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  • The Silent Heiress’s Million Dollar Gambit by Maui

    The Silent Heiress's Million Dollar Gambit by Maui
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    My stepmother’s bodyguards were seconds away from dragging me back to a life that was essentially a prison cell wrapped in silk. I couldn’t even scream for help because the words always died in my throat—a clinical condition called selective mutism that felt like drowning on dry land.

    I had just discovered the sickening truth: my father was planning to sell me to a sleazy investor named Sterling to cover his company’s bankruptcy. They were going to drug me, ship me off to a private island, and strip away the only thing I had left—my late mother’s multimillion-dollar art trust.

    When I arrived at the manor, my stepmother Lydia handed me a glass of wine laced with bitter sedatives, her smile sharp as a razor.

    “Drink up, darling. It’ll make the transition to Mr. Sterling much easier.”

    My stepsister Harper stood in the corner, wearing a dress bought with my mother’s stolen money, mocking my inability to speak. My father didn’t even look me in the eye as he calculated my price tag, treating his own daughter like a piece of damaged, mute inventory.

    They thought because I didn’t speak, I didn’t hear them laughing about the “accident” that killed my mother or how they planned to burn her final restoration work. They assumed my silence was a sign of surrender, a white flag waved by a broken girl who would never fight back.

    How could the people who were supposed to be my family treat me like a commodity to be traded? Did they really think my silence meant I was weak, or that I didn’t know every dirty secret they were hiding in their ledgers?

    I didn’t drink the wine. Instead, I burst into the VIP suite of Carlisle Pierce, the most cold-blooded billionaire in New York, and slammed a crumpled napkin on his table with a desperate, last-second gambit.

    “MARRY ME. NOW. $1 MILLION.”

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    The Silent Heiress’s Million Dollar Gambit Chapter 1

    The heavy scent of cheap cologne and severe halitosis filled the air.
    A fifty-something, balding man with a mouth full of yellow teeth and a height that barely reached Emilee’s shoulders was trying to pin her to the bed. He looked incredibly sleazy and weak, a pathetic excuse for a man.
    “You think you’re some high-and-mighty heiress?” the old man, Mr. Henderson, sneered, looking her up and down like a piece of cheap trash. His foul breath made Emilee nauseous. “Take a good look at yourself. You’re nothing but a useless, unwanted mute. A pathetic piece of garbage. You aren’t even fit to shine my shoes! But your stepmother, Lydia, sold you to me for a good price. Your father threw you away like a stray dog. So just lie back, spread your legs, and take what I give you.”
    Emilee did not hesitate. She spun around and delivered a vicious, bone-crushing kick directly to his groin.
    The old man let out a high-pitched squeal, collapsing to the floor and clutching himself in agony, unable to stand. Without a second glance, Emilee bolted out of the room.
    Ripping the door open, Emilee bolted.
    Worn combat boots hit the plush carpet of the Obsidian Club’s VIP corridor without a sound. That was the problem with expensive places—designed to absorb noise, keep secrets, and swallow people whole.
    Lungs burning, Emilee refused to look back. That disgusting old man’s bodyguards and the stepmother’s men would both be coming.
    Rounding the corner, a shoulder slammed hard into the wall. Pain shot down the arm, sharp and grounding. A door was the only salvation. Any door.
    The throat constricted. Selective mutism. That was the clinical term. It felt more like drowning on dry land. Any scream for help would just die in the throat.
    Frantic eyes darted down the dim hallway.
    There. At the very end of the hall, a heavy black door with gold trim stood slightly ajar. It was a sliver of hope in a tunnel of despair.
    She threw her weight against the door and stumbled into the room.
    The air inside was cooler. It smelled of expensive leather, aged whiskey, and something sharp and masculine.
    She turned immediately, her fingers fumbling with the lock. Click. The sound was louder than a gunshot.She pressed her back against the wood, her chest heaving. Heavy footsteps thudded outside. “Check the stairwell,” a deep voice grumbled. “She couldn’t have gone far.” The footsteps faded.
    Emilee let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Then she remembered she wasn’t alone.
    She snapped her eyes open.
    In the shadows, a man was watching her. He was sitting on the sofa, legs crossed, an arm draped casually over the backrest. He was terrifyingly still.
    Her blood ran cold. Even with her heavy makeup, she recognized him from financial reports. The third-generation heir to the Pierce media empire.
    An image of her father’s face flashed through her mind. It wasn’t fear she remembered seeing when her father spoke of this man, but a sickening, fanatical desperation to climb the social ladder. She vividly recalled how her father had acted like a fawning, tail-wagging dog, trying desperately to curry favor with the man sitting before her. To get even the slightest connection with Carlisle Pierce, her father would have gladly offered up everything he owned on a silver platter, begging for just a few crumbs from this man’s table.
    And that was perfect. She was cornered, penniless, hunted. It couldn’t get worse than the bald bastard behind her. If she had to gamble, she would gamble on him.
    Emilee pushed herself off the door. Her legs were shaking, but she forced them to move. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a crumpled napkin and a black eyeliner pencil.
    Carlisle watched her approach, his finger tapping rhythmically against the crystal glass. Tap. Tap. Tap. He assumed she was another “gift” from his grandfather.
    She stopped in front of him. Then, with a sudden, fierce motion that surprised even him, she planted both hands on his shoulders and shoved him back onto the velvet sofa. She caged him there, leaning over him, her wild, kohl-rimmed eyes burning into his.
    Carlisle raised an eyebrow, his body tensing under her hands, a dangerous stillness coiling in him.
    She uncapped the pencil with her teeth, scribbled quickly, the tip tearing the paper. Then she slammed the napkin onto his chest.
    Carlisle looked down.
    The handwriting was jagged, rushed. MARRY ME. NOW. $1 MILLION.
    A flicker of genuine novelty crossed his features. “A napkin proposal,” he said, his voice deep, smooth, like gravel wrapped in velvet, with a hint of dark amusement. “That’s a first. Creative.”
    He looked up at her, his expression cooling again. “But I’m not interested in playing charity. Get out.” He reached for the phone to call security.
    Emilee lunged and grabbed his wrist. Her hand was small, her fingers ice cold.
    Carlisle froze. He looked at her hand on his wrist, then up at her face. Her eyes were terrified. Not the fake terror of a bad actress, but the primal fear of a trapped animal.
    Outside the door, the heavy footsteps returned. “Did you check the VIP suites?”
    Emilee’s grip tightened. Her nails dug into his skin. She shook her head frantically. Please. The word wasn’t spoken, but it screamed from her expression.
    Carlisle looked at her, his deep eyes unreadable. He set the phone down. He twisted his wrist, breaking her grip, and then caught her hand in his. He pulled her closer. She stumbled, her hip bumping against the table, her breath catching as his face came inches from hers.
    “Can you afford me, little wildcat?” he whispered, his breath warm against her skin, a hint of dark amusement playing on his lips.
    Emilee didn’t hesitate. She nodded vigorously, her eyes as stubborn as a cornered little beast that still wanted to bite. She tapped the IOU with her free hand.
    Seeing her like this, a flicker of surprise crossed Carlisle’s eyes, quickly followed by a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in his demeanor.
    For years, he had maintained a strict, self-imposed celibacy, completely immune to the allure of any woman. Countless stunning socialites had tried to bridge the distance, yet none had ever managed to stir even a ripple in his stagnant pool of desire. But now, as her unique scent—a delicate trace of vanilla intertwined with the sharp tang of adrenaline—filled his senses, and the ghost of her cold fingers lingered on his skin, a strange, unfamiliar warmth began to thrum in his veins. It wasn’t a crude, overwhelming lust, but a quiet, undeniable awakening of senses he thought were long dead.
    He looked at this chaotic, heavily made-up wildcat, genuinely caught off guard by the sudden, involuntary tightening of his own muscles. The sheer absurdity that she was the one to make his pulse tick faster after years of absolute numbness was intriguing. If her mere proximity could spark a dormant instinct back to life, perhaps keeping her around wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
    A faint, enigmatic smile touched the corners of his lips.
    “Alright,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a low, gravelly weight that sent an unexpected shiver down her spine.
    He stood up and towered over her. He picked up his suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders. It engulfed her small frame. It smelled like cedar and power.
    “Let’s go,” he said.
    He led her not to the main door, but to a panel in the wall. A hidden exit.
    At the bottom, a black Maybach was waiting in the alley.
    “City Hall,” he said to the driver. Then he pulled out his phone. “Archer. I need a marriage license prepped. Now. Yes, I’m serious. Get a judge on the line and arrange a judicial waiver for the waiting period. I want it done tonight. Meet me there.”
    Emilee sat huddled in his jacket. She watched him. He was efficient. He was commanding.
    She looked at his watch. A Patek Philippe.
    Carlisle caught her staring. “Don’t get any ideas,” he said coldly. “You can’t pawn that.”
    Emilee looked away, her cheeks heating up under the thick white foundation.
    When they arrived at the City Clerk’s office, a man in a sharp suit was waiting with a folder. He looked stressed.
    “Sir,” the man said, eyeing Emilee’s fishnets with horror. “Are you sure about this?”
    “Give me the pen, Archer,” Carlisle said.
    Emilee signed her name. Her hand shook, but the letters were legible. Emilee Oneill.
    Carlisle signed next to her. His signature was aggressive, sharp.
    She felt a wave of relief so strong it made her dizzy. She was married. According to her mother’s trust fund stipulations, she was now an adult in the eyes of the estate. She was free.

