This innocent yet intimate gesture makes me tremble as he turns my face to look at him. My panties melt as I come face to face with his handsomeness, which only looks more beautiful due to the boyish grin that adorns his face. His smoldering eyes roam my face, making me feel timid. The music thrums through the air, a rhythmic beat that seems to sync with my own heartbeat, which fails to cause enough distraction to keep me from making stupid decisions as the hottest man on the planet touches and looks at me like he’s pulling back every layer of my exterior to see inside of my mind and expose my soul.

A smirk plays at the edges of those big pouty lips, almost as if my defiance to not heed his warning is the most amusing thing he’s seen in a while. “Sweet girl, we both know you’re a lightweight. It’s surprising that little Miss Moore chose not to be a good girl tonight and disobeyed my orders. If you’d paid attention to your phone, I’d been trying to tell you to slow down. You’re going to regret not listening to me in the morning,” he chuckles, causing my skin to break out in goosebumps from our lips being only a breath away from one another’s.

Luka’s concern seems genuine, warming my heart. His presence beside me is both a welcoming comfort and a dangerous reminder of the complex dynamics of our relationship of employer and employee, our social statuses and age difference making us worlds apart in every conceivable way to the most logical individual. Yet, Luka calling me a sweet girl to a good girl makes my pussy grow wetter and wetter, leaving me on the cusp of begging him to punish me by controlling my body as he fucks me into obedience. His smoldering gaze flicks to my lips as his thumb softly tugs my lower lip from my teeth before slowly and lightly caressing my chin and stroking the column of my throat until his fingers drift softly across the swell of the tops of my breasts. I swallow hard as his hand flutters across my stomach, causing me to suck it in, in anticipation of where his touch leads. His big hand lands on my hip, tugging me closer to him, intoxicating me with his delicious scent.

I’m stunned into silence as Luka leans closer, enveloping us in a cloud of desire fraught with anticipation; my heart races at a pace that threatens to beat out of my chance with a mixture of nerves, excitement, and the nagging feeling of trepidation. When his mouth descends toward mine, I can smell the intoxicating nutty fragrance of the amber liquor he’s been nursing all night as I feel the heat of his breath tickle against my lips, making me quiver in his hold, his lust-filled gaze locks onto mine with a dire need and intensity that leaves me breathless.

“Now is the time to tell me you don’t feel the same sexual tension I always feel around you. Otherwise, please let me know if I can kiss you,” he softly questions. I find myself suddenly drowning in those deep violet pools of his eyes that are searching mine for the answer in my heart, not the logical response we both know I’m warring with deep inside. Every rational thought in my head screams for me to end this, forbidding me from crossing that line. But, I so desperately, with every fiber of my being, want to erase those lines only for tonight, wishing that he was a gorgeous stranger I met in this swanky Toronto bar. A random one-night stand I could fuck in anonymity, not having to weigh the fallout of fucking my boss and best friend’s brother. My heart hammers against my chest, a wild, treacherous rhythm that drowns out the music in the bar, clearly giving away my thoughts based on the shift in the air between Luka and me, making it more sexually charged.

His eyes, seeing right through me, are now soft and hooded with a yearning that I’m sure mirrors my own despair. Caught between fear and longing, I force myself to look away from his intense, sexually fueled gaze, making me downright powerless to resist so I can search the dance floor below us for some clarity. That’s when I see him, unmistakably out of place among the multitude of the crowd; however, had I blinked, I would’ve missed fate’s attempt at providing me salvation in this confusing situation. The shock of his recognition is an immediate, sobering dose of reality that’s the perfect remedy against the haze of my inebriated state.

“M-Milo,” I confusingly state, making Luka recoil. He eyes me suspiciously as his face contorts in confusion. He loosens his hold on me, allowing me to point down on the dance floor, where I see Milo, Luka’s rebellious underage son, in a twenty-one-and-up bar, grinding his hips into a young blonde woman about my age as he drinks from a glass. Luka’s grip tightens to a bruising pressure on my waist, causing me to yelp as his eyes narrow on the dance floor at Milo, who’s supposed to be at a friend’s house having a sleepover with some of the guys from his hockey camp. Luka's swift, hostile reaction destroys the sexual tension that had been building, charged with the potential of something more, something reckless, evaporated as quickly as it had formed.

Luka's undivided attention shifts immediately. His personality's protective, authoritarian aspect bubbles to the surface after spotting his son, a frightening, startling contrast to my carefree, flirty companion from only a few moments ago. Thankfully, the moment between us is lost in the commotion, replaced by a rush of fury and disappointment directed at Milo’s shocking appearance. The heavy reality sets in that I’ve spotted Luka’s fourteen-year-old son in a place where he has no business and that Milo isn’t a figment of my drunken imagination. Luka rushes down the steps of the VIP section, taking two to three steps at a time, like a warrior rushing into the thick of a heated battle, propelled by a surge of protective rage, every muscle tensed for confrontation, and the only resolution being the one he finds most favorable.

I try to follow Luka’s impossibly long, angry strides as he aggressively and unforgivingly muscles his way through the crowd, but my red bottoms make it feel like I’m running a marathon to adhere to his strenuous pacing. Watching Luka approach Milo is like watching a natural disaster strike—inevitable and destructive. When he yanks Milo around by the neck, Milo faces him with fists raised and an intimidating expression, ready for a bar brawl, until his jade green eyes widen in shock, his bravado withering under his father’s menacing glare. The confrontation that unfolds in front of me is catastrophic. The anger radiates from Luka in visible waves as he lays into Milo, who meets his father tit for tat in their stand-off, which draws the attention of everyone within their vicinity.

Sobering up by the minute, I become acutely aware of the curious eyes on us, the whispered speculations of the dance floor crowd as recognition of Luka spreads around the bar like wildfire. For the first time, I fully recognized how the well-known Brankovich name burdens these poor souls like weighted shackles that hold their reputations like a vice grip, making it impossible for them to live an everyday life and experience ordinary hiccups. Luka and Milo, being born with the Brankovich name, turned a family disagreement into a public spectacle, giving everyone with a cellphone and a social media presence a glimpse into the private turmoil of the Brankovic heir’s household. The phones pointed in their direction made me feel sorry and overwhelmingly helpless, unable to protect them from all the phones recording their altercation and the fallout they’d inevitably have to face when this shitstorm made its rounds in every popular media outlet.

