I made 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.