    The Silent Heiress’s Million Dollar Gambit Chapter 2

    The wind outside City Hall was biting. It whipped Emilee’s hair across her face, strands of black sticking to her dark lipstick. She stood on the sidewalk, the marriage certificate clutched tightly in her hand. It was just a piece of paper. But it was the heaviest thing she had ever held.
    Carlisle stood next to her. He buttoned his coat, looking unbothered by the cold or the insanity of the last hour. “Archer,” he said, turning to his assistant, who was already holding out a second, more ominous-looking document and a pen. “The addendum.”
    Carlisle took the document and held it out to Emilee. “One last signature. Consider it a condition of our arrangement. A non disclosure agreement. A silent covenant. You don’t speak about me, my business, or this night to anyone. Ever.”
    Emilee looked from the paper to his cold, unyielding eyes. This was the real price. Not the million-dollar IOU, but her silence, legally weaponized and turned against her. It was a cage of a different kind, but one she was choosing. She took the pen and signed, her signature a final act of surrender.
    “Now,” Carlisle said, turning to her with a commanding presence. “We need to have a conversation about a non disclosure agreement.”
    Before he could finish, Emilee’s phone buzzed frantically in her pocket. Startled, she pulled it out. It was a text from Harper, her stepsister. An image loaded on the screen. It was a photo of a silver Zippo lighter, the flame lit, hovering inches above a canvas. It was one of her mother’s paintings. The last one she had restored before she died.
    Emilee’s hand spasmed. Rage and panic flooded her veins. They were threatening the only thing that mattered to her. She didn’t have time for this conversation.
    She turned to face Carlisle. She knew exactly how powerful and wealthy this billionaire was, and a wave of genuine guilt washed over her for using him like a shield. She reached into the pocket of her jeans, pulling out two crumpled twenty-dollar bills. It was all the cash she had on her. She grabbed Carlisle’s hand, slapping the bills into his warm palm as a token of her sincere apology. The million-dollar IOU she gave him earlier was her genuine promise of compensation, even though she knew he absolutely did not lack money.
    Carlisle looked down at the money. George Washington stared back at him, wrinkled and sad. Forty dollars. He looked up, his eyes narrowing. “What is this?”
    Emilee held up her phone. She had quickly typed a note in the Notes app. “Cab fare. I am sorry for using you. The million dollars is my real compensation. I will contact you. Keep your phone on.”
    Carlisle read the screen. His jaw tightened. A muscle feathered in his cheek. “You are tipping me?” he asked, his voice dangerously low.
    Emilee nodded, giving him a small, awkward thumbs-up. Then, before he could react, she spun around and flagged down a passing yellow taxi. It screeched to a halt, and she dove into the backseat.
    “Hey!” Archer shouted, stepping forward.
    Carlisle raised a hand, stopping him. He stood on the curb, holding the forty dollars and the marriage certificate copy she had left behind in her haste. He watched the taxi merge into traffic. A laugh escaped him. It was short, sharp, and devoid of humor. “She tipped me,” he muttered. He looked at the bills again.
    Carlisle stood on the curb, his expression a complex mix of disbelief and dark amusement. He was a billionaire with a net worth in the hundreds of billions, a man whose hourly asset fluctuations amounted to more than most people earned in a lifetime. And yet, he had just been dismissed with forty dollars by a young girl who looked barely twenty, her face painted with absurdly heavy makeup. He chuckled, genuinely angered by the sheer audacity of it.
    The black Maybach pulled up. Archer opened the back door, looking like he was about to have a stroke. “Sir,” Archer said, his voice trembling. “That was unexpected.”
    Carlisle slid into the car. The warmth of the interior did nothing to thaw the ice in his chest. “Investigate my special new wife,” Carlisle said. He tossed the forty dollars onto the leather seat next to him. “I want to know everything. Who she is. Who sent her. What she wants.”
    Archer tapped on his tablet. “Already on it, sir. I pulled the security footage from the Obsidian Club.” He handed the tablet to Carlisle.
    The video was grainy, black and white. It showed Emilee in the bathroom of the club, moments before she burst into his room. She was leaning over the sink, splashing water on her face. For a brief second, she looked up at the mirror. The camera caught her profile.
    Carlisle paused the video. He zoomed in. The heavy makeup was smeared, revealing the skin beneath. Her bone structure was delicate. Her nose was straight, her jawline soft but defined. But it was her eyes. Even in the grainy footage, they were striking. Large. Expressive. And familiar.
    Carlisle frowned. A memory scratched at the back of his mind, something from a long time ago. Something buried under years of corporate takeovers and family betrayals. He couldn’t place it.
    “She doesn’t look like a spy,” Archer ventured. “She looks scared.”
    “That makes her a good spy,” Carlisle snapped. He handed the tablet back. “Find out where that taxi is going.”
    In the back of the yellow cab, Emilee deliberately left her heavy, grotesque makeup untouched. She delusionally hoped that this bizarre, dark look would scare off the impending danger waiting for her at home. The “useless” daughter. The “mute” girl. The fragile doll.
    She gripped her phone tightly. Words didn’t work on her family. Only leverage worked. And now, she had leverage. She touched her chest, feeling the folded marriage certificate tucked inside her inner pocket.
    The taxi slowed down. They were pulling up to the Oneill Manor. It was a sprawling estate in the Hamptons that seemingly belonged to her and her late mother, but in reality, it had been completely taken over by her father and stepmother. Everything her father owned, every business deal he made, was built on her mother’s fortune. Yet, the moment her mother died, her father immediately married Lydia. He tacitly allowed his new family to humiliate Emilee at every turn. Because of his silent approval, even the servants had begun to insult and mistreat her at will.
    The driveway was lined with cars. Expensive cars. A party. Of course. They were hosting a gala while threatening to burn her mother’s legacy.
    Emilee paid the driver. She didn’t tip. She couldn’t afford to. She stepped out onto the gravel driveway. The cold air hit her face. She felt exposed. Vulnerable. She pulled the hood of her sweatshirt up.
    The security guard at the gate recognized her. He sneered. “Late again, Princess?” he muttered.
    Emilee didn’t look at him. She walked past him, her boots crunching on the stones. She could hear the music coming from the main house. Laughter. The clinking of glasses. It sounded like a different world.
    She walked around to the side entrance. She wasn’t going to walk in the front door. Not yet. She needed to see the battlefield first.
    She paused at the glass patio doors, looking in. Her father, Gavin Oneill, was standing in the center of the room. He was laughing, holding a glass of champagne. He looked happy. He looked like a man who had just made a very profitable deal.
    Emilee placed her hand on the cold glass. Her reflection stared back at her. Pale. Determined. She wasn’t the scared girl who ran out of here three hours ago. She was a married woman.
    She pushed the door open. The wind rushed in with her, extinguishing a nearby candle. Emilee stepped into the warmth of the lion’s den.

    The Silent Heiress’s Million Dollar Gambit Chapter 3

    Emilee didn’t enter the main hall immediately. She knew this house better than the people who owned it. She knew which floorboards creaked. She knew which doors didn’t latch properly.
    She slipped through the servants’ corridor, her boots silent on the linoleum. She took the back stairs, taking them two at a time. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that matched the music thumping from below. She reached the second-floor landing.
    She crouched in the shadows of the balcony, peering through the banister. The Great Hall was filled with people. Men in tuxedos. Women in gowns that cost more than a car. It was a sea of fake smiles and hidden agendas.
    Her eyes scanned the room. There. Her stepmother, Lydia, was draped in emerald green silk. She was clinging to the arm of a man Emilee recognized with a shudder. Mr. Sterling.
    Mr. Sterling was a notorious investor. He was short, balding, and sweating profusely, rubbing his greasy hands together in an impatient, vulgar manner. Emilee had looked into his private life earlier. It was rumored that Sterling had three previous wives, and none of them survived their wedding night. When their bodies were brought out, they were mutilated beyond recognition. The man had a sick obsession with barely legal girls and was known for his ruthless, perverted methods.
    And yet, her own biological father, along with her stepmother, was actively handing her over to this monster just to save a failing company. Pushed to this despicable corner, Emilee had no choice but to save herself.
    “She will be down any minute,” Gavin was saying, bowing slightly with a pathetic, fawning smile, treating Sterling like a god. “She is just preparing herself. You know how shy she is.”
    Lydia chimed in, her posture equally submissive as she poured Sterling more wine. “Oh yes, Mr. Sterling. We have kept her pure and untouched, just for a distinguished man like you.”
    Sterling licked his lips greedily, his eyes darting around nervously. “Shy is good. I cannot wait to tear that shyness apart.”
    Emilee’s stomach churned. Bile rose in her throat. They were selling her. Not metaphorically. Literally. They were trading her for a capital injection to save the failing company.
    Miles away, in the penthouse office of Pierce Global. Carlisle sat behind his massive mahogany desk. The city lights of Manhattan sprawled out behind him, a glittering grid of power. Archer placed a tablet in front of him.
    “We found her,” Archer said. “Emilee Oneill. Eldest daughter of Gavin Oneill, the struggling CEO of Oneill Corp. Her mother was the renowned artist, Seraphina Vance.”
    Carlisle looked at the screen. A student ID photo stared back at him. The girl in the photo was breathtakingly beautiful. She had delicate, flawless features that radiated a pure, untouched elegance, looking completely different from the goth disaster he had just married. He stared at her pretty face, highly surprised by the contrast.
    “She hasn’t spoken in ten years,” Archer continued. “Selective mutism following the car crash that killed her mother.”
    Carlisle tapped the screen. “Mute?”
    “Yes, sir. The family keeps her out of the public eye. Rumor has it she is mentally unstable.”
    Carlisle leaned back. “Unstable people don’t negotiate million-dollar contracts on napkins.”
    “The Oneill company is on the brink of Chapter 11 bankruptcy,” Archer added. “They need cash. This marriage… she could be looking for a payout.”
    “Or,” Carlisle said, his eyes darkening, “she is looking for protection.” He remembered the terror in her eyes. The way she checked the exits.
    “Should I annul it?” Archer asked. “I can have the judge wake up right now.”
    “No,” Carlisle said. He stood up and walked to the window. “If she is a spy, letting her go is dangerous. If she is a gold digger, I want to know who put her up to it.” He turned back to Archer. “Keep the marriage active. And tap into the Oneill Manor security system. I want to see what my wife is up to.”
    Back at the manor. Emilee pulled her phone from her pocket. She opened an app she had coded herself when she was sixteen. It connected to the house’s Bluetooth sound system. Realizing that a ridiculous disguise would not deter a monster like Sterling, Emilee finally walked into the bathroom and scrubbed her face clean.
    Downstairs, Lydia was tapping a spoon against her glass. Ding. Ding. Ding. The room went quiet. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Lydia announced, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Please welcome the guest of honor. Our beloved daughter, Emilee.”
    All eyes turned to the grand staircase. Emilee stood up. She stepped out of the shadows. She wasn’t wearing a gown. She was wearing a simple black turtleneck and jeans. Her face was scrubbed clean. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders. She looked stark. Real. She began to descend the stairs. Her steps were slow, deliberate.
    Sterling’s jaw dropped. He dropped his champagne flute. It shattered on the marble floor, but no one looked at it. They were looking at her. Without the heavy makeup, without the hood, she was breathtaking. Her beauty was haunting. It was the kind of beauty that made people uncomfortable because it felt too raw. Harper, standing in the corner, turned a shade of red that clashed with her dress. She gripped her wine glass until her knuckles turned white. Gavin’s eyes lit up. He saw dollar signs.
    Lydia recovered first. She rushed to the bottom of the stairs, her arms outstretched. “Darling!” she cried. “You look unique. Come, say hello to Mr. Sterling.” She reached for Emilee’s hand. Emilee sidestepped. Lydia grabbed empty air. She stumbled, her smile faltering.
    Emilee walked past her. She walked straight up to Sterling. The man smelled of sweat and expensive musk. He leered at her, reaching out a hand to touch her face. “Beautiful,” he wheezed. “Worth every penny.”
    Emilee didn’t flinch. She stared at him. Her eyes were cold, dead. She tapped her phone screen. Suddenly, a high-pitched, ear-splitting screech erupted from every speaker in the room. SCREEEEEEEEECH. Guests covered their ears. Glasses rattled on the tables. Sterling recoiled, clutching his head. “What the hell?” The noise was deafening. It was a sonic weapon. And Emilee stood in the center of it, calm, silent, watching them all writhe.