“Can I have one fucking night without you being a pain in everyone’s fucking ass? I can’t believe your fucking audacity. One more word and I’m sending you to fucking boarding school in the Fall, and you can kiss your freedom, your music, and hockey goodbye. I’m tired of your bull shit. You’re a forever fuck up, a walking fucking disappointment; after this stunt, everyone will understand why your sister’s my favorite,” Luka’s callous voice cutting through the dip in the music, word after word feeling like a shot fired, filled with disappointment and rage as the ammo. I cringe at his words as he lashes out at Milo, whose retorts are muffled, lost beneath the thumping of the loud beat of the music. His rigid posture showcases his defiance, hurt, and unyieldingness to bend to his father’s will, speaking volumes that he’s refusing to go down without a fight. The ending blow that Luka lands is the one that makes Milo’s friends cry out in anger when Luka shouts that he’s calling all the parents of Milo’s friends who are with him tonight.

The escalated exchange ends with Luka physically dragging Milo out of the bar, Milo’s friend's angry glare lingering after him and Luka. As the bar slowly returns to business as usual, I stand unmoving in the middle of the dance floor, feeling as if I’d been privy to a slow-motioned car crash. It's impossible to look away from, even as I wish the ground would swallow me whole. The people who witnessed me ungracefully chase after Luka while shouting his name in my attempt to prevent him from making a scene give me pitiful looks as I now stand forgotten, swallowed up by the dancing crowd.

After watching my boss and charge's dispute, I’m struck by a weird sense of confusion, riddled with guilt on how I should’ve deescalated their debacle. Here I am, caught in the middle of a world I barely understood, the weight of the responsibility I carried as the Brankovich twins' nanny feeling heavier than ever, a role as a teen caregiver I am neither prepared nor equipped to bear, especially after witnessing a young father and his teen son at each other’s throats in the most public and humiliating way.

Hell, even after five lemon drops, I needed a shot of tequila or ten to fully prepare myself for the aftermath of tonight’s drama. A night that was supposed to be a break from all the Brankovich bullshit. In an attempt to salvage my desire to celebrate my twenty-first birthday like any normal young woman, I began swaying my hips to the music. I don’t discourage the arms of the handsome stranger whose name I couldn’t catch over the loudness of the bar as he dances with me, our bodies moving as one to the beat of the latest Sza song. Dancing in this man’s arms was a much-needed change of pace from my usual chaos, a wonderful brief respite from the weight of my responsibilities. For the first time in a while, I felt at ease, flirting with this stranger, his laughter mingling with mine, as he pulls me closer to him.

Unsurprisingly, like a scene from a movie I’d never auditioned for, I spot Luka reentering the bar on a mission to kill my fucking vibe. When he spots me, he’s jonesing to wage World War III again, making his way from across the crowded room, strongarming any drunken dancers foolish enough to interrupt him on his single-minded mission. The look of anger marring his beautiful features is formidable and dark, a thunderous storm brewing on the already fragile horizon, as he zeroes in on the stranger with his eyes closed, vibing to the music tugging me tighter to him, as I struggle in his hold to free myself, so he won’t get caught up in my psycho boss’s wrath.

The air between our trio vibrates with an intensity that feels out of place amid the fun, light atmosphere of the bar. Luka's hand lands on the man's shoulder with a force that makes him stop mid-movement, his grip conveying a “get the fuck away from mine” message louder than any possessive words he could ever mutter.

“You need to step away and let her the fuck go. You’re wasting your efforts because you won’t be fucking her tonight. There’s no way in hell I’m letting that happen,” Luka barks, his voice a menacing calm that belied the anger simmering just beneath the surface. It isn't just a request—it’s a clear, threatening demand for the man to step away.

I have to admire this handsome stranger, he has a big pair of balls on him, or he’s emboldened by the alcohol or public setting, or he is just a plain ol’ dumbass, but he squares his shoulders and meets Luka’s hard gaze with his own defiance. Luka has more muscles and inches on the man, but he unwaveringly stands his ground, shooting back, “And who are you to call the shots? We're just dancing. Plus, last time I checked, I’m a grown-ass man, and she’s the only one with a right in this conversation to tell me where I can and cannot stick my dick.”

The man’s vulgar words only caused Luka to tighten a grip on his shoulder, making him noticeably wince as the air around us thickens with anger. The bar's surrounding noises fade into a muffled backdrop against the second standoff of the night unfolding before me. I’m pretty sure after tonight, we’ll be blacklisted from this bar, and if not, I’m damn sure too embarrassed to ever show my face here again.  Luka’s response is immediate, his other hand clenching into a fist at his side—a silent warning of the aggression he is barely keeping in check, a side of my aloof boss I’m not used to seeing.

"I'm the only one making decisions about her tonight. Walk away while you still can," Luka's voice drops, a dangerous edge creeping into his tone, signaling that this isn't just about protection; it is about him not wanting others to play with his things—and I guess I fall under what he considers “his” tonight in a disgusting showcase of toxic masculinity. For a moment, the man seems to consider his options, the tension between them a tangible entity. But something in Luka's stance, or perhaps the cold promise of spilled blood in his eyes, if he didn’t let go of me, must have made the decision that he didn’t want any smoke from Luka. He let go of me with a scoff, pushing Luka’s hand off his shoulder, finally stepping back and throwing a wary glance my way before disappearing into the crowd.

Before I can even give Luka a piece of my mind, I find myself being lifted off the ground against my will. Luka scoops me up and tosses me over his shoulder, caveman style, with an ease that reveals his irritation. I feel my face heat from the humiliation as we exit the bar. The last thing I see as I close my eyes in frustration are the phones recording us, the confused and slightly amused expressions of the bystanders, witnessing one of the most embarrassing days of my life. My twenty-first birthday has taken a turn for the absolute worst, spiraling far beyond my control, thanks to fucking Luka Brankovich, the biggest domineering asshole in the world. The abrupt transition from the sweltering heat I felt on the dance floor to the chill of the cool, breezy Toronto night air leaves my head spinning more violently than the lemon drops alone could account for. The feel of my breasts against Luka’s strong back, his arms wrapped around my thighs, and all the poignant scents of downtown Toronto begin to overwhelm my senses.

