Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 59044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Di was the daughter of a financier and dedicated her socials to her fashion line she was building.
That pixie-cut chick, Leona, had a page full of ‘boss bitch’ type shit. Seeming to push the narrative that all you had to do was #hustle to get everything you wanted in life.
People were quick to point out that it wasn’t #hustle that bought her the Brownstone she was living in, but her grandfather’s real estate empire.
All of the women, though, regardless of how many followers they had, all had the same carefully curated posts and captions.
The only place any of them seemed to get messy was in their stories. That was where peeks of something real came through. But even then, sparingly, carefully.
It was all… fake.
Sure, a picture may have captured a moment of time with the girls, but, hell, I’d seen the smiles myself. The way they fell immediately after snapping the picture. They weren’t actually capturing true joy. They were manufacturing it.
But, I guess, when you had thousands of people in your comments telling you how beautiful, amazing, fun, spontaneous you were, you felt the need to constantly live up to that. You got addicted to their attention and approval.
It seemed like a hollow fucking existence to me.
I brought up the groceries I had delivered and set to making food for her, knowing she’d been sick all night, and likely needed something in her stomach to make it feel even again.
That, and water.
The woman never seemed to drink anything but coffee or alcohol.
I hadn’t exactly… meant to boss her around over breakfast. But she was so fucking stubborn. I swear everything she said to me had a bite to it.
It was hard not to see the spoiled brat underneath and want to train it out of her.
Following her around as she ran her errands and she completely ignored my existence had been a lesson in humility for me.
She hadn’t even spoken to me when she’d emerged from her room in a little black dress that fit like a fucking glove, another pair of icepick heels, and more dramatic makeup than the night before.
She didn’t look at me as we went down the elevator or got to the car.
She didn’t even acknowledge my presence at the club, save for when she was talking in hushed tones to the manager who came out because, apparently, they weren’t expecting my presence.
I wouldn’t pretend to understand how the private clubs of the rich and famous worked, but they clearly prided themselves on their rules.
Still, this was the infamous Scarlet Chandelier.
Everyone eventually bowed to her will.
Then I was following the girls into the lobby, and begrudgingly handing over my phone to a man who locked each of them in their own separate safety-deposit box type locker.
Weird to me.
But what the hell did I know?
I figured that if the girls, whose phones were an extension of their arms, were willing to hand them over, that whatever was inside SVNT was probably worth keeping your focus on the moment.
Maybe it was performance art or some shit.
The music thumped through the walls as I followed the girls toward another guarded door before we were allowed to finally walk inside the main area of the club.
Not much shocked me.
I’d been around.
I’d seen some shit.
I’d done some shit.
But walking into what you were expecting to be a regular nightclub to see a woman on a couch with a cock in her pussy, ass, and mouth, while a dozen people stood around and watched had actually shocked me back a step.
This was a sex club?
An exclusive, upper-crust sex club?
My gaze scanned the room, finding couples or groups in various phases of undress. Women on their knees. A woman hopped up on the bar, legs spread with two men between, taking turns eating her out. Another woman bent over the bar, her face inches from the bartender who was mixing shots like it was totally normal that a woman was getting railed right by her.
I took a step forward, towering over Scarlet from behind.
This was exactly the kind of shit her father hired me to keep her from doing.
Chandelier Heiress Attends Sex Club for the Elite was not a headline he would want to see in the morning.
If I wanted to keep my job, I had to get her ass out of here.
“Absolutely fucking not,” I hissed in her ear, and I was close enough to feel a little shiver move through her at the fierceness in my voice.
Whether she recognized it or not, some part of her was aching for someone to take control of her, to force her into submission, to teach her how to behave.
But that inner brat inside of her had her stiffening and suggesting I leave before she linked arms with her girls and walked away.
“Fuck,” I growled, closing my eyes for a moment, looking for some self-control when every ounce of me wanted to throw her over my shoulder, and carry her stubborn ass out of there.