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  • One Night With My Billionaire Boss by Nathaniel Stone

    One Night With My Billionaire Boss by Nathaniel Stone
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    I woke up on silk sheets that smelled of expensive cedar and cold sandalwood, a world away from my cramped apartment in Brooklyn.

    Beside me lay Ezra Gardner-my boss, the billionaire CEO of Gardner Holdings, and the man who could end my career with a snap of his fingers.

    He didn’t offer an apology for the night before; instead, he looked at me with terrifying clarity and proposed a cold, calculated business arrangement.

    “Marriage. It stabilizes the board and solves the PR crisis before it begins.”

    He dressed me in archival Chanel and sent me home in his Maybach, but my life was already falling apart. My boyfriend, Irving, claimed he had passed out early, yet his location data placed him at my best friend’s apartment until three in the morning. When I tried to run, I realized Ezra was already ten steps ahead, tracking my movements and uncovering the secret I’d spent twenty years hiding: my connection to the powerful Senator Grimes.

    I was trapped between a CEO who treated me like a line item on a quarterly report and a boyfriend who had been using me while sleeping with my closest friend. I felt like a pawn in a game I didn’t understand, wondering why a man like Ezra would walk up forty flights of stairs on a broken leg just to make sure I was safe.

    “Showtime, Mrs. Gardner.”

    Standing on the red carpet in a gown that cost more than my life, I watched my cheating ex-boyfriend’s face turn pale as Ezra claimed me in front of the world. I wasn’t just an assistant anymore; I was a weapon, and it was time to burn their world down.

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    One Night With My Billionaire Boss Chapter 1

    Pain was the first thing Hali Andrews registered. It was a sharp, rhythmic thudding behind her temples, the kind of hangover headache that promised a day of misery. She kept her eyes closed, unwilling to let the morning light assault her retinas just yet. She shifted, expecting the lumpy comfort of her old mattress in Brooklyn, but the sheets beneath her fingers felt wrong. They were too smooth. Too cool. Silk.

    She frowned, her fingers curling into the fabric. The scent in the air was different, too. Her apartment usually smelled of stale coffee and the vanilla candle she burned to mask the scent of the city. This air smelled expensive. It was a crisp blend of cedar, cold sandalwood, and something uniquely masculine.

    Hali reached out blindly toward where her nightstand should be, fumbling for her phone to check the time. Her hand did not find wood or plastic. Instead, her palm landed on the rumpled mattress. The high-thread-count sheets were indented, holding the lingering, intense body heat of someone who had just vacated the spot.

    Hali froze. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage.

    She snapped her eyes open.

    The room was vast, bathed in the soft gray light of a Manhattan morning. But Hali did not look at the floor-to-ceiling windows or the modern art on the walls. Her gaze was locked on the frosted glass door of the en-suite bathroom, where the heavy drumming of a running shower echoed through the quiet suite.

    The memories of the previous night crashed into her mind like a tidal wave. The charity gala. The endless trays of champagne she had consumed to numb the boredom. The elevator ride where the air had suddenly become too thin. The heat of his hand on her waist. The way the door to the penthouse suite had clicked shut, sealing her fate.

    Panic, cold and sharp, flooded her veins. She stopped breathing. This was a catastrophe. This was the end of her career. If Irving found out…

    Irving. She squeezed her eyes shut. She had called him three times last night. He had not answered. That was why she drank the champagne. That was why she was here.

    She snatched her hand back as if burned, clutching it to her chest. She had to leave. Now. Before he finished his shower.

    Hali moved with painstaking slowness, inching toward the edge of the bed. Her limbs felt heavy, uncooperative. She managed to sit up, swinging her legs over the side, her feet sinking into a plush carpet that probably cost more than her student loans.

    She looked around frantically for her clothes. Her dress, a vintage piece she had altered herself to look like a designer gown, was lying in a heap near the door. It was ruined. The zipper was torn, the fabric ripped at the seam. A visceral memory of Ezra’s hands tearing it off her flashed through her mind, making her face burn.

    She could not wear that. She was naked, stranded in the lion’s den, with no armor.

    Suddenly, the water in the bathroom cut off. The silence that followed was worse than the noise.

    Hali grabbed the silk sheet and pulled it up to her chin, scrambling backward until her back hit the headboard. She felt like a cornered animal.

    The bathroom door clicked open.

    Ezra walked out. He was fully awake, alert. There was no morning grogginess in his eyes, only a terrifying, predatory clarity. He wore a black towel low on his hips, water droplets clinging to his broad shoulders and tracking down the defined ridges of his abdomen. He moved with a stiff, controlled grace. The towel hung low enough to obscure his upper legs completely, revealing nothing but muscle. His presence filled the room, sucking the oxygen out of the air.

    He looked at her. His expression was unreadable, his dark eyes sweeping over her, clutching the sheet. He did not look embarrassed. He did not look regretful. He looked like he was in a boardroom meeting.

    “Good morning, Hali.”

    Hali opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She cleared her throat, her voice trembling when she finally spoke. “Mr. Gardner. I… this was… I need to leave.”

    Ezra didn’t respond immediately. He walked past the bed, his movement fluid yet careful, toward the massive walk-in closet. He disappeared for a moment and returned holding a garment bag and a box.

    He placed them on the foot of the bed.

    “Wear these,” he said.

    Hali stared at the logo on the box. Chanel. She looked back at him, confusion warring with her panic.

    Ezra leaned against the dresser, crossing his arms over his bare chest. “Given the events of last night, and my position, we need to discuss the path forward.”

    Hali blinked. “What?”

    “Marriage,” Ezra said. The word hung in the air, heavy and absurd.

    Hali let out a choked laugh. It was a hysterical sound. “Excuse me?”

    Ezra’s face remained impassive. “A scandal involving the CEO and a junior assistant would be detrimental to the stock price, especially with a vital, confidential brand acquisition currently in the sensitive negotiation phase. A sudden marriage, however, can be spun as a whirlwind romance. It stabilizes the board. It solves the PR crisis before it begins.”

    Hali stared at him. He was discussing their night together-a night where he had touched her in ways that made her burn just thinking about it-as if it were a line item on a quarterly report.

    “That is insane,” Hali whispered. “I am not marrying you for a stock price.”

    Ezra tilted his head slightly. “It is a contract. A business arrangement. You will be compensated.”

    “I have a boyfriend,” Hali blurted out.

    The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Ezra’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of something dangerous passing through them.

    “The creative director,” Ezra said, his tone dismissive, as if referring to a minor clerical error. “He is an obstacle, but hardly an insurmountable one.”

    “Yes,” Hali said, lifting her chin, trying to salvage some shred of dignity. “Irving.”

    “He didn’t answer your calls last night,” Ezra stated. It wasn’t a question.

    Hali flinched. “That doesn’t mean…”

    “Get dressed, Hali.” Ezra pushed off the dresser and turned his back to her, walking toward the coffee machine in the corner of the suite. “The car is waiting downstairs.”

    Hali watched his back, the muscles shifting under his skin. He was dismissing her. He had dropped a bomb and then dismissed her.

    She grabbed the box and the garment bag and sprinted into the bathroom, locking the door with trembling fingers.

    She leaned against the cool marble of the sink, staring at herself in the mirror. Her hair was a disaster. Her lips were swollen. There were red marks on her neck and collarbone, undeniable evidence of Ezra’s mouth.

    She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face, scrubbing hard, trying to wash away the memory of his hands. It didn’t work.

    She opened the garment bag. It was a tweed suit, a classic Chanel silhouette but with a modern, edgy cut. It was from the upcoming collection. It hadn’t even hit the stores yet.

    She put it on. It fit perfectly.

    A chill went down her spine. The waist, the bust, the length of the skirt. It fit remarkably well-standard sample size, perhaps, or maybe he just had an eerily accurate eye for proportions.

    She pushed the thought away. She didn’t want to know. She opened the box. Underwear. La Perla. Black lace. Also her size.

    She dressed quickly, her hands shaking so badly she could barely fasten the buttons. She felt like a doll he had dressed up. She shoved her ruined dress into the trash can, unable to look at it.

    When she emerged from the bathroom, Ezra was sitting on a velvet sofa, a cup of black coffee in his hand. He gestured to a second cup on the table.

    “Drink. You’ll need it.”

    “No,” Hali said. She grabbed her purse from the floor. “I’m leaving. We are going to pretend this never happened. I am going to work, and I am going to be a junior assistant, and you are going to be the CEO, and we will never speak of this again.”

    She walked toward the door, her heels sinking into the carpet.

    “Hali,” Ezra’s voice stopped her. It was quiet, but it commanded obedience. “Running doesn’t solve problems.”

    She paused, her hand hovering over the door handle. She didn’t turn around. “It solves this one.”

    She yanked the door open and stepped into the corridor. It was empty. She practically ran to the elevator, pressing the button repeatedly as if that would make it arrive faster.

    When the doors slid open, she stepped inside and leaned against the mirrored wall, closing her eyes. Her heart was beating so hard it hurt.

    The elevator descended, the numbers counting down. 40… 30… 20…

    When the doors opened at the lobby, she kept her head down, using her hair as a shield. She walked fast, ignoring the doorman, pushing through the revolving doors into the crisp morning air.

    She took a deep breath, thinking she had made it. She was free.

    A sleek black Maybach pulled up to the curb, blocking her path. The rear window rolled down smoothly.

    Finley Butler, the company’s head of legal and Ezra’s right hand, sat in the driver’s seat. He looked at her with a polite, professional smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

    “Ms. Andrews,” Finley said. “Mr. Gardner instructed me to take you home.”

    Hali froze. She looked left, then right. There were no taxis. The subway was three blocks away. She was wearing a five-thousand-dollar suit that wasn’t hers.

    She was trapped.

    One Night With My Billionaire Boss Chapter 2

    Hali stared at Finley, her grip on her purse tightening until her knuckles turned white. The morning sun glared off the polished black paint of the Maybach, stinging her tired eyes.

    “I can take the subway,” she said, though her voice lacked conviction.

    Finley didn’t stop smiling. “The doorman is watching, Ms. Andrews. And I believe the paparazzi are often camped out at the corner café this time of morning hoping for a glimpse of Mr. Gardner. It would be best to get in.”