Oh, fuck. I begin to feel the swirling sensation starting to riot in the pit of my stomach, protesting against the lemon drops. My mouth fills with the all too familiar and unmistakable tangy taste of bile as the dry heaves begin like a rising tide of agitation, a wave gathering strength far out at sea, promising to crash over me with unforgiving force.

"I'm going to be sick," I manage to mutter, the warning barely escaping my lips before my body betrays me, and I vomit, the mess unavoidably staining Luka's expensive clothes. Shame washes over me, yet I feel surprisingly satisfied because, after Luka’s deranged behavior, it serves him right to be covered in my puke.

Luka doesn’t break stride nor sets me down to allow me to walk on my own as he crosses the road to the black SUV, where his driver is waiting to open the door for us. His voice is laced with anger as he declares, “I should do us both a favor and fire your ass.” His hurtful words sting and devastate me as his rant continues, “I should've listened to my gut and not hired another young female to be my nanny because they’re nothing but fucking trouble."

The accusation stings like he just backhanded the shit out of me, the injustice burning hotter than the humiliation of me dangling over my boss’s shoulder inebriated. "You’re being unfair and misdirecting your anger for being a shit parent and an irresponsible boss," I wanted to argue, to defend my professionalism and the hard work I'd put into my role despite the overwhelming challenges it presented. But the words wouldn't come, lost in the turmoil of my thoughts and the nausea that still gripped me. As we get in the car, Luka settles me on the seat next to him. The spacious backseat feels claustrophobically small, a confined space filled with unbearable silence and broodiness from the two pain-in-the-ass Brankovich men in my life.

I lay my forehead against the cool window, the city lights blurring past, the glamor of the VIP section feeling like a distant dream, a fleeting illusion that if I pinched myself hard enough, I’d awake back in the bedroom that I shared with my mom in Compton. My life was becoming too entwined with the Brankovichs, and tonight may have been my last straw. A part of me questioned if I had to endure any more of being Luka’s scapegoat and the rebellious antics of his teens, was I paying too much to achieve my goals? I mean, how dare someone like me, dream big? Because all tonight did is make me question whether or not some dreams were too far out of reach.

But then the part of me that has endured so much to make it this far says bring it on because if there’s one thing Compton taught me, it’s that I can handle any damn thing. Even a billionaire’s bitch fits and teenage drama. I just needed to find a way to navigate the stormy, murky waters of the Brankovich household’s affluent first-world problems without allowing them to drown me in my attempt to thrive.

I sit on the edge of the pool, my feet dangling in the cool water; as I lightly kick my feet back and forth, the gentle ripples of the aquamarine water kiss my skin with a refreshing chill. Sometimes, it’s only around daybreak that I find a comforting calm while living at Luka’s fortress. It’s when it lays in tranquil silence, before the landscapers have begun their daily tasks, many of the housekeepers haven’t arrived, and the cooks have only begun their morning prep in the kitchen. I tilt my head toward the sky, closing my eyes, soaking up the early morning warmth of the sun rays as the sun majestically rises into the sky with the softest blush of pink as the darkness of the night retreats under the advancing light. I open my eyes, marveling at the world being painted in gold, orange, and fiery red hues. 

However, I’m broken out of my peaceful trance when I hear the soft musical notes of laughter, leaving me with a sense of unease that slowly creeps up my spine. I try to turn around and see who the voices belong to, but I’m not quick enough. Hands connect with my back, and I’m startled when I’m quickly swallowed by the icy cold embrace of the aquamarine pool water. The once beautiful, serene world around me becomes instantly muted, sounds distorting, and the beautiful sunrise refracts against the water. My limbs flail, a desperate attempt to find the surface, but panic weighs me down, each second stretching into what feels like an eternity. Above me, Milo and Mila’s faces hover, their devious expressions twist into smirks that morph from playful mischief into something more sinister. I thrash from side to side, my clothing feeling like one-hundred-pound weights pulling me deeper into the watery abyss; the surface of the blue-green water seems to stretch infinitely above me, a dazzling, shimmering barrier between the air and my despair. The twins don’t even pretend to attempt to rescue me, their hands waving not in help but in eager goodbyes as I fiercely fight for my life.

The betrayal stings like hell, even more so than the chlorine burning my eyes, blurring the twin's figures into mocking spectators of my demise. My limbs become sluggish, each attempt to tread the water a battle against the deadweight of my own body as my lungs begin to burn because I frantically need oxygen. A new, taller, broader shadow looms at the edge of the pool—Luka. Relief floods me. I just need to reach his outstretched hand, every fatigued muscle in my body straining toward salvation. He’s sitting on his haunches, his body stretching towards me, looking angelic, ready, and waiting to be my savior. My heart leaps, and hope surges with the adrenaline that powers my desperate swim toward him. But as my freezing cold fingers graze his warm, reassuring palm, instead of pulling me to safety, the unthinkable happens: he pushes me back under. His strong hand, once a symbol of an S.O.S., becomes the force that sends me spiraling back into the depths of danger. The shock is an ending physical blow that shatters my optimism for survival. His duplicity, a cold hand around my heart as I begin to sink again, Luka’s face above me is one of contempt, a judge righteously sentencing me to a watery, suffocating inferno.

Gasping for air, I wake up feeling like I’ve only just violently resurfaced from the darkest depths of the ocean into a reality that leaves me fighting for my next breath.

Fuck, it was only a dream.

The creepy carousel of shadows cast against the walls seems to dance too close to me in a room where the air quality feels too thick.  Sweat coats my skin, a clammy sheath that makes every inch of me feel exposed and vulnerable. My throat burns, feeling like sandpaper, leaving it painfully sore when I try to swallow. Each rasp of breath I try to manage echoes the terror of my dream. The room spins as I’m hit with a bit of dizziness as I try to orient myself, the remnants of panic clinging to me, igniting a fire inside me, a furnace of fear and confusion threatening to consume me whole.

Why do I feel like I’m still weighed down by something? As if I’m being burned alive, like a young witch at a stake needing to atone for my sins?

I can only move my right arm, and my left feels immobile, weighed down by something heavy I can’t see in this dimly lit room. I feel an overwhelming sense of anxiety like I’m in a parallel plane keeping me imprisoned between a state of slumber and alertness; I need to feel something real, anchor myself to something solid.  I stroke my free hand down my body, making sure I can actually feel something, ensuring the edges of my dream aren’t still blurring with the stark lines of reality. Luka’s betrayal in the dream feels like an actual bleeding wound, fresh and raw, the pain of it slicing through the residual feelings of my disorientation. I’m lying here, drenched in sweat and my heart still racing, an erratic pounding that beats a rhythm, desperate for escape from dangers that no longer surround me. Yet, the nightmare clings to me like it's been coated on me with resin, and no matter what I try, nothing can wash away the burning sensation of dread and trepidation in my mind.

