“We’ve never actually used that before, boss—”
“Pull it up,” I snap.
He stares at me for a second, like he’s weighing whether or not he should push back. But he doesn’t. He’s too smart for that.
He may not know what’s going on inside me, but he knows the look I’m wearing right now—the same one I wear before making a trade that everyone thinks is insane but makes us millions.
Only this isn’t a trade. No, this is far more dangerous.
Marcus pulls up the contract template on the tablet, an unused relic from the early days of the firm when I thought I could systemize every aspect of my life.
Buried deep in the boilerplate language, past the salary terms and health benefits and standard NDA language are two clauses no legitimate contract would ever contain.
Relief services. The employee agrees to make herself available for the personal, physical needs of the CEO whenever needed, during and outside of standard business hours.
Non-termination. The employee may not resign, abandon, or otherwise vacate the position without the express written consent of the employer or will face financial penalties.
Nosane woman would read this and sign it. But if I’m right, this girl won’t read it.
“Send it over to her,” I say. “Along with the NDA and an acceptance letter. Make it look standard.”
“Dominic—”
“She’s not gonna read it, Marcus.” My eyes move to the photo again, and my chest tightens so hard it almost hurts. “She’s broke and scared of being tossed from her apartment. She needsmoney and probably didn’t even expect a response from us. She’ll sign anything. Send it!”
Marcus takes a breath, then slowly nods.
“Whatever you say, boss.” His fingers move across the screen. Once he’s finished, he moves to take the tablet, but I stop him.
“Leave it.”
He nods again and steps out, leaving me alone with her photograph and the sickening weight of what I’ve done.
I should feel guilty, and I do. But the guilt is a tiny match beside a roaring wildfire within me.
I need this girl.And it’s not the kind of need I’ve felt for women before—the quick, forgettable, simple release kind of need. No. I need her the way a drowning man needs oxygen. If I don’t get her into this building and into my office, I might just collapse.
Christ, what is she doing to me? I haven’t even met her yet.
I’m a man who controls billions of dollars. I’ve fired men twice my age without a second thought. I’ve sat in front of senators, CEOs, and dickheads from the SEC and madethemsweat.
And right now, I’m staring at a photo of a broke teenage girl with a nervous smile, and my hands are shaking.
Without thinking, I grab my phone and FaceTime her number. She picks up on the fourth ring. And when her face fills the screen, I stop breathing.
The photo did hernojustice.
She’s flushed and out of breath with a loose strand of hair stuck to her cheek. Her eyes are bright and wide and glowing in a way no image could ever capture. She looks like she’s been jumping around, and when she sees my face, her expression shifts to one of pure shock and panic.
“Oh my God. You’re—”
“Dominic Blackwood.” My voice sounds like gravel. I clear my throat. “Blackwood Capital.”
“Yeah, I know who you are,” she replies, sitting up quickly as she brushes her hair back. She looks mortified. “Hello, Mister Blackwood. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t expecting—”
“You’re out of breath.”
The words leave my mouth before I even process them. My jaw goes tight as the thought ofwhyshe might be out of breath invades my mind. Orwhomight have put that flush on her face…