    Hali glanced back at the building entrance. The doorman was indeed watching, his eyebrows raised slightly at the sight of the junior assistant in Chanel standing next to the CEO’s car.

    She grit her teeth and opened the back door, sliding onto the leather seat. The interior smelled faintly of the same sandalwood scent that clung to her skin. It was suffocating.

    Finley pulled away from the curb effortlessly, merging into the chaotic Manhattan traffic. The partition between the front and back was down. Hali stared out the window, watching the blur of yellow taxis and pedestrians.

    “Where to?” Finley asked, his eyes meeting hers in the rearview mirror.

    “Brooklyn,” she said, giving him her address. It felt wrong to say the street name in this car. It was like mixing oil and water.

    Finley nodded. “Brooklyn. A long drive.”

    The silence that followed was heavy. Hali picked at a loose thread on the seat-wait, there were no loose threads in a Maybach. She clasped her hands in her lap to stop fidgeting.

    “Mr. Gardner rarely loses control,” Finley said suddenly. His tone was casual, conversational, as if he were commenting on the weather. “You must be… unexpected.”

    Heat flared in Hali’s cheeks, burning hot and fast. She felt the blood rush to her face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It was the champagne. It was a mistake.”

    Finley hummed, a noncommittal sound. “Mistakes usually don’t involve archival Chanel.”

    Hali looked down at the suit. The fabric was soft against her skin, a constant reminder of the man who had given it to her. She remembered the way Ezra had looked at her last night in the elevator. There had been a hunger in his eyes that terrified her. And she had pulled his tie. She remembered that now. She had pulled him down to her.

    She closed her eyes, wishing the ground would swallow her whole.

    Her phone buzzed in her hand. She jumped, her heart skipping a beat. It was a text from Irving.

    “Hey babe. Sorry I missed your calls. Passed out early last night. Crazy week. Morning coffee?”

    Hali stared at the screen. Passed out early.

    She looked at the timestamp of her last call to him: 11:45 PM. Irving was a night owl. He never slept before 2 AM.

    A knot of unease tightened in her stomach. He was lying. But why?

    Then, a darker, colder thought washed over the suspicion. The date. She did the mental math quickly, counting the days on her internal calendar.

    She felt the blood drain from her face.

    “Stop the car,” she said. Her voice was sharp, urgent.

    Finley frowned, glancing in the mirror. “Ms. Andrews? We are in the middle of-“

    “Please, stop. There’s a CVS right there. I need… I need something.”

    Finley’s eyes narrowed slightly, assessing her pale face. He understood. He didn’t say a word, just signaled and pulled the massive car over to the curb in front of the pharmacy.

    Hali didn’t wait for him to open the door. She scrambled out, nearly tripping in the borrowed heels.

    The fluorescent lights of the pharmacy were harsh. She walked straight to the family planning aisle, her heart pounding in her ears. She felt like everyone was looking at her. The woman in the hair care aisle. The teenager buying soda. They all knew.

    She grabbed the small box of Plan B. One pill. Fifty dollars. A small price to pay to erase a life-altering mistake, even if the tiny print on the back warned of its diminishing efficacy window.

    She took it to the counter. The cashier, a middle-aged woman with tired eyes, scanned the box. She looked at Hali’s expensive suit, then at her messy hair, then at the box. She didn’t say anything, but her expression screamed judgment.

    Hali paid cash. She didn’t want a paper trail. She shoved the box into her bag and walked out, keeping her head down.

    When she got back into the car, Finley didn’t ask what she had bought. He simply merged back into traffic. But the air in the car had changed. It felt heavier.

    “He suspects,” Hali thought. And if he suspects, he will tell Ezra.

    She sat in silence for the rest of the ride, clutching her bag to her chest like a shield. When the car finally pulled up to her worn-down apartment building in Brooklyn, the contrast was stark. The peeling paint of the entryway looked pathetic next to the gleaming black metal of the car.

    “Thank you,” Hali muttered, pushing the door open.

    “Ms. Andrews,” Finley said.

    She paused, looking back.

    “Ezra is a man who takes care of his assets,” Finley said. His voice was devoid of mockery now. It was a warning. Or maybe a promise.

    Hali slammed the door shut and ran up the steps to her building.

    She fumbled with her keys, her hands shaking so badly she dropped them twice. Finally, she got the door open and stumbled into her apartment. She locked the deadbolt, threw the chain, and leaned back against the wood, sliding down until she hit the floor.

    It was quiet. Safe.

    She pulled the box out of her bag. Her hands trembled as she tore the foil packaging. The small white pill looked innocuous.

    She went to the kitchen, filled a glass with tap water, and swallowed the pill. It scraped against her dry throat.

    Almost immediately, a wave of nausea rolled over her. It was psychosomatic, she knew, but she still gagged, clutching the edge of the sink.

    She needed to get this scent off her. She needed to get Ezra off her skin.

    She went to the bathroom and stripped off the Chanel suit. She looked at herself in the mirror. The bruises on her neck were darkening. A love bite right over her pulse point.

    She turned the shower on as hot as she could stand it. She scrubbed her skin until it was raw and red, trying to erase the ghost of his touch.

    When she finally stepped out, wrapped in her old, fraying bathrobe, she felt hollowed out. She bundled the Chanel suit and the lingerie into a plastic bag and shoved it into the back of her closet, behind her winter coats. She never wanted to see it again.

    Her phone buzzed again. It was Lia, her best friend and a junior designer at the firm.

    “Did you see Irving last night? I swear I saw him at The Box around 1 AM.”

    Hali stared at the message. The Box. A nightclub.

    Irving had texted her saying he was asleep.

    The knot in her stomach twisted tighter. He lied.

    Why would he lie about being at a club? Unless he wasn’t alone.

    In the front seat of the Maybach, blocks away, Finley typed a message on his encrypted phone.

    “She visited the pharmacy. She looks ill. Urgent.”

    Across the city, in the penthouse suite, Ezra Gardner looked at the message. The phone in his hand creaked under the pressure of his grip.

    He stared at the words, his jaw tightening until a muscle feathered in his cheek. He closed his eyes, exhaling a slow, controlled breath. Then, with a sudden, violent motion, he snapped the fountain pen he was holding in half. Ink bled onto his fingers, black as oil.

    One Night With My Billionaire Boss Chapter 3

    Monday morning arrived with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Hali stood in front of her mirror, adjusting the collar of her thickest, highest cashmere sweater. It was charcoal gray and stiflingly warm for September, but it was the only thing that effectively hid the bruising on her neck.

    She applied an extra layer of concealer under her eyes, trying to mask the shadows left by a sleepless weekend. The nausea from the Plan B had settled into a dull, constant ache in her lower abdomen.

    She checked her phone. No new messages from Irving since his Sunday night “hope you had a good weekend” text. She hadn’t replied.

    On the subway ride to Midtown, Hali obsessively refreshed Irving’s Instagram. Nothing. His tagged photos were clean. But the doubt planted by Lia’s text had taken root and was growing fast.

    She swiped her badge at the turnstiles of Gardner Holdings, the beep sounding like an accusation. The lobby was a hive of activity, heels clicking on marble, the hum of ambition and caffeine filling the air.

    Hali kept her head down, clutching her coffee cup like a lifeline. She made it to the design department without running into anyone important.

    Her cubicle was exactly as she had left it: cluttered with fabric swatches, sketches, and half-finished mood boards. It felt like a different lifetime.

    Yara, the department gossip and Hali’s work friend, rolled her chair over the moment Hali sat down.

    “Oh my god, you look like death,” Yara whispered, her eyes wide. “But listen. The rumor mill is on fire.”

    Hali’s heart skipped a beat. She forced a smile, booting up her computer. “What else is new?”

    “No, this is big. Someone from the cleaning crew said they found a woman’s dress in Ezra’s penthouse suite on Saturday morning. Ripped.”

    Hali’s hand jerked, splashing hot coffee onto her wrist. She hissed, grabbing a tissue.

    Yara leaned in closer. “They say he took someone home from the gala. Everyone is trying to guess who. Some say it was that model, Kaia. Others think it might be a socialite.”

    Hali wiped her wrist, her heart pounding against her ribs. “Or maybe a junior assistant who wants to die,” she thought.

    “Probably a model,” Hali said, her voice sounding thin to her own ears.

    Just then, Nolan Hayes, the Design Director, swept through the aisles. He paused at Hali’s desk, picking up a sketch she had left out-a rough charcoal drawing of a structured bodice.

    “Interesting lines, Andrews,” Nolan murmured, adjusting his glasses. “Very aggressive. It has a certain… disruptive quality. Reminds me of the avant-garde movement in Berlin.”

    Hali froze. The blood drained from her face. “Oh, I… I was just doodling. It’s nothing.”

    Nolan hummed, dropping the sketch back onto the desk. “Don’t be so modest. I need you in the concept meeting this afternoon. Taking notes. 2 PM.”

    He walked away before she could protest.

    Hali exhaled, sinking into her chair. Being noticed was dangerous. She had to be more careful.

    A ping from her computer drew her attention. A small notification box popped up in the bottom right corner of her screen. It was from the company’s internal messaging system, Slack.

    New Friend Request.

    Hali frowned. Who added people as friends on Slack? It was usually automatic.

    She clicked the notification.

    User: E.G.

    Role: CEO

    Hali stared at the screen. The avatar was a black square.

    Ezra.

    Her breath hitched. He was adding her. On the company server. Where IT could see. Where anyone looking over her shoulder could see.

    Her mouse hovered over the Accept button. Her finger trembled. This was a power move. He was invading her workspace, reminding her that he was everywhere, asserting his dominance even through a digital screen.

    She gritted her teeth. No. She wasn’t going to play this game. She wasn’t his fiancée. She was his employee.

    She moved the cursor to the Decline button and clicked.

    Request Declined.

    She sat back, her heart racing. She had just rejected the CEO. She was insane. She was going to be fired.

    Five minutes passed. Hali tried to focus on a spreadsheet, but the numbers were swimming.

    The phone on her desk rang. The shrill sound made her jump.

    “Design Department, Hali Andrews,” she answered, her voice tight.

    “Ms. Andrews,” Finley Butler’s smooth voice came through the line. “Mr. Gardner would like to see you in his office. Now.”

    Hali closed her eyes. Of course.

    “I’m in the middle of preparing for-“

    “Now, Ms. Andrews.”

    The line went dead.

    Hali hung up the phone slowly. Yara was looking at her with pity. “You’re getting called to the principal’s office? What did you do?”

    “Nothing,” Hali said, standing up. Her legs felt like jelly.

    She walked to the elevator banks, clutching her notebook to her chest. She pressed the button for the penthouse floor.