The vivid memory of being pushed into the cold water, the bone-chilling evil expressions on the twin’s faces, my fear of drowning, and Luka’s final attempt to ensure I meet my maker send shivers down my spine that’ll more than likely haunt me for days to come. My inability to breathe, feeling as if I were being weighed down, unable to break free and save myself, so visceral and overwhelming in the dream, only reminded me of my very real vulnerabilities I’m unable to escape, not even in my sleep.

The dark shadows of the room slowly recede with the approaching morning, the first light of dawn peeking through the slits in the curtains, but bring no comfort, only the uneasy realization that maybe it wasn’t just a dream but a warning or hell, perhaps, a premonition.

I needed to get away from here, even if just for a day. I wanted to phone in sick. After the night I had and the startling start to my morning fuck the Brankovich household, it could manage without me for today. As I try to pull away from the tangle of the sheets, I let out a loud gasp as an arm tightens around my waist, causing me to still when the realization sets in that I’m not alone in my bed. My eyes slowly begin to fully take in my surroundings against the natural dim lighting from the sun.

Where the fuck am I?

As I begin to focus on my foreign environment I note the absence of my belongings. It’s too fucking early for this shit. I’m still fighting the grogginess of sleep mixed with the brain fog of what my terrible dream meant to try to fully piece together last night’s events, a twenty-first birthday--I most definitely wouldn’t forget, but not in the thrilling way I imagined. The instant I turn my head, the crack of sunlight filtering in through one of the curtains betrays me, a physical testament of regretfully downing one too many of those damn lemon drops because the glaring sunlight is shining too bright for the pounding in my head. I reach my right hand up to cradle my throbbing temples, and I become even more confused when my palm connects with the tangled mess of my curls and not the soft, smooth fabric of my bonnet that I’m accustomed to.

Shit! Panic flutters in my chest as I try to remember how I could’ve possibly ended up in a stranger’s bed, which, even after last night’s debacle, would be considered one of the worst mistakes of my life.

Oh no! What if my dumb intoxicated ass went home with a Ted Bundy copycat? Clearly, I’d learned nothing from all my nights spent watching 20/20 or my long car rides listening to true crime podcasts. My fear reprises itself as horror settles into the empty pit of my stomach. The horror of being a headline, a cautionary tale to young women, swirls in my mind. Then, an even worse terror manifests: I’m a young Black female. Who the fuck am I kidding? My missing person’s case wouldn’t see the light of day and damn sure wouldn’t make it into any news outlets.

My only hope is that my billionaire boss, Luka, will send out the calvary to find out my whereabouts. But, given how the shit hit the fan last night, would Luka even bother or give a fuck that I was missing?

I try to rack my brain. The blurry, cringey memories of my twenty-first birthday gone terribly wrong flash through my mind, the most potent ones being Milo’s surprise appearance at the trendy bar.

“Oh, God, Milo,” I whimper, my hand flying to my mouth, causing the warm body that is pinning me to the bed to stir. Now that the room is awash in sunlight, I can fully check out my bedmate, and when I cast my eyes down, my heart stops beating. The realization hits like a freight train: I'm not next to just anyone. It’s Luka Brankovich. I’d be in deep fucking shit if anything happened between us.

Thinking his name alone sends a jolt of panic through me. I couldn’t decide if waking up next to my boss or The Midnight Heartslinger was more terrifying, considering one threatened my professional life while the other haunted the darkest corners of my nightmares, each equally paralyzing in their own right. Luka’s brows knit together, my whisper of his son’s name becoming an intruder on his peaceful sleep, his grip firm, trapping me against the warmth of his body, him using my left arm under his head like a pillow, my right leg hiked over his hip in the most intimate entanglement possible.

I feel like a voyeur interloping on his peace, drinking in his beautiful, unguarded features while he sleeps. In the dim morning light, the usual stern lines of his face are relaxed, and his features softened, making him look younger and carefree. As my eyes dip lower, I silently gasp, feeling a smug grin cross my face at my craziest revelation—Luka Brankovich, the cold-hearted, up-tight, unapproachable billionaire businessman, is covered in black inked tattoos, a hidden unexpected layer of him, he doesn’t show to the outside world. Pity because it makes him all the more sexier. He’s breathtaking with his bulging inked muscles, so often concealed under his expensive designer suits and formal wear, hiding the magnitude of the thirst trap that he fucking is. For a moment, my lust for my boss overpowers the panic I felt earlier. My panties grow wetter, my heart rate beats wildly in my chest, and my mouth waters, wondering if Luka’s naked beneath the sheets. I want to lick every inch of his skin, taste the saltiness of his cum as he fucks my mouth. I want my strait-laced boss to do all the nasty things to me that I read about in my trashy romance novels.

Wait. I can’t be having these thoughts about Luka. I palm my forehead with my free hand, my mind spinning into overdrive, caught between the need to escape in hopes he doesn’t remember us falling into bed together and doing god knows what, but there’s a part of me, mainly misguided by my needy pussy, that’s urging me to stay and continue enjoying be held so tightly in this strong, beautiful man’s arms.

How did we even end up like this?

As I debate my next move, trying to figure out the best way to extract myself from Luka’s large body without waking him, he pulls me closer, and the close contact leaves me mortified. I freeze, too afraid to breathe because I’m almost certain that if I move, I’ll end up dry-humping my boss. This close proximity is only making me hornier and hornier, and his morning wood poking my hot wet center through the thin barrier of my thong is not doing anything to calm my sex-fevered brain or stop my swollen clitoris from throbbing.  

“Fuck,” I whisper loudly as I try to wiggle free from his grasp to salvage any chances I have of keeping this house manager and nanny gig.

“Only if you want to, sweet girl,” Luka responds groggily, his baritone voice sending tingles dancing across my body. The hoarseness of his voice makes my nipples grow so hard and so erect. He pops one violet eye open, ensnaring me, as he grabs two handfuls of my ass cheeks, pulling me practically on top of his gorgeous body.

