After he went bankrupt, I became his sugar mom by Celine Egan

After Ethan went bankrupt, I took him in as my kept man.

Every day he was touched by me, pinned down on the bed while I did whatever I wanted.

His face flushed red, yet he could only endure the humiliation.

Until one day I overheard him on the phone with someone. He said, “Yeah, I didn’t actually go bankrupt. So what? Anyone who dares let Brooke know can wait to die!”

And my name is Brooke.

After he went bankrupt, I became his sugar mom Chapter 1

Ethan Hayes always carried himself like an emperor, controlling everything around him.

This guy in his early twenties had turned a dorm-room algorithm into a fourteen-billion-dollar fintech unicorn, methodically buying up or crushing every competitor.

Then, in seventy-two hours flat, it was all gone.

He was bankrupt. Overnight.

As his former rival, I hadn’t believed the rumors at first.

But on Saturday night, there he was behind the bar at The Gilded Pour in the Flatiron District—a dimly lit, overpriced underground spot for finance guys who wanted thrills without any actual risk.

I found him there.

He wore the standard black shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms veined and strong. I had once pretended to hate him while secretly imagining those forearms wrapped around my waist.

A pack of junior fund guys had him cornered at the bar.

“Hayes,” one of them drawled lazily. “Lick the sole of my loafer for ten grand. Maybe I’ll Venmo you enough for next month’s storage unit rent.”

The others laughed.

Ethan didn’t move. Head down, face blank, he kept wiping stemware with a white bar towel.

But I caught it—his left knuckles twitched. The muscle in his jaw jumped once, then locked tight.

Dignity bleeding away slowly.

That was the moment I finally believed it. He was broke.

I pushed through the crowd, heels clicking on the scuffed oak floor.

Without breaking stride, I slapped a check on the manager’s station—enough to buy out his entire shift and then some.

“Ethan’s done for the night.”

The manager looked at the register, then at me, recognized my last name, and nodded.

Ethan finally lifted his head.

Those gray eyes met mine, flashing something—surprise, maybe resignation.

“Brooke. Here for the public execution?”

I gave him a smile that was sweet and vicious. “What else is there to do on a Saturday night?”

His throat tightened as he carefully set the glass down.

I reached into my bag again, pulled out another banded stack of hundreds—one hundred crisp bills—and let them flutter onto the bar like falling leaves.

They glittered under the lights.

“Ten thousand a day to be my secret lover,” I announced loud enough for the whole room to hear. “I’m keeping you. You’re drowning in legal fees, bail bonds, and back taxes. Right now, in a five-borough radius, I’m the only person willing to throw you a lifeline.”

His fingertips trembled at his sides. I watched every tiny reaction: pupils widening slightly, a thin sheen of sweat at his hairline.

He was furious. Of course he was.

Everyone in our circle knew Ethan and I couldn’t stand each other.

And now that he was broke, humiliating him like this—he had to be seething.

Another stack hit the floor. Fresh green Benjamin Franklins scattered across the slick wood and sticky bar mats.

“Ethan, pick them up. Time’s almost up,” I said, lifting my chin.

For a split second I thought he might actually punch me in front of everyone.

But seeing him shake with rage just made me want to laugh out loud.

Then he dropped to one knee. Slowly. Squatted down. Started gathering the bills one by one, cheeks burning under the bar lights. His former colleagues went completely silent.

His voice came out like gravel on concrete. “Brooke, you this generous with everyone?”

I stepped closer, pressed my palm flat against the center of his chest—right over his pounding heart—and leaned in until my lips brushed his ear.

“Don’t go asking about your new boss’s personal life like a little girl.”

His whole body went rigid. I felt the tremor run from his pecs all the way down to his fingertips.

I straightened up, then hooked two fingers through his belt loop.

“Let’s go, baby. Your new job starts now.”

• My Best Friend Claimed the 8 Million That Belonged to Me

After he went bankrupt, I became his sugar mom Chapter 2

The ride to my SoHo apartment was silent except for the driver’s soft jazz.

Ethan sat stiff beside me, still in his bar shirt, sleeves rolled, arms crossed tight over his chest like armor. Every few blocks the streetlights swept across his face—highlighting those sharp cheekbones, the faint bruises of exhaustion under his eyes, and that stubborn mouth.

He smelled like bourbon and lime.

Back at the apartment I kicked off my heels, padded barefoot across the reclaimed walnut floors, and flicked on the pendant light over the kitchen island.

Warm amber glow. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the glittering lights of lower Manhattan.

Ethan stood just inside the door, hands in his pockets, looking like he wanted to bolt.

“Shower,” I said. “Guest bathroom at the end of the hall. Clean towels on the shelf. Robe on the back of the door.”

He didn’t move.

I tilted my head. “Problem?”

“You really think this works?” His voice was quiet, almost curious. “You buy me for a while, humiliate me, and then what? Novelty wears off and I disappear?”

I walked toward him, steps deliberate. I stopped close enough that he had to look down at me.

“Then I finally get everything I’ve wanted since sophomore year,” I said softly, “and you get enough cash to breathe until you figure out your next move. Win-win.”

Ethan was gorgeous. Even though we couldn’t stand each other, I had to admit it.

The first time I saw him sophomore year, I’d wanted him.

Who knew I’d actually get the chance?

He must really be in debt.

Now it was mine.

Something strange flickered in those gray eyes—anger, shock, maybe both.

Without a word he turned and disappeared down the hall.

Twenty minutes later he came back wearing only the white robe, hair damp, smelling like my cedar-and-bergamot body wash.