    The ride up was agonizingly fast. The doors opened onto the 45th floor, a space of quiet luxury and terrifying silence.

    Finley was seated at his desk outside the double mahogany doors. He looked up, his expression neutral.

    “Go right in.”

    Hali walked to the door and knocked.

    “Enter.”

    She pushed the door open. Ezra was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, his back to her. He was wearing a suit that cost more than her father-if she knew who he was-probably made in a year.

    He turned slowly. He held his phone in his hand. The screen was lit up.

    Hali stopped in the middle of the room, keeping a safe distance.

    “You wanted to see me, Mr. Gardner?”

    Ezra didn’t answer immediately. He walked toward her, his steps slow and deliberate. He stopped two feet away, invading her personal space.

    He held up the phone. On the screen was the notification: Hali Andrews declined your request.

    He looked at her, his dark eyes boring into hers.

    “Is this how you treat your fiancé?” he asked, his voice low and laced with a dangerous calm.

    “I’m not your fiancé,” Hali whispered, backing up until her heels hit the wood of the door behind her.

    Ezra followed, placing one hand on the doorframe above her head, boxing her in. The scent of sandalwood enveloped her again, triggering a sensory flashback to the silk sheets and his warm skin.

    “We are negotiating,” Ezra said, leaning down until his mouth was inches from her ear. “And declining a friend request is a poor opening move, Hali.”

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • Invisible To Her Bully by Dea B

    Invisible To Her Bully by Dea B

    👉 READ NOW

    Unlike her twin brother, Jackson, Jessa struggled with her weight and very few friends. Jackson was an athlete and the epitome of popularity, while Jessa felt invisible.

    Noah was the quintessential “It” guy at school-charismatic, well-liked, and undeniably handsome. To make matters worse, he was Jackson’s best friend and Jessa’s biggest bully.

    During their senior year, Jessa decides it was time for her to gain some self-confidence, find her true beauty and not be the invisible twin.As Jessa transformed, she begins to catch the eye of everyone around her, especially Noah.Noah, initially blinded by his perception of Jessa as merely Jackson’s sister, started to see her in a new light.

    How did she become the captivating woman invading his thoughts? When did she become the object of his fantasies?Join Jessa on her journey from being the class joke to a confident, desirable young woman, surprising even Noah as she reveals the incredible person she has always been inside.

    👉 READ NOW

    Invisible To Her Bully Chapter 1

    Jessa

    Seven Years Earlier

    Growing up as a twin sounds fun, right? Built-in best friend, someone who always has your back, someone who gets you without explanation. That’s what I had-at least for the first ten years of my life.

    My twin brother, Jackson, was the center of my world. We were fraternal twins, but opposites in every way. Jackson was tall, lean, athletic, and could make friends with just about anyone. I was short, a little chunky, shy to the point of painful, and usually tripping over my own feet.

    But it never mattered to me. I didn’t need a million friends. I had Jackson. He was my best friend, my other half, my person.

    It was always just the two of us. Our mom worked constantly to keep food on the table, so most of the time it was just me and him. Maybe that’s why we clung to each other so hard.

    “Jax, I wanna go home,” I whined, dragging my feet as he tossed a football from hand to hand.

    “Jess, chill. I told the new kid I’d meet him here to throw the ball around,” he said, his brown eyes locked on the field like he was already in the NFL.

    “This is boring.” I plopped down on the grass.

    He sighed, dug in his pocket, and tossed me a granola bar. “Here. Peanut butter. Your favorite.”

    Instant mood boost. “Yes! Thanks, Jax.”

    While I was tearing open the wrapper, he straightened up, glancing at the entrance to the field. “That’s him.”

    A boy about our age walked toward us, a football tucked under his arm. He had dark, messy brown hair and the greenest eyes I’d ever seen. The kind of eyes you notice right away. And his lashes? Long enough to make me jealous.

    “Hey,” he said to Jackson.

    “Hey, Noah. This is my twin, Jessa.”

    I scrambled up, brushing grass off my jeans. My mouth moved faster than my brain. “Wow… you’ve got really long eyelashes. For a boy.”

    Noah’s cheeks turned pink. “Uh, thanks?”

    Jackson groaned. “Sorry, she doesn’t have a filter sometimes.”

    “I just meant they’re… pretty,” I tried, wishing I could disappear.

    “Jess, why don’t you go sit while we toss the ball around,” Jackson muttered.

    “She doesn’t play?” Noah asked.

    I shook my head before Jackson could answer. “Not really my thing.”

    “Nope. If she tried to throw, she’d probably knock herself over,” Jackson joked.

    I pretended not to care, sitting back down on the sidelines, but my eyes kept drifting toward Noah as he and Jackson tossed the ball. He wasn’t just cute-he was quiet, too. Almost shy. Something about him made me want him to like me.

    After they finished, Jackson clapped him on the back. “You’ve got a good arm.”

    “Two older brothers taught me some stuff,” Noah shrugged.

    “Oh! So they’re your best friends too, like me and Jackson?” I asked eagerly.

    “No. They’re just… brothers. I don’t really have a best friend.”

    My heart squeezed. “Then you should get one. Me and Jackson do everything together. He’s the best best friend you could ever have.”

    Noah looked at Jackson. Jackson just shrugged. Noah nodded slightly, like he got the message.

    At the time, I didn’t realize how wrong I was.

    One Month Later

    “I don’t wanna go to the movies, Jax!” I whined, arms crossed.

    “Too bad. Noah and I wanna see the new Marvel movie. You can’t stay home alone.”

    “We always do what you and Noah want. What about me?”

    He sighed. “Jess, I love you. But sometimes I wanna do stuff without you. You need to find your own friends.”

    That stung more than I wanted to admit.

    The doorbell rang, and Noah walked in with his usual smirk.

    “Sup.”

    “Jess, get your shoes on,” Jackson ordered.

    “She’s coming too?” Noah asked.

    “Yeah. Mom’s at work. I’m babysitting.”

    “Babysitting?” I snapped. “We’re the same age! You’re not babysitting me.”

    “I’m twelve minutes older,” Jackson shot back.

    Noah snickered. “She’s definitely acting like the baby.”

    I stormed off to grab my shoes, but I froze halfway up the stairs when I heard Noah’s voice:

    “Man, your sister’s such a brat. Wish she didn’t have to tag along.”

    Jackson’s answer was the knife that cut deepest. “Tell me about it.”

    At the theater, I tried to forget. “Jax, can we get popcorn? With extra butter?”

    Noah raised his brows. “Do you really need the extra butter?”

    I clenched my fists. “Yes. I like it that way.”

    Jackson slipped me a couple of bills. “Get your own small one.”

    I headed for the snack line, and that’s when I heard them again.

    “She always has to be eating,” Noah muttered.

    “Yeah,” Jackson said with a low laugh. “Sometimes it’s embarrassing to be seen with her.”

    The words hit harder than any punch. My own twin-my best friend-was embarrassed of me.

    “Hey, it’s your turn,” a girl behind me said gently.

    I shook my head. “Changed my mind.”

    She frowned. “You okay?”

    “No,” I whispered. “I think I lost my best friend.”

    She studied me, then said, “I’m Mariah. We’re in the same class, right? You’re Jessa. Jackson’s twin.”

    “Yeah.”

    “What movie are you supposed to be seeing?”

    “Some superhero thing.”

    Mariah smirked. “Ditch it. Come with me instead. There’s a new comedy. Way cuter lead actor.”

    Before I could decide, Jackson and Noah appeared.

    “Jess, what’s taking so long?” Jackson demanded. “Oh, hey, Mariah.”

    Mariah smiled sweetly. “Hi. Jessa and I are seeing the comedy instead.”

    Jackson shrugged. “Fine. Meet us in the lobby after.”

    As he and Noah disappeared, Mariah tugged me toward her theater.

    “Come on. You need a laugh.”

    I glanced back one last time at my brother’s retreating figure.

    He stole my best friend, I thought. And he’s never giving him back.

    Three Years Later

    Thirteen hit me hard. My body changed in ways I didn’t ask for. I wasn’t the chubby little girl anymore-I had curves. Breasts too big for my age. Hips that didn’t match the other girls at school.

    Mom always said, Girls built like us need to cover up. Layers make you look thinner.

    So I wore baggy shirts. Oversized hoodies. Clothes that swallowed me whole. It didn’t matter. The teasing still came.

    “Jess, you’re wearing that?” Jackson asked one morning, eyeing my loose shirt.

    “It’s comfortable.”

    “It’s a tent.” He rolled his eyes and left.

    Mom kissed my cheek. “Ignore him. He doesn’t understand what it’s like for girls like us.”

    At school, the comments started before I even reached the doors.

    “The circus is in town!”

    “Yeah, they brought the whale exhibit!”

    My stomach dropped when I saw where it came from-Jackson and Noah, flanked by their football buddies, all laughing.

    “Nice shirt, Jess,” Noah snorted. “They only had tent size left?”

    “Shut up, Noah.”

    Jackson smirked. “Told you it was too big.”

    “Perfect for hiding that fat ass,” Noah added, sending the group into hysterics.

    I turned away, pretending I couldn’t hear. But their laughter followed me.

    By the time I reached my locker, my hands were shaking. I tugged the handle, but it was jammed. Mariah appeared at my side.

    “Need help?”

    We pulled together until it finally burst open-and trash bags tumbled out, spilling all over the hallway.

    A note taped to one read: Got you a new wardrobe.

    The roar of laughter around us was deafening.

    “Did you do this?” Mariah snapped at Jackson and Noah, who had pushed through the crowd to watch.

    Noah grinned. “She wants to dress like a hobo? Why not just give her options?”

    Jackson chuckled. “Relax. It’s just a joke.”

    Mariah glared at him. “She’s your sister.”

    But Jackson only walked away with Noah.

    I stared at the trash bag in my hands. For just one second, I wished I could trade places. To be the one laughing, not the one humiliated.

    Present Day

    Beep. Beep. Beep.

    I groaned, slamming my alarm clock. Senior year. My last year in this hellhole.

    I’m Jessa. Nobody special. Just the overweight twin sister of Jackson, starting quarterback and golden boy of our high school. The sister his best friend, Noah Carter, has made it his life’s mission to torment.

    Once, when I was ten, I thought Noah was cute. That crush didn’t survive the year. Now at eighteen, he’s tall, broad-shouldered, perfect hair, perfect smile. Every girl wants him.

    And I can’t stand him.

    But he’s always around-because he’s Jackson’s best friend. The boy who stole my brother from me.

    I roll out of bed and tug on my armor: jeans, tank top, oversized button-up. The layers hide the body I’ve been told to be ashamed of.

    Time to sneak out before Jackson sees me. Before Noah’s voice finds me.

    Another day. Another battle.