“Water,” I manage to croak, pushing against his chest to try to place some distance between us so my morning breath doesn’t knock the poor man unconscious. He gives me the sexiest little half-smirk, letting go of me, making me miss his arms around me, as he reaches for a water bottle on the nightstand, uncapping it as I slightly prop my body up on my left arm.

“Coward,” he mumbles under his breath, bringing the bottle of water to my lips and stating, “Small, slow sips, sweet girl.”

I am stunned by Luka’s gentleness, which I hadn’t known him capable of, holding the water bottle with such care. I part my lips slowly, and he guides the water bottle to my lips. With each sip, I find myself slowly starting to relax, as if the cool and crisp water contained the antidote to all my worries. The water is refreshing, a balm to my parched throat, a small act of tender kindness that’s filled with a whirlwind of confusion, embarrassment, and uncertainty. This experience is a total mindfuck. My domineering commanding asshat of a boss taking care of me feels strangely comforting, a safe harbor as I navigate the stormy aftermath of my panic of waking up in bed with fucking Luka Brankovich. When Luka turns to set the bottle back on the nightstand, I flop back on the mountain of pillows, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as he invades my space once again looming over me.

Instinctively, my hand flies to cover my mouth, creating a futile barrier between the foul smell of my morning breath and his nose. “Am I… are you still...going to fire me?” The words are muffled against my hand, my voice laced with vulnerability and lightheartedness.

Luka responds with a sly smirk, his violet eyes darkening to a deep wine, which manages to convey both mischief and something unreadable that makes my skin pimple with goose bumps as my hot core throbs between my thighs. His beautiful head dips, his soft lips brush gently against my eyelids, then both cheeks, each gentle kiss a spark sending a warmth of desire cascading through me. 

“It depends,” he murmurs, his hot breath tickling my ear and sending shivers down my spine. My hand, still covering my mouth, is gently but firmly pried away. His heated gaze locks with mine, his eyes playful yet burning with intensity as he slams my wrists above my head, rendering me immobile.

“I was trying to save you from my terrible morning breath,” I embarrassingly whine, but he just laughs it off, brushing my morning breath comment aside with a casual shrug of his shoulder.

“You probably don’t remember, but you know, you threw up on me. Not once, but twice. Once on our way to the car and once when I was helping you out of the car,” he teases. My eyes widen in horror, growing as wide as saucers, causing my heart rate to increase as the list of my night’s transgressions continues to grow.

“I did what? I can’t even remember doing that. In my defense, I guess I was drunker than I thought,” I bellow, mortified. His laughter, rich and unguarded, fills the room, a foreign sound that, despite the embarrassing circumstances, brings an involuntary smile to my lips.

He wipes a stray curl off my forehead, his fingers caressing my face before gently outlining my lips. He chuckles, “Well, sweet girl, let’s just say we’re far past me caring about your morning breath.” His tender words and inability to keep his hands off me catch me off guard, and I give him a bewildered look.

Everything feels too intimate, too personal, like two lovers, not a boss and employee. My mind races, trying to maintain a semblance of control over the situation. I gather my thoughts, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind. “So, what does my keeping my job depend on?”

Luka’s expression softens. He frees my wrists to softly cradle my face in his big hands, holding it still and angled in a way I have no choice but to look into his piercing gaze. “On whether you want me to keep kissing you like this,” he softly whispers, his breath warm against my parted lips.

Before I can respond or make sense of what’s happening, his lips touch mine with a fierce hunger that steals my next breath. Time seems to slow to a halt, our bodies drawing closer, me cradling him between my thighs as I wrap my legs around his waist. His kiss is an intoxicating blend of urgency and tenderness, a fervent plea of sexual want that speaks directly to my soul and sends lust coursing through my veins. As his tongue darts into my mouth, our lips moving in perfect harmony, the heat between us intensifies with each passing second. Every nip of his teeth against my bottom lip is an electric connection that ignites every never-ending in my body, sparking that flame of desire that’s been smoldering quietly between us. Luka’s touch against my chin, angling my head to deepen our kiss, is gentle yet commanding, pulling me closer as if he can’t get enough. I feel his breath mingling with mine, the soft sighs and murmurs between kisses heightening the sexual tension, making the friction of his chest against the cotton barrier of the oversized t-shirt against my breasts feel like a torturous, unbearable tease. 

I haven’t had many kisses, but none have ever felt like this. Our mouths move together in a dance of desire, tongues tangling in a rhythmic exploration. A symphony of sensations exploding—the taste of him, a minty hint of sweetness laced with the thrill of the forbidden, the heat of his skin burning through this stupid fucking shirt, and my urgent need for more as I allow my hands to freely roam his muscular back, memorizing every plane of him and erasing any space that lingers between us. His kiss is like a claiming of my heart and soul, an unspoken promise of pleasure, a silent vow of sex so fucking good he’ll leave me craving more. I know my pussy is dripping so wet that it’s probably making a mess against his lower belly, my juices seeping out of the lace of my thong as I feel his growing erection bob against the waistband of his boxer briefs.

I whimper when Luka breaks our kiss, his rough, stubbled jaw burning against the delicate skin of my face, as he sinks his teeth into my lower lip before soothing the sting of the bite mark with the warm wetness of his tongue, making me feel absolutely fucking feral, as he drags his tongue down my chin, to the pulse point of my neck that he sucks on until I’m softly moaning and writhing against his body. He pulls back both his hands, coming up to firmly hold my face in his grasp; his pupils are blown wide, his eyes an onyx depth of desire. Luka’s big body heaves, poised above my petite frame, his breath uneven, his gaze locked on mine, filled with a desperation for sexual gratification that mirrors the tumultuous storm of lust raging within me.

There’s a rawness in his expression, a vulnerability that clutches around my heart. I never thought I’d see such a feeling in his eyes as he searches my face, trying to decipher these feelings hanging between us, hoping that he isn’t the only one wanting to satiate his sexual hunger. Luka’s voice breaks through the deafening silence, barely audible and shaky, each word laced with a palpable urgency that visibly seems to tremble in the air between us.

