Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 169305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 847(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 847(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Ollie vB:
Feel that fur-lined collar tightening around your neck, sonny boy?
Romeo Costa:
Marriage is not a punishment.
Ollie vB:
I’d literally pick the electric chair.
Romeo Costa:
[Eye roll Emoji]
Ollie vB:
Every. Single. Time.
Imade it a point not to leave my office the first day of Farrow’s employment.
Firstly, and most importantly, I had work to do.
Work provided comfort and joy. Trading stocks. Taking companies by force. Digesting them into my own.
All those traits that made me unapproachable and odd as a human—my lack of consideration, desire, and empathy—were pros in the business world.
It didn’t matter that I’d already amassed an offensive fortune. Making money was my blood sport of choice. The stock exchanges—my arena. And every being with a pulse—my opponent.
I sat on my gilded throne on Dark Prince Road.
The undefeated champion.
Secondly, and less importantly (but notable, nonetheless), Farrow needed time to adjust to the estate.
To familiarize herself with the property I called home. To roam the grounds, explore every nook and cranny, and make herself comfortable.
I read her like an open book and decided to accommodate her.
Not because I actually cared whether she acclimated to being here, but because the woman was a walking, talking headache without a cure.
Only after she simmered down could I execute my plan in peace.
The little octopus was living proof that luck hadn’t abandoned me.
Initially, I’d paid her a visit in her pint-sized kitchen to taunt her. Maybe even execute her punishment.
Then, something happened.
Something wonderful and horrible, all at once.
I touched her and didn’t cower.
Didn’t shiver.
Didn’t vomit.
For two entire decades, not a single human could lay a finger on me without physically sickening me.
Not a doctor.
Not a woman.
Not even my mother.
It never occurred to me that an antidote for my problem existed. That Farrow Ballantine could drive a Disney princess to suicide could only be considered the universe’s idea of balance.
I’d heard the saying.
God wraps every gift with a problem.
I didn’t know what it was about the fierce, unruly maid that prevented my body from revolting at her touch.
Certainly not her misplaced fashion sense.
Or the bite with which she delivered every word.
Or even the choppy blonde mop on her head.
I’d seen supermarket sashimi cut with greater precision.
All I knew was that I never let an opportunity go to waste.
My Little Octopus would fix me. The how didn’t matter.
So long as I could endure another woman’s touch—and thereby fulfill the promise I’d made to Dad after he’d shielded me from certain death.
And so, for today, I buried myself in numbers and trade markets sprawled across the split screens.
No one would miss my presence, anyway.
The first semblance of normalcy since discovering that my “elite” fencing instructor moonlit as an unpaid maid came from six uninterrupted hours of work.
By the time I raised my head from the computer screens, my watch read half past noon. On the dot.
My internal clock functioned properly again.
Natalie cracked the door open, poking her head past its cavity. “Yoo-hoo. May I interrupt?”
You already fucking are.
I reclined in my leather chair, ripping the black thick-rimmed reading glasses from my face and placing them on their stand. “Yes?”
“Your lunch is ready, Mr. Sun.”
I ate the same lunch every day since seventeen. Eight strips of sashimi, one toro inari, cold shishito peppers, and a cucumber salad.
Variety didn’t interest me.
I found no pleasure in food, and type 2 diabetes seemed like a less appealing prospect than Chapter 9 bankruptcy.
“Send it in.”
Natalie invaded my domain, jostling a cart past the double doors.
She followed me to the coffee table, set down a cavernous porcelain bowl of water, and handed me a fresh towel after I washed my hands in it.
As far as assistants went, she was tolerable enough.
Former Phi Beta Kappa at Johns Hopkins. No scented beauty products to nauseate me. Capable of taking orders with above-average executive function.
A little heavy on the dialogue, but I supposed I’d yet to encounter anyone who could keep their questions, answers, and reactions to my preferred two-syllable limit.
She transferred the tray of dishes from the cart to the table, then collected her iPad, clutching it to her chest.
If possible, the powder-blue blouse wrapped around her torso like Saran Wrap tightened with the movement.
She’d coupled the shirt with a gray pencil skirt and a pair of Louboutins so high, she probably had an eagle-eyed view of the Washington Monument.
I cocked a brow, curious what had given her the idea that she was welcome to stay. “Yes?”
An audible gulp traveled down her neck. “Mr. Sun…”
She painted a circle with the tip of her ridiculous shoe, white-knuckling the edges of the tablet screen.
I stared at her.
She knew better than to expect me to fill the silence.
Natalie fidgeted under my scrutiny. “There’s something else.”
After studying her for ten straight seconds, I gathered that she had no intention of completing the thought.
“Well, I’m on pins and needles here, Natalie. Whenever you’re ready. Preferably in this century.”