    Invisible To Her Bully Chapter 2

    Jessa

    I tiptoe down the hallway, holding my breath. If Jackson’s awake, he’ll have some comment locked and loaded about my clothes, my hair, or just… me. I’d rather start the day without it.

    Too late. His bedroom door creaks open, and there he is-my twin, my other half, my betrayer-all six feet of cocky quarterback standing in my way.

    “Morning, Jess,” he says, eyes flicking over my shirt. “Nice… tent.”

    I don’t even answer. I just shoulder past him, my cheeks heating.

    “Aw, come on, don’t be so sensitive,” he calls after me.

    Sensitive. That’s what he calls me when his words cut deep, like it’s my fault for feeling anything.

    By the time I make it to the kitchen, Mom’s already gone. She leaves early most mornings, and I can’t decide if I’m grateful or jealous. Grateful that she doesn’t see me like this, jealous that she never has time for us.

    Jackson grabs a protein shake from the fridge and downs it like he’s in some athlete commercial. I butter a piece of toast, trying to look invisible.

    And then, of course, the devil himself arrives.

    Noah Carter.

    He strolls right into our kitchen like he owns it, helmet tucked under his arm, hair still damp from his shower, all six-foot-two of golden-boy arrogance. He’s wearing his jersey, number 14, stretched across broad shoulders like it was custom made for him.

    And because I’m apparently a glutton for punishment, my stupid brain notices the curve of his jaw, the way his damp hair curls at the edges, the clean soap-and-sweat smell that clings to him. I hate myself for noticing.

    “Morning, sunshine,” he smirks at me.

    I roll my eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

    “What? Thought you’d like a nickname.” His grin widens, like he knows exactly how to get under my skin.

    Jackson laughs and bumps fists with him. “Ignore her, bro. Ready for practice?”

    “Always,” Noah says. He glances at my toast, eyebrows lifting. “Extra butter again?”

    I slam the knife down. “Seriously? Do you ever get tired of commenting on what I eat?”

    Jackson snorts. “Don’t mind him, Jess.”

    But I mind. God, I mind so much.

    The two of them head out to the truck, leaving me with a cold piece of toast and the familiar ache in my chest. It’s the same ache I’ve had since I was ten years old.

    The ache of realizing my twin-my best friend-chose someone else.

    At school, it doesn’t get better. It never does.

    The minute I step into the hallway, eyes flick my way. Whispers. Snickers. The same crap I’ve been hearing since middle school.

    “Damn, she’s bigger than the linebackers.”

    “Bet she eats more than the team.”

    I keep walking, head down, pretending the words don’t stab me. But they do. Every single one leaves another scar I can’t cover with oversized clothes.

    Jackson doesn’t notice, or maybe he does and just doesn’t care. He’s too busy soaking in the glory of being the starting quarterback. Too busy laughing with Noah and the rest of the team.

    Noah. Always Noah.

    The worst part is that when he laughs, it’s this deep, warm sound that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. When he smiles, girls melt into puddles. And when his hazel eyes catch the light, they almost glow.

    I hate that I’ve noticed all of that.

    I hate that part of me gets why the entire female population of Crestwood High would kill for a chance with him.

    I hate that part of me, some twisted little part buried deep down, remembers what it felt like to have a crush on him before he turned into my tormentor.

    Mariah finds me by my locker. Thank God for her. She’s the one good thing that came out of all this-the girl who saw me breaking at the movies three years ago and decided not to let me stand alone.

    “You look like you’re ready to murder someone,” she says, tucking a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear.

    “Noah,” I mutter. “As usual.”

    She makes a face. “Ugh. You’d think after all these years he’d get bored.”

    “He doesn’t. It’s like tormenting me is his favorite sport, right after football.”

    Mariah sighs. “Well, senior year, right? Almost done.”

    Almost. But almost feels like forever.

    Lunch is the worst. Always has been.

    I sit with Mariah at the edge of the cafeteria, away from the football table. But no matter how far away I am, Noah still finds me with his eyes. I feel them, sharp as daggers, hot as a spotlight.

    Today’s no different. I’m halfway through my sandwich when I hear him across the room.

    “Hey, Jackson! Better hide your food or Jess will eat it all before you blink.”

    Laughter erupts from the table. Jackson doesn’t defend me. He never does.

    I keep my head down, cheeks burning, praying no one else joins in. But of course they do.

    “She could be the team mascot,” someone says. “Put her in pads, she’ll bulldoze the defense!”

    The guys howl with laughter.

    Mariah leans across the table, her eyes flashing. “Ignore them. They’re idiots.”

    But ignoring doesn’t make it stop.

    I grip my sandwich so tightly my knuckles turn white. In my head, I imagine standing up, marching over there, and telling Noah exactly what he is-a bully. A coward. A pathetic jerk who gets off on tearing me down.

    But I don’t move.

    Because I know what would happen if I did. He’d smirk. He’d say something sharper. And Jackson would laugh right alongside him.

    Just like always.

    That night, lying in bed, I stare at the ceiling.

    This is my last year. One more year of Noah Carter. One more year of Jackson pretending I don’t exist except when it’s convenient. One more year of being “the fat twin,” the joke, the nobody.

    After graduation, I’ll be free. College will be my reset button. Nobody will know me as Jackson’s sister or Noah’s favorite target. Nobody will remember the locker full of trash bags or the jokes about butter.

    It’ll just be me.

    But even as I tell myself that, my brain betrays me. Because it’s not Noah’s insults that replay behind my eyes. It’s his face. His stupidly perfect, sharp-jawed, broad-shouldered, movie-star face.

    And I hate myself for it.

    The next morning, the cycle repeats. Jackson teasing, Mom absent, me shrinking into myself.

    But when Noah shows up, there’s a shift. Not big, not obvious-just a flicker.

    He catches me staring.

    I don’t mean to. Honest. I’m just zoning out, and my gaze lands on him, on the way his T-shirt stretches across his chest, on the strong line of his throat as he tilts his head back to laugh at something Jackson says.

    And then his hazel eyes lock on mine.

    For a second, I can’t breathe.

    There’s no smirk, no insult, no sharp edge. Just Noah looking at me like… like he sees me.

    Then he blinks, and it’s gone. Replaced by the same cocky grin I know too well.

    “Like what you see, Sunshine?”

    My face burns. “In your dreams.”

    But that flicker stays with me all day.

    And it terrifies me more than all his insults combined.

    Because what if-just what if-the boy who’s made my life hell for years is the one I can’t stop noticing?

    What if the one I hate most is the one I’m secretly drawn to?

    And what if he knows it?

    Invisible To Her Bully Chapter 3

    Noah

    Most people think I’ve got it easy.

    They see the jersey, the captain’s armband, the girls who slide notes into my locker, the teachers who cut me slack because I’m “leading the team this season.” They see the highlight reels, the touchdowns, the swagger.

    And yeah, I play into it. Why wouldn’t I? That image has kept me on top since freshman year.

    But what they don’t see-the part I’d never admit out loud-is that the best part of my day isn’t the touchdowns. It’s not the cheers, or even the wins.

    It’s Jessa Lombardi’s face when I get under her skin.

    I shouldn’t find it that entertaining. She’s Jackson’s twin, for one. Which means technically, she’s off-limits. But God, she makes it too easy. The way her cheeks flush, the way she slams things down or throws out these sharp little comebacks-Jessa’s like one giant exposed nerve. Sensitive as hell.

    And I like testing how far I can push before she snaps.

    Take this morning, for example.

    Jackson and I were heading to practice, but I swung by his place first. Walking into their kitchen always feels… weird. I don’t know why. Maybe because I can practically feel how much Jessa doesn’t want me there.

    She was standing at the counter, spreading butter on toast like it had personally offended her. Oversized T-shirt, messy hair, bare feet curling against the tile. For a second, I almost didn’t say anything.

    Almost.

    “Morning, sunshine,” I tossed out, leaning in the doorway.

    The way her shoulders stiffened-it was instant gratification. Like watching a fire catch.

    “Don’t call me that,” she muttered, eyes on her plate.

    “What? Thought you’d like a nickname.”

    She rolled her eyes so hard I swear I heard them click.

    Jackson laughed, completely oblivious. “Ignore her, bro.”

    I didn’t ignore her, of course. Couldn’t. I never do. Instead, I spotted the toast and couldn’t resist. “Extra butter again?”

    She slammed the knife down like she wanted to stab me with it.

    “Seriously? Do you ever get tired of commenting on what I eat?”

    And just like that, my day was made. That flare of anger in her eyes, the way her voice cracked on ever. She didn’t realize it, but she was giving me exactly what I wanted.

    Attention.

    Here’s the thing: Jessa doesn’t understand me. She thinks I pick on her just to be a jerk, or because I’ve got nothing better to do. But the truth? It’s not that simple.

    I notice her.

    More than I should.

    And noticing her-really noticing her-is dangerous.

    Because Jessa’s not like the other girls who throw themselves at me. She doesn’t giggle when I walk by or bat her lashes hoping I’ll toss her a grin. She doesn’t want anything from me.

    Except maybe for me to disappear.

    And that makes me want to poke, prod, irritate. It makes me want her to look at me, even if it’s with fire in her eyes. Because when she’s angry at me, at least she’s seeing me.

    At school, it’s even better.

    In the cafeteria, Jackson and I had the whole team cracking up over stupid inside jokes when I spotted her sitting with Mariah. Always the far table, always head down, like she’s hoping to disappear.

    But I don’t let her disappear.

    “Hey, Jackson!” I yelled across the room. “Better hide your food or Jess will eat it all before you blink.”

    The table erupted. Perfect.

    I caught the way her shoulders hunched, the way her hand froze halfway to her mouth. She didn’t look up, but I knew she heard me. Knew she felt the sting.

    And yeah, maybe that makes me an asshole. But there’s something about her silence that gets to me. Like she’s holding all this emotion inside, and I’m the only one who knows how to drag it out of her.

    Jackson doesn’t get it. To him, Jessa’s just… Jessa. His twin, his shadow, the sister he doesn’t think twice about. He doesn’t notice the way she winces when people whisper, or the way she pulls her hoodie tighter like armor.

    But I do.

    I see it.

    And sometimes I wonder if that’s why I keep poking-because if I don’t, maybe no one would notice her at all.

    Practice that afternoon should’ve wiped Jessa from my brain. It usually does. Once I’m on the field, nothing else matters. The snap of the ball, the crunch of pads, the roar of the guys-it drowns everything out.

    But not today.

    Today, when I closed my eyes, all I saw was the way she glared at me over her toast, cheeks flushed, eyes flashing.

    And then-God help me-the way her gaze flickered over me. She thought she was subtle, but I caught it. The way her eyes lingered on my shoulders, my chest.