“Please, sweet girl,” he begs, his voice cracking with emotion and desperation, “I need to hear you say this is what you want. That you want me to fuck you. Please let me know now. I’ll make you feel so fucking good, sweetheart.” His words, so earnest, raw, and intense, pleading for affirmation yet laced with fear of rejection, strike a chord deep within me. I’m thrummed so fucking tight; I can smell my arousal in the air, yet, all I can do is nod my consent because I’m so fucking turned on, I don’t think my sex-fevered brain can form a single word. “I need to hear it,” he says, his voice more strong this time as his fingers unconsciously toy with the hem of the shirt, masking my body from being on full display.

“Fuck me, Daddy Brankovich,” I breathily whisper, surprised by the huskiness of my own plea, licking my bottom lip as I yank the shirt hiding me from his view over my head. My heavy, large breasts shake as I settle back into the embrace of the soft bed, my nipples puckering to elongated, sensitive peaks under his excited gaze. His eyes drink in my body unabashedly, and he gets his fill, letting out a deep, low, appreciative whistle as his eyes feast on my semi-naked curves. In each area that his eyes peruse, a hot ribbon of desire courses through me, sending a tingle to my aching clitoris.

“You’re so damn sexy. I love these piercings,” he compliments, his head dipping to my right breast, the warmth of his mouth enclosing the swollen peak of my pierced nipple as his fingers tweak the silver bejeweled bar of my left nipple, causing my entire body to quiver with ecstasy. His hot, wet tongue glides slowly from side to side across my nipple as he suckles it deeper into his mouth, feeling like a soothing balm of passion, sliding smoothly over every inch of my heated flesh, satiating my need for his touch and arousing me, leaving an ache between my thighs all at once. I gasp and whimper at the pleasurable pain when he tugs on my nipple piercing as he removes his mouth to show my left breasts the same delicious attention.

My eyes roll to the back of my head, and I let out a soft whimper of ecstasy as his hand travels down my naked stomach to the apex of my thighs, causing me to shiver in bliss when his middle and ring fingers graze my swollen clitoris, pushing against the lace of my thong. I eagerly widen my legs, allowing him more access as he applies a mouth-watering firm pressure to my clit that he strokes in a circular motion while driving me fucking delirious with the slow flick of his tongue dragging against the overly sensitive bud of my nipple. The sensations he’s creating with his mouth and his fingers are so fucking hot and scrumptious as they are teasing, tormenting, and make me feel a frustrating mixture of wanting to purr in pleasure in one breath and crawl out of my skin in the next. 

I pull him closer to my body as he licks and kisses the tops of my breasts, burying his face in between the mounds, motorboating me as I claw at his back, sinking my teeth into the thick muscle of his shoulder when he slides his index finger beneath my lacy panties, knuckle deep inside of me stroking my hot wet pussy. He runs his tongue teasingly around first my right areola, blowing his hot breath against my erect nipple, making my breath hitch in my throat as he tickles me with his stubble against the underside of my breast, causing my back to slightly arch from the incredible feeling as he licks his way over to my left breast to repeat the same action. 

He lifts his head, bringing it back to my mouth, kissing me thoroughly and passionately until I feel drunk on lust as he drives another finger inside of my hot wet pussy. I rock against his hand, which creates a phenomenal feeling against my needy clitoris; Luka pulls back his head, placing his forehead against mine as he whispers, “Your pussy is soaking wet for me, baby. You’re so fucking greedy for me. Are you ready to take my dick? I bet you’ll take it like a good, dirty girl.” 

He slaps my clitoris, causing me to yelp, before pulling away from me, placing one finger over my mouth, and shushing me. He sits back on his haunches, and I slide my hands down his back to the waistband of his boxer briefs, which he helps me pull down his body. His big, thick dick bobs in my face causing me to salivate at the mouth for a taste as he tosses his underwear to the floor. Luka slides down my body, hooking his thumbs into the flimsy strings of my thong, and glides them down my thighs until I’m completely naked in front of him. He holds my wet panties to his face inhaling deeply, closing his eyes as if my pussy has the sweetest, most heavenly, smelling scent in the world. I feel myself blush at his actions.

“Open wide,” he demands. When I hesitate, he slaps my swollen clitoris, causing me to open my mouth wide in shock, providing him with the perfect opportunity to thrust the wet lace into my mouth. I taste the salty sweetness of my arousal as he clamps his hand around my mouth. He leans down, whispering into my ear, causing me to squirm as he lazily strokes my clitoris with his free hand, “Milo is only a few rooms over. You have to be quiet because these rooms aren’t soundproof. If you can’t take my dick quietly, like a good girl, I’ll stop and fuck your throat as punishment, and I won’t let you finish, understood, sweet girl?”

I nod my head quickly, my eyes fearfully wide, as I suck in a deep breath around my panties, trying to will myself to calm down and stay quiet because if this man doesn’t let me cum, I’m pretty fucking sure I’ll die a frustratingly painful death. He gives me a slow, sexy smile and ducks his head, kissing my stomach, swirling his tongue into my belly button, and dragging his tongue down the top of my mound, making me tremble with anticipation. The moment his tongue connects with my clitoris, and he buries his face between my thighs, my hips arch off the bed. He lowers me back down to the mattress, holding me firmly in place by the hips as he licks me languidly from root to tip with his tongue. I silently whimper, throwing back my head, spreading my legs, and gripping his thick sandy brown hair in my fist as he sucks my clitoris into his warm damp mouth.

I rest the balls of my feet on his shoulders, digging my heels into his chest, trying not to scream out my enjoyment as he licks the entrance of my hot, wet core before penetrating me with his tongue as he strokes my clitoris in a windshield-wiper motion with his dexterous fingers. I grind my hips against his face as he switches back to sucking my clitoris and penetrating me in a come hither motion with three thick fingers inside of my pussy until I can’t remember my fucking name. My mouth forms a silent O of pleasure as I lift my head from the pillow, watching in a trance as he eats my pussy until my thighs begin to shake around his head, I become hot, and a fire builds in my lower belly as my vagina begins to clamp down on his fingers.

But as soon as I feel like I’m barreling toward orgasm, he pulls away from me, leaving me in a state of distress and sexual frustration. He pushes my knees up to my chest, leaning over to the nightstand and pulling out a strip of gold foil condoms; ripping one off and tossing the rest to the side, he quickly tears open the package and swiftly rolls on the condom. A strained expression mars his beautiful face as he rubs his dick up and down my wet slit before thrusting shallowly into my pussy, torturing the both of us as he readies me to take the full length and girth of his massive dick. He pushes all the way into me hard, stealing my breath; a burning, searing pain of the stretch stills my body. He kisses my neck as I swallow around the thong, muffling my whimper of agony as he waits a few seconds, filling me to the hilt. Luka slowly drags his manhood out of me, the sensation driving me insane as I feel the veiny velvet thickness of his dick connecting with every nerve-ending of my hot wet pussy before he plunges back inside of me.