The robe was too small on him; every movement stretched the fabric tight.

I was already curled on the couch with a glass of Pinot Noir.

“Drop it.”

He stopped mid-step, froze.

I set the glass down. “The robe. Take it off.”

His jaw worked. He stood there so long I thought he’d refuse.

“Not willing? Then give the money back,” I said with a cold smile.

Silence. Then Ethan reached for the belt and let the robe fall.

Jesus Christ.

Broad shoulders, defined pecs, abs so carved they looked Photoshopped.

A dark trail of hair disappearing under black boxer briefs that hid almost nothing.

Thick thighs from years of squats, calves cut clean. Even his feet were perfect.

He stood there, arms at his sides, letting me look, letting the humiliation burn through him.

I rose and circled him slowly. My fingertips traced his collarbone, down the center of his chest, over the ridges of his stomach. His muscles jumped at every touch.

“Bedroom,” I said, voice different now. “Now.”

He followed without protest.

I pushed him onto the king-size bed, climbed over him, straddled his hips. His hands stayed flat on the mattress like he didn’t have permission to touch me.

I gripped his jaw, tilted his face up. “You know what a kept man does, right?”

His ears turned red. After a moment he rasped, “Yeah.”

“Then kiss me.” I dragged my index finger from his collarbone down the silk of my slip. “Start here. Don’t stop until I say you can.”

He stared at the path I’d drawn. His breathing turned quick and shaky.

“What are you waiting for? Not willing?”

“No. I can.” He said it.

When he finally leaned in, his lips barely brushed my skin.

Then he got serious.

Slow, reverent kisses. Tongue tracing my collarbone, moving down my chest.

Unhurried, like he wanted to memorize every inch. One big hand gently cupped the back of my thigh; I felt his fingertips tremble.

He was good. Too good.

Before I could stop myself I grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. His pupils blew wide, lips wet, cheeks flushed.

“Enough,” I managed, voice shaking. “Today… that’s it for now.”

One corner of his mouth twitched—just the tiniest flicker.

I couldn’t tell if it was a smile or mockery.

“Whatever you say… Brooke.”

• My Husband Married My Best Friend

After he went bankrupt, I became his sugar mom Chapter 3

Even though I was in a hurry to keep Ethan, I had zero actual bedroom experience. None.

I never expected his teasing skills to be that lethal. Just kissing almost made me scream.

This could not happen.

I had to show Ethan who was in charge. I was the one paying!

The next morning I found him in the living room folding my dry-cleaning.

I leaned against the doorframe. “Why are you wearing so many clothes in my house? Don’t want me to look?”

He paused, holding one of my silk camisoles.

I crossed my arms. “House rule number one: no shirts indoors. Ever.”

His brows drew together, anger flashing.

“Brooke!”

I smiled.

“Don’t like it? Door’s right there. I can send the money back to your account.”

His teeth clicked together. He set the hanger down and reached for his pants.

“Wait,” I called, “leave those on for now.”

He exhaled through his nose—half scoff, half laugh. He turned to the kitchen and started coffee. Every muscle in his back was tight, like he was holding rage inside.

I followed, hopped onto the quartz island, and watched. Watched the light play across his shoulders, watched his biceps flex as he poured oat milk into my favorite mug.

So damn tempting.

Like he was deliberately teasing me!

“Rule number two,” I said. “You cook, you clean, you look pretty, and you do whatever I tell you. No attitude.”

He set the mug in front of me without meeting my eyes. “Got it.”

“Good boy.”

His knuckles went white on the counter edge.

“Come here so I can touch you.”

He went instantly wary.

Before he could react I threatened, “Not willing? Refund…”

He gave me a complicated look. Resigned, he closed his eyes, gritted his teeth again, and turned to face me.

I nodded, satisfied. The second my fingers met his chest I felt the tiny tremor run through him.

Firm. Warm.

So good to touch.

Ignoring his expression, I slid my hand lower.

The lower I went, the redder his face got. His whole body shook with anger, breathing fast.

By the time I was kneading and exploring further he actually let out a muffled groan.

“Brooke…”

I pressed two fingers to his lips. “You can’t keep calling your sugar daddy by name.”

“Then what do I call you?”

“Hmm… call me Mistress.”

“…”

In the end Ethan never said it.

I didn’t push. I wasn’t into that anyway; I was just messing with him.

I sipped my coffee, enjoying the view and the thick tension in the air.

That afternoon my friend Riley showed up uninvited with bagels and gossip.

When she saw Ethan in nothing but gray Nike basketball shorts and an apron, vacuuming, she froze in the doorway.

“Brooke,” she hissed, dragging me into the pantry. “You have Ethan Hayes doing your chores?”

“He’s broke,” I shrugged. “What else is he supposed to do?”

“Girl, men like him don’t stay broke. They bounce back. They reinvent. They get even more powerful.”

I peeked through the crack. Ethan was on his knees scrubbing the baseboards, head down, every line of his body radiating controlled humiliation.

“He’s finished,” I told her. “Trust me.”

Later I made him say it out loud.

“Ethan, come here.”

He walked over, still wearing the apron, abs gleaming under the recessed lights.

“Tell Riley exactly what you are to me.”

His throat worked. Shame, anger, resignation crossed his face.

Eyes lowered, voice low and rough: “I’m her… kept man.”

Riley’s jaw literally dropped.

After he went back to cleaning she stared at me. “I still can’t believe he agreed. What exactly have you made him do?”

My cheeks heated. “Mostly… aesthetic labor.”