    She thinks I don’t notice, but I do.

    And that thought sticks with me longer than I’d like.

    That night, lying in bed, I try to tell myself it’s nothing. Jessa’s sensitive, that’s all. She reacts to me because I push her buttons. If she didn’t, I’d probably lose interest.

    Except… I’m not losing interest.

    If anything, I’m hooked.

    I want to know how far I can push before she finally snaps. Before she lets me see the fire I know she’s hiding.

    I want to know if that fire burns as hot when it’s not anger.

    The next morning, I catch her staring again.

    She doesn’t realize it-I’m laughing at something Jackson said, tilting my head back, and when I glance over, her eyes are on me. Not in hate. Not in anger. Just… watching.

    And for one insane second, it feels like she sees me. Not the quarterback. Not Jackson’s best friend. Not the jerk who won’t leave her alone.

    Just me.

    Our eyes lock, and the air shifts. She looks caught, like a deer in headlights.

    For once, I don’t smirk. For once, I just look back.

    But then panic kicks in, and I cover it with a grin. “Like what you see, Sunshine?”

    Her face flames. “In your dreams.”

    But I heard the hitch in her breath. I saw the way she couldn’t look away fast enough.

    And that’s when I know I’m in trouble.

    Because tormenting Jessa Lombardi isn’t just a game anymore.

    It’s an addiction.

    And sooner or later, it’s going to blow up in my face.

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • Shielded By The Ruthless Military Boss by Mo Yufei

    Shielded By The Ruthless Military Boss by Mo Yufei
    👉 READ NOW

    I was an intern nurse working exhausting shifts, yet my mother constantly forced me into blind dates with wealthy, arrogant men to secure our family’s social standing.

    During a terrifying hospital lockdown, an assassin disguised as a doctor held a scalpel to my throat. I was almost killed, but a high-ranking military colonel threw his own body down a flight of concrete stairs to shield me.

    I survived with cuts and bruises, but when I went home, my mother didn’t care about my near-death experience. She was only furious that I had rushed out on my blind date with Preston, a rich financial analyst.

    She forced me to meet him to apologize. When Preston grabbed my arm, bruised me, and mocked my attack as a pathetic lie, my mother still took his side.

    “Men get angry,” she told me coldly. “It’s your job not to provoke them. You will beg for his forgiveness, or you are no longer welcome in this house.”

    I had narrowly escaped an assassin, yet my own family was willing to feed me to a monster just for a fat paycheck and neighborhood gossip.

    My heart went completely dead.

    So, when the intimidating Colonel appeared, offering me maximum military protection through a sudden marriage, I didn’t hesitate.

    I walked back into my parents’ house and calmly slapped a crisp marriage certificate onto the coffee table.

    “I won’t be apologizing to Preston. I got married today.”

    👉 READ NOW

    Shielded By The Ruthless Military Boss Chapter 1

    “If you’re going to order the salmon, make sure they don’t overcook it. The last time I was here, it was practically cat food.”
    Caroline Thompson stared at the man sitting across from her. Preston Finch. Financial analyst. Ivy League graduate. The eighteenth blind date her mother had forced her into in the last two years.
    He wasn’t looking at her. He was using his silver fork to trace the menu like he was grading a flawed exam paper.
    “The wine list here is a joke,” Preston continued, snapping the leather bound menu shut. He finally looked at her, his chin tilted in perpetual judgment. “At my club in New York, we have a sommelier. Here? I wouldn’t trust them to open a beer.”
    Caroline’s fingers dug into the fabric of her dress under the table. This was her life now. Sitting across from arrogant men who thought a fat paycheck bought them the right to treat everyone else like peasants.
    “So, Caroline,” Preston leaned back, offering a smirk that was probably meant to be charming but landed closer to constipated. “My mother mentioned you’re a nurse?”
    “Intern nurse,” Caroline corrected automatically. “At Washington United Medical Center.”
    “Right.” The smirk deepened into outright dismissal. “Must be exhausting. All that cleaning up and taking orders. And the pay? Practically minimum wage, right? Honestly, a pretty girl like you should just find a guy who provides. Someone who makes enough so you don’t have to wipe up vomit for a living.”
    A muscle ticked in Caroline’s temple. She opened her mouth to tell him exactly where he could shove his financial advice, but her phone buzzed.
    She never took personal calls on a date. But right now, it was the only thing keeping her from baptizing Preston with her ice water.
    She glanced at the screen. Her breath hitched. It wasn’t just the hospital. It was the direct emergency line from the Chief of Staff.
    She answered it right there. “Thompson.”
    “Caroline.” Dr. Alistair Cromwell never used her first name. His voice, usually dripping with academic condescension, was flat. Breathless. “Get back here. Now.”
    “I’m off the clock, Dr. Cromwell. Is something—”
    “I don’t have time to repeat myself.” The line crackled with background shouting. “This is not a drill. We are at Code Atlas. I say again, Code Atlas. Get here in ten minutes or don’t bother coming back at all.”
    Click.
    Caroline sat frozen, the dial tone buzzing against her ear.
    Code Atlas.
    In all her years of training, she had only heard that term whispered in break rooms like a ghost story. It meant catastrophe. Mass casualties. A high-level terror threat. It meant the world was falling apart.
    “I have to go,” Caroline said, already grabbing her coat.
    Preston scoffed, slamming his water glass down. “You’re joking. What kind of emergency could a nurse possibly have? We haven’t even ordered.”
    “It’s a Code Atlas,” she said, not caring if he understood. She pulled a fifty-dollar bill from her wallet and dropped it on his pristine white tablecloth. “This covers my share of nothing. Goodbye, Preston.”
    She didn’t wait for his face to finish flushing red. She turned on her heel and practically sprinted out of the restaurant.
    The Washington air hit her in a heavy, soaking downpour. Adrenaline washed away the lingering disgust of the date. She flagged down a cab dropping someone off at the corner, sliding into the back seat before the passenger was fully on the curb.
    “Washington United Medical Center,” she gasped. “Step on it.”
    By the time the cab screeched to a halt, the rain had slowed to a mist, but the chill in Caroline’s bones only deepened.
    She stepped out and stopped dead.
    The hospital had been turned into a fortress.
    The main entrance wasn’t blocked by ambulances, but by military police. Two armored Humvees idled across the driveway, their headlights cutting through the fog. Men in full combat gear, rifles strapped to their chests, stood behind concrete barricades.
    This wasn’t a mass casualty event. This was a federal lockdown.
    Heart hammering against her ribs, Caroline approached the nearest checkpoint, holding up her ID badge with a trembling hand. “Caroline Thompson. I was paged by Dr. Cromwell.”
    The guard, a soldier with eyes like flint, scanned her badge, checked a clipboard, and stepped aside. “Go straight to the main desk. Do not deviate from the hallway, ma’am.”
    Caroline slipped under the yellow tape. The lobby was unrecognizable. The usual chaotic symphony of the ER was gone, replaced by a suffocating, terrified silence. Doctors and nurses huddled in clusters. Armed soldiers lined the corridors like statues.
    “Thompson!”
    Dr. Cromwell was striding toward her. He looked like he had aged a decade since morning. His white coat was rumpled, a dark coffee stain splashed across his tie.
    “Listen carefully, I don’t have time for questions,” he snapped, his forehead gleaming with sweat. “You are assigned to ICU Room 3. You will monitor the patient’s vitals. You will not speak to him. You will not touch any personal effects in the room. If his heart rate fluctuates by more than ten percent, you hit this button.” He shoved a black pager into her palm. “Do you understand me?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Go.”
    Caroline walked briskly toward the private elevator bank. The air smelled different here—sharper, metallic, like ozone and gunpowder.
    As she turned the corner, the doors of the VIP elevator slid open. A group of people emerged, moving like a single, lethal organism. Men in dark suits. Military brass with medals gleaming.
    But they were just background noise.
    In the center, walking slightly ahead, was a man who looked like he had been carved from granite and violence.
    He was well over six feet, his shoulders straining the seams of his digital camouflage uniform. The rank on his chest—a silver eagle—demanded absolute submission. His face was a landscape of sharp angles and hard lines, his jaw set like a steel trap.
    As the group passed, the man turned his head.
    His eyes—a cold, piercing, impossible gray—swept the corridor. And for a fraction of a second, his gaze locked onto Caroline’s.
    It was like stepping onto a landmine.
    The air was violently sucked from her lungs. A jolt of pure, electric heat shot down her spine, freezing her blood. Those eyes didn’t just look at her; they stripped her down, assessed her threat level, and branded her in the span of a single heartbeat.
    “Colonel Romero,” an aide murmured, handing the man a classified tablet.
    The spell shattered. The man—Colonel Romero—broke eye contact, taking the tablet without missing a stride. He began firing off orders in a low, gravelly voice that vibrated down the hallway.
    Caroline let out a shaky breath, her knees suddenly weak. She hadn’t realized she was holding onto the wall until a hand grabbed her arm.
    “Are you breathing?” her friend Brenna whispered, pulling Caroline into a supply alcove. Brenna’s face was paper-white. “Oh my god, Caroline. Did you see him?”
    Caroline swallowed hard, her throat like sandpaper. “The Colonel?”
    “Jarrod Romero,” Brenna breathed, the name heavy with awe and terror. “Department of Defense. My cousin at the Pentagon says he’s the guy they call when the world is ending.” She clutched a medical chart to her chest. “He looks like he’d shoot you just for breathing his air.”
    Caroline rubbed the back of her neck, trying to dispel the lingering, phantom heat from that brief eye contact. “Where are you headed?”
    “ICU 3. Cromwell’s special assignment.”
    Brenna’s eyes widened, all gossip vanishing instantly. “Oh, God. Caroline, be careful. That patient… this whole thing is black-ops. The FBI tried to get in twenty minutes ago and Romero’s men turned them away at gunpoint.”
    “I just have to watch the monitors,” Caroline said, though her voice lacked conviction.
    She grabbed a supply cart and pushed through the double doors of the ICU wing. They hissed shut behind her, sealing her in a sterile, fluorescent-lit silence.
    Two MPs stood outside Room 3, their faces blank masks. They checked her badge twice before unlocking the door.
    The room was freezing. The steady beep-beep of the heart monitor was the only sound.
    In the bed lay a young man, motionless. His face was a swollen canvas of bruises, thick bandages wrapping his torso. Caroline moved to the bedside, picking up the chart.
    Alston Petersen. Lieutenant. JAG Corps.
    The list of his injuries read like a torture report.
    She set the chart down, her eyes fixed on the rhythmic spike of the heart monitor. Her pulse thrummed in her ears.
    She had told Brenna she just had to watch the monitors. But standing in the freezing room, looking at the broken soldier, Caroline knew the truth.
    She had just walked into the eye of a very deadly storm. And the man with the ice-gray eyes was the one holding the lightning.