He feels so fucking deep with the way he has us positioned, with him kneeling on the bed, his knees spread wide on both sides of my hips, and his forearms pushing my knees to the sides of my breasts. This position feels so fucking intimate, and I wasn’t wrong; the man fucks in missionary, but it’s far from fucking boring. He rolls his hips in a slow grind, seated deep inside of me, pinning me to the mattress as he licks my neck and sucks on my nipples. From this angle, with every thrust, my clitoris rubs against his pelvis bone, setting my entire body ablaze in a way that has me barely balancing on the precipice of euphoria, ready to combust at any second.

With a slow smile, he picks up his pace, bucking into me hard and fast, causing my head to swim with unadulterated pleasure. His golden skin becomes flushed, and his cheeks blush a rosy tinge as he watches my face fill with sexual delight, and his gaze dips down to watch him pound into my soaking wet pussy. He quietly whispers fuck in between each labored breath like his newfound mantra as he erratically bucks into me, I dig my nails into his shoulders until he flips me back further by my thighs into the bed, loudly whispering, “Grab your ankles.” I hold my calves as he thrusts into me harder and faster at a steady rhythm, going deeper, harder, and faster at this angle than I ever knew was possible.

Who knew missionary could feel so good?

The room fills with noises of flesh slapping against flesh and the sloppy wet noise of my pussy taking his dick deep. I begin to fill my orgasm build as every muscle in my body becomes tight, and I twitch around Luka’s dick. He begins rubbing his thumb across my clitoris as he picks up the pace at which he fucks me. My moans become louder and louder until I begin to see white splotches behind my eyes. He slams his hand down across my mouth as he whispers, “Cum for Daddy Brankovich,” and that’s all it takes to push me over the edge and send me soaring as I shatter to pieces when my orgasm hits me.

I open my eyes in a daze, watching as he pumps into me hard a few more times until his dick twitches inside of me and he’s cuming, his blitzed-out gaze filled with an intense passion. I can’t tear my eyes away from the intensity in his dark purple eyes. We’re extended in a moment, spell-binding us together in a secret language only we both understand. His mouth opens wide, he sucks in his stomach, and he loudly murmurs, “Oh fuck, Em. Emily, your pussy is so fucking good.”

My entire body goes tight with rage as he calls out a name that’s not my own while blowing his load inside me, killing the vibe between us. I spit my panties out of my mouth as Luka collapses on top of me, laughing and panting, trying to catch his breath. He’s lucky I’m pinned to the bed with him buried balls deep inside of me. Otherwise, he’d get a knee to the groin. He goes to kiss me in the aftermath of our shared orgasm, and I bite his lip until it draws blood.

He rears his head back in shock as I push against his shoulder and sternly say, “Get the fuck off of me.” It takes all of me to keep my voice down and not to scream at him out of my concern for Milo. Hell, something I should’ve said before things got this far, and I crossed the line of no return with my boss.

Luka slowly rolls off of me, and once free, I swing my legs over the side of the bed, grabbing up his discarded shirt, which he must’ve dressed me in last night, and tossing it over my head. Luka lets out a frustrated sigh and says, “Emma, calm down. It was a fucking joke. You’re too easy to get riled up.”

“Ha! Yeah, you’re a regular comedian. Your joke was hilarious because every woman wants to be called someone else’s name when a man is balls deep inside of her,” I loudly rasp, each word laced with humiliation, pain, and venom. I shouldn’t be surprised at anything Luka does because he’s had a real mean streak that he’s unleashed on me more than once, but why, at this moment, did he choose to be so fucking cruel?

“You’re right, Emma. I’m sorry. Do you still not like sex,” he questions. My gaze meets his, but he wears an emotional mask, so I can’t gauge if he’s fishing for compliments, wanting to know if I enjoyed sex with him, or if he’s just taking another jab at me based on my awkward interview with him.

I give him a big grin and respond, “Hm, I think the jury is still out on that one.” He rolls his eyes at me, and I continue, “Where are we? Are we in a penthouse suite of a hotel?”

“God, no. We’re in my penthouse apartment in downtown Toronto. This is where I sleep most nights when I’m stuck here on business or need to fuck,” Luka answers nonchalantly, discarding the condom as he lays on his back, sprawled out on the bed, shamelessly naked. Even while annoyed and hurt by Luka, I can’t help but let my eyes roam over Luka’s body without a sense of awe washing over me at how beautiful and strong he looks in his relaxed state on the bed. The sight of him, so vulnerable and yet so imposing, stirs a deep warmth in my chest, a mixture of admiration, desire, and a tender sort of affection that's frightening in its intensity.

Luka’s bored tone and nonchalance in the wake of fucking me stupid gnaws at me, making me feel disgusted at myself for being another willing hole for him to screw to get his pussy fix. The frustration of my naivety, boiling in a red-hot rage beneath the surface of my skin. Sex with Luka has been eye-opening and given me valuable insight into my night terror because I truly believe it was a premonition. A hazardous orange flashing warning sign, a big red flag slapping me in the face, signaling to me that with Luka Brankovich, I’ll constantly find myself drowning, not only because it’s incredibly stupid and wrong to harbor any non-professional feelings for my boss and my best friend’s older brother, but because he’s an emotional desert, sending an insane amount of mixed signals that lead to more confusion than trying to figure out if Ross and Rachel were truly on a break. If I stayed employed by Luka, the feeling of stagnation in turbulent waters, where I struggle to keep my head above with no life raft in sight, would only worsen.

I stand there on the verge of a panic attack because I feel like I’m teetering on the edge of sanity. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to self-soothe while on the brink of tears as I muster the courage to confront Luka. “I can’t do this any fucking more, Luka. Working for you has been absolute hell,” the words escape me, a loud, emotionally charged whisper at first, my voice strengthening and the declaration swelling into resolve. Luka’s large tattooed frame goes terrifyingly still, his face turning red, and his annoyed reaction catches me off guard, sending a chill up my spine as I watch him sit up in bed, clearly upset by what he perceives as a childish outburst from me.

Luka lets out a long, deep breath, regulating his emotions. With a blink of an eye, he’s back to his calm, aloof self, his expression unreadable. "Emma, last night... I was just annoyed with everything that happened with Milo and seeing you dancing with another man," he explains, his tone tinged with irritation and unhinged possessiveness. "I never intended to fire you. In fact, I've been considering promoting you."

I can’t help but burst into a hysterical fit of laughter at the absurdity of his words. The irony of the situation is not lost on me. “Oh please, Luka. Promoting me to what, exactly?” I retort, my words dripping in sarcasm as bitterness surges through me.

Luka’s expression turns sheepish, making my heart flutter, and arousal coats the inside of my thighs because this side of Luka is so incredibly adorable that it’s insanely sexy. “To wife status,” he says bluntly, catching me completely off guard. His unveiling of this incredulous proposal makes my head spin. I half listen as Luka explains his shitty relationship with his father, how he wants to no longer be under his controlling father’s thumb, and this million-dollar idea for a content creator platform called Cre8sphere that will free him from dealing with his father’s bull shit. He goes on to explain the complexities of his inheritance, revealing that in order to gain control of his mother's side of the family fortune, he needs to either wait four more years until he’s forty or settle down and marry.

“And you want me, a poor Black girl from Compton, born to a teen mom, to be that wife who’ll solve all your problems?” I ask skeptically, unable to hide my disbelief.

He scratches the scruff on his chin, “I don’t know. Everyone likes a prince and his pauper’s love story, right?”

“Wow, Luka insulting me is a great way for me to buy into your bull shit. What the fuck is in it for me to marry the likes of you? It’s not like you have a dazzling personality,” I reply angrily.

He rolls his eyes, exasperated, his expression serious. “Before you made the poor girl comment, your words not mine, I was going to offer you three million dollars for the first year, and anything beyond that, you’ll gain two million dollars for every year we stay married,” Luka continues, his offer making me lightheaded, the numbers he’s throwing at me, sound like figures from a bad practical joke, and I await for him to scream just kidding. But those words never come; the man’s face is deadly serious, and his body sits stoically.  “You’d still keep your salary as the house manager and nanny because I still need you to do those roles along with a few additional duties as my wife.”

My mind snags on the last part of his statement. What additional wifely duties would this man expect from me? I feel a wave of nausea overtake me. Fuck, was our morning fuck, and audition to see if I were fit for these additional duties?

“Jesus, I fucked you because I was horny, and you’re hot. I’m not talking about sex with me as a duty. That’s an added bonus for you, of course,” he says with a smug smile and a wink as I flip him the bird.

Part of me is indignant at the audacity of his offer, while another part is strangely intrigued by the possibility of financial security and a new role in his life. Never in a million years did I dream about having access to so much money, not to mention the lifestyle he could offer me, but did I really want to legally tie myself to Luka in a way that would require me to spend a chunk of that cash just to get away from him?

Fuck, no. I felt like an idiot, and I couldn’t believe the words coming out of my mouth, but I tactlessly blurt them out, “Luka, you’re bat shit fucking crazy. After seeing the inner workings of your world, there’s no way in hell I’d tie myself to you in legal permanency where you have more of the upper hand if I want out.”

His head jerks back as if he’s been slapped, and a look of shock flitters across his handsome face because I’m sure my sexy as fuck billionaire boss is a stranger to rejection, especially from the opposite sex. It probably killed him enough already that he had to offer any amount of money up to me as if he weren’t the prize as if him offering himself up on a silver platter as my husband wouldn’t be enough for me to say yes to a marriage proposal. I’m sure my no adds insult to injury that he had to lower himself to ask his nanny to be his wife; his idea is ludicrous anyway, like a line out of the dumbest movie ever written; no one would believe our sham of a marriage. Kat would definitely smell bull shit from across the  Atlantic Ocean. Luka's poker face doesn’t even slip for a second as silence stretches between us. Then, as if he’s playing the final move in a heated round of the Bamboozled card game, the jackass reveals his trump card.

"What if I told you I could secure you an assistantship with the head of the Developmental Trauma and Resilience Research Unit at SickKids Hospital, an assistantship like this ultimately securing your spot at Columbia?" he says, his voice calm and measured. The very words send a jolt of excitement through me—that position, that opportunity, everything I've been working towards, the dream that's felt just out of reach until now.

The audacity of his offer, dangling my dreams in front of me as bait, stokes a fire within me that sets off a chain reaction during our little face-off, causing me to have an epiphany: I’m the one with the upper hand in this situation. "Fine, if you're so desperate, make it five million for one year of marriage. And three million for every year after," I challenge, testing the waters, seeing how far he'll go.

To my surprise, Luka's response is unexpectedly calm. "Fine. Do we have a deal?" he counters without missing a beat, his gaze steady and determined.

A wave of unease hits me because Luka is a fierce, astute, ruthless businessman, yet he assented to my demands all too easily.  I don’t immediately respond, mulling our negotiations over in my head, silently wrestling with the enormity of this decision. I’d be a fool to trust Luka and not think there’s something more at stake or to this offer than he’s letting on. Or maybe he’s at a similar crossroads as me, and the quickest solution to his problem was to find someone with desperation that mirrored his own, only for different reasons.

I didn’t trust Luka, but I knew if I walked out of that door without saying yes, I’d be quitting this job, turning down the assistantship, and a boatload of fucking money that would set me up for success as I pursued my dream as a developmental psychologist. I’d be a fool to turn down his offer, wouldn’t I?

On the surface, becoming Mrs. Luka Brankovich looked like the golden ticket to a life of riches, fame, and comfort, but what would I really be signing up for? Kat traveled across the world to get away from her flesh and blood, and as the hired help, I’d seen a peek behind the curtain of this family's dysfunction, but how far do the scars of this generational trauma run?

Would I be paying too much for the sake of my career? Also, a marriage to the cold-hearted Luka Brankovich would be more than a signature on a contract. I’d be signing my life away to a man who was not only making a calculated maneuver to maintain control over his life and his inheritance but of me.

Am I willing to take this gamble, trading my entire soul for a potential slice of my dream to an enigma of a man shrouded in more mystery than truths? Am I crazy, desperate, and stupid enough to trust a devil that I think I know? 

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