    Shielded By The Ruthless Military Boss Chapter 2

    The next twelve hours were a blur of checking vitals and adjusting IV drips. Caroline didn’t sit down once. Every time Lieutenant Petersen stirred, she was there, checking his pupils, measuring his output. He woke up briefly around 3 AM, his eyes glassy with pain.
    “Water,” he croaked.
    She held the cup with a straw to his lips, letting him take small sips. “Slowly, Lieutenant. You’ve been out for a while.”
    He looked at her, confused, then his gaze drifted to the guards outside the door. “Where is…” His voice trailed off, too weak to finish.
    “You’re safe,” Caroline said, though she wasn’t entirely sure she believed it herself. “Just rest.”
    He closed his eyes and drifted off again. Caroline sank back into the chair, rubbing her burning eyes. She hadn’t heard anything from the outside world. No news on what Code Atlas meant, no updates on the lockdown. Just the hum of the machines and the muffled sound of boots in the hallway.
    Around 6 AM, the door swung open without a knock.
    Caroline jumped to her feet, her heart leaping into her throat. Jarrod Romero stood in the doorway. He looked exactly as he had the night before-immaculate, unyielding, and completely exhausted. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, but his posture was rigid.
    He stepped inside, followed by two men in suits who looked like they hadn’t slept in a week. Dr. Cromwell scurried in behind them, looking like a nervous chihuahua next to a pack of wolves.
    “Status report,” Romero barked. He wasn’t looking at Caroline. He was looking at the bed.
    “Vitals are stable, Colonel,” Dr. Cromwell said, stepping forward. “No signs of infection. The surgery was a success, though we won’t know about nerve damage for-“
    “I wasn’t asking you, Doctor.” Romero’s voice cut through the room like a blade. He shifted his gaze to Caroline, his eyes pinning her in place. “The nurse. Report.”
    Cromwell’s mouth snapped shut. He took a step back, his face flushing.
    Romero finally turned his full gaze to Caroline. Up close, his eyes were even more unnerving. They were a pale, stormy gray, fringed with dark lashes. They assessed her with a clinical detachment that made her feel like a specimen under a microscope.
    “Now,” he repeated.
    Caroline swallowed, her palms suddenly slick with sweat. She wiped them on her scrubs and forced her voice to stay level. “Lieutenant Petersen’s heart rate has been consistent, hovering around 72 BPM. Blood pressure 120/80. He woke briefly at 0300 hours, oriented but weak. I administered 2mg of morphine via IV at 0315 for pain management. Urine output is within normal limits.”
    Romero listened without blinking. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes stayed locked on her face. Then, his gaze dropped. It moved down her scrubs, past the name tag pinned to her chest, and landed on the chart in her hands.
    Specifically, on the signature line at the bottom.
    Caroline watched his face. There was a minuscule shift. A slight narrowing of his eyes. His jaw, already tight, seemed to clench even harder. He stared at the name “Caroline Thompson” for a beat too long.
    Then, just as quickly, the moment passed. He looked back up at her face, his expression once again a mask of stone.
    “Acceptable,” he said. He turned to Cromwell. “I want the security detail doubled. No one gets within fifty feet of this room without my explicit authorization. Not the hospital administrator, not the Joint Chiefs, not even God himself. Is that clear?”
    “Y-yes, Colonel,” Cromwell stammered. “But the board is already asking questions about the cost-“
    Romero took a step toward Cromwell. It was a subtle movement, but Cromwell flinched like he’d been struck. “I am not concerned with the board, Doctor. I am concerned with keeping this man alive. If you can’t manage that, I will find someone who can.”
    Cromwell paled. “Understood.”
    Romero turned back to the door. As he passed Caroline, he paused. He didn’t look at her, but his voice washed over her, low and cold.
    “Do your job, Nurse. Nothing else.”
    He walked out, his entourage trailing behind him. The door swung shut, and the oppressive weight in the room lifted.
    Caroline let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Her hands were shaking. She pressed them flat against the counter to steady them.
    “What an ass,” she muttered under her breath.
    But even as she said it, she couldn’t stop thinking about the way he had looked at her name. Like it meant something. Like he recognized it.
    The rest of the shift passed without incident. When Brenna came in to relieve her at 7 AM, Caroline practically ran to the locker room. She stripped off her scrubs, tossing them into the hamper, and stepped into the shower. The hot water sluiced over her, washing away the sweat and the antiseptic smell, but it couldn’t wash away the memory of those gray eyes.
    She dressed in the clothes she had worn to the date-the little black dress and the heels. She looked ridiculous. She felt ridiculous.
    The cab ride home was suffocating. The morning traffic was a nightmare, and by the time the taxi pulled into the driveway of her parents’ house, her nerves were frayed to the breaking point. She paid the fare, then opened the front door, bracing herself.
    “Where have you been?”
    The voice came from the living room. Caroline closed her eyes for a second, gathering her patience, before walking in.
    Her mother, Mrs. Thompson, was sitting on the edge of the sofa. She was still in her housecoat, her arms crossed over her chest. Her face was a mask of barely contained fury.
    “I was working,” Caroline said, dropping her bag on the entryway table. “There was an emergency at the hospital.”
    “An emergency?” Her mother stood up, her voice rising. “Preston’s mother Brenda called me at six o’clock this morning. Do you know what she said? She said you walked out on Preston in the middle of dinner. You left him sitting there like a fool!”
    Caroline rubbed the back of her neck. “Mom, I had to go. It was a Code-“
    “I don’t care if the building was on fire!” Mrs. Thompson shrieked. “You do not walk out on a man like Preston! He makes three hundred thousand dollars a year, Caroline! He has a condo in Georgetown! Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a man like that?”
    “He’s a snob,” Caroline said, her voice hardening. “He thinks nurses are beneath him. He told me I should just quit and find a man to support me.”
    “That’s called being a provider!” her mother shot back. “That’s what men do! Your father provided for me, and I provided him a home. That’s how the world works!”
    Caroline looked at her father, who was sitting in the armchair in the corner, hiding behind his newspaper. He didn’t look up. He never did.
    “I’m not having this argument,” Caroline said, turning toward the stairs. “I’ve been up for over twenty-four hours. I need sleep.”
    “You’re not going anywhere until we resolve this!” her mother snapped, stepping into her path. “Brenda is humiliated. Preston is humiliated. You have ruined our standing in the community!”
    “Your standing?” Caroline let out a bitter laugh. “Is that all you care about? What the neighbors think?”
    “It’s called respect, Caroline! Something you clearly know nothing about!” Mrs. Thompson’s eyes were blazing. “I have already spoken to Brenda. You are going to call Preston, and you are going to apologize to him. Personally.”
    Caroline stared at her mother in disbelief. “Apologize? For what? For having a job that matters?”
    “For being rude! For being ungrateful!” Her mother jabbed a finger toward the phone on the hall table. “You will call him, and you will make this right, or so help me God, I will call him myself and apologize on your behalf. Do you want that? Do you want your mother begging for your forgiveness?”
    The threat hit Caroline like a physical blow. The image of her mother groveling to a man like Preston Finch made her stomach turn. It was the ultimate manipulation, the one card her mother always played when she knew she was losing the argument.
    Caroline’s shoulders slumped. The fight drained out of her, leaving only exhaustion and a hollow ache in her chest.
    “Fine,” she whispered. “I’ll call him.”
    She walked past her mother, not meeting her eyes, and trudged up the stairs to her room. She closed the door, leaned against it, and slid down to the floor.
    She buried her face in her hands. She’d just endured the kind of pressure at the hospital that felt like a gun to her head, and now she came home to face this. She was trapped. Work, family, the expectations of everyone around her—they were all chains binding her.

    Shielded By The Ruthless Military Boss Chapter 3

    The next morning, the drive to the hospital was a blur. Caroline’s mind was numb, stuck on a loop of Preston’s “good girl” and her mother’s triumphant smile. She felt like a puppet, her strings being pulled by everyone around her.
    When she walked into the hospital, her phone buzzed. A text from Brenna.
    More suits today. ICU is locked down tight. Be careful.
    Caroline sighed and headed for the elevator. The ICU wing was even more tense than the day before. The guards at the end of the hall were different-bigger, meaner, carrying heavier weaponry. They checked her badge three times before letting her through.
    She pushed open the door to Room 3 and stopped.
    Dr. Simon Adler, the attending physician, was standing by the bed, whispering urgently with the Colonel Jarrod Romero.
    Romero was in the same combat uniform, but today he looked even more on edge. His hands were clasped behind his back, the knuckles white. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle was jumping in his cheek.
    They both looked up as she entered.
    Caroline froze in the doorway. The air in the room felt thick, charged with an unspoken tension. Dr. Adler looked nervous, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Romero just looked dangerous.
    “Nurse Thompson,” Dr. Adler said, clearing his throat. “The Colonel was just reviewing the patient’s progress.”
    Caroline nodded, not trusting her voice. She walked over to the monitors, keeping her eyes on the screens. She could feel Jarrod’s gaze on her, heavy and assessing. It was the same feeling she had gotten in the hallway yesterday-like being caught in a searchlight.
    “The medication schedule needs to be adjusted,” Jarrod said, his voice low. “He’s too sedated. I need him lucid by 1800 hours.”
    “Colonel, if we reduce the sedation, his pain levels will be-” Dr. Adler started.
    “I am aware of the risks, Doctor,” Jarrod cut him off, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Adjust the dosage. That is an order.”
    Dr. Adler swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”
    Jarrod turned and walked toward the door. As he passed Caroline, he stopped. He was close enough that she could smell him again-cedar, gunpowder, and something distinctly male. Her pulse skipped a beat.
    He looked down at her. His gray eyes were unreadable, but there was an intensity in them that made her breath catch.
    “Watch your back, Nurse,” he said quietly. “The walls have ears.”
    Then he was gone. The door clicked shut behind him, and Caroline let out a shaky breath.
    What did that mean? She looked around the room, suddenly paranoid. The walls have ears? Was he warning her about something? Or someone?
    She turned back to the bed. Lieutenant Petersen was watching her, his eyes clearer than they had been the night before.
    “We all trust the Colonel,” Petersen rasped, his voice weak. “He’s… decisive. You just do your job, and he’ll handle the rest. Please, be careful. This world… it isn’t for civilians.”
    Caroline stared at him, confused, but Petersen had already closed his eyes, his breath evening out as sleep reclaimed him.
    She stood there for a long moment, her mind racing. Standing in this room with a wounded soldier and a cryptic warning from a terrifying colonel, she realized she might be drawing closer to something far more dangerous than her stubborn mother and that ill-mannered Preston.

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