Brett Conner was one of the least palatable people I’d ever encountered.
A truly grotesque testament of his character, considering I found the gross majority of my peers unworthy of oxygen.
Unfortunately, Brett Junior was the COO of a company I intended to acquire. Dot Cum. An up-and-coming NSFW social media platform with a search growth above 4900% and eighteen million active users per month, a figure growing by the minute.
You could say Brett Senior’s love for pussy was both his blessing and his curse. It had earned him a company worth over three billion dollars… but also a son whose sole contribution to society was keeping niche designer boutiques afloat.
“Hey.” Brett Junior plowed into my house, wearing neon Prada sunglasses and a gold Gucci tracksuit. “Yo, O.C., my man.”
O.C.
As in: Orange Chicken.
Truly, that he managed to survive his twenties without being stabbed in the face by a steak knife could only be considered a miracle.
He raised his fist for a bump, his signature idiotic grin the only indication of cognitive function. “Brought some champagne made in Italy. The real stuff.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him he was wrong.
Frankly, I did not have a heart at all.
Had I possessed such an organ, I surely wouldn’t spend one beat of it on this man.
Tragically, it also seemed like my pulse would not be affected by Miss Eileen Yang, who had spent the last couple dates sending me real estate links in Shanghai.
She’d already proved to be a headache.
Brett Senior trailed behind the disappointing byproduct of his sperm, followed by Dot Cum’s head of accounting, some suit named Jasper.
When I ignored his fist bump, Junior swaggered past the Guan Yu statue in my foyer, arms spread for a bro-hug.
I sidestepped him as he launched himself at me, causing him to collapse onto my floor.
“Ew.” He cupped his balls, still face-down. “Why’d you do that?”
“Not big on hugs.” I used the tip of my shoe to turn him over so he laid on his back. “Do not drool on my floor. My cleaner doesn’t need any extra work. And for future reference, do not call me Orange Chicken, unless you are prepared for me to call you Unpurposed Flour.”
Junior rubbed his knee, frowning at me. “Flour? But I’m not even Floyd.”
I closed my eyes, drawing a breath.
Senior winced, bowing his head and reaching out for a shake before remembering I didn’t do those. He slipped his hand back into his pocket.
“My apologies, Mr. Sun. My son is quite… overwhelmed with his corporate role.” He took off his hat, smoothing back white tufts of hair. “I suspect you’ll be making a few changes in management if this deal goes through?”
I turned my back on all three of them, heading toward the dining area. “I’ll be appointing my own team.”
I’d opted for a quiet home dinner rather than an official meeting. The data I needed—viable numbers, annual revenue, expenses, and net income—already sat in a vault inside my head.
This morning, I’d determined the price I was willing to pay for the company. It hovered somewhere under half of Forbes’ projected valuation.
Now it was just a matter of bending the Bretts to my will and fucking them over.
The only kind of fucking I did.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Sun.” Jasper matched my pace with Senior trailing not far behind us. “We could’ve hammered down the finer details in an office, so I appreciate the extra touch—”
“Kindly withdraw your tongue from my ass. It is not a kink I indulge in.” My feet carried me through the grand brass-and-ivory gallery. “Oh, and let me save you the awkward question—I will not be keeping you on payroll, either.”
He clamped his mouth shut.
Junior scraped himself off the hardwood, jogging to catch up with us.
“I get the whole hardball routine. I do, man. But I’m not gonna let you eat our lunch or anything. Lay out a welcome mat beneath my ass, and I’ll let you pound a deal outta me.” He circled his finger next to his temple, whistling. “Don’t be delulu, yeah?”
Nothing—and I was certain of it—could make me loathe this guy more. That we spoke the same language yet couldn’t understand one word from the other’s lips was a testament to how far our lingua franca had fallen.
“The fact that you wanna buy Dot Cum says it all.” Junior pounded his chest. “We did a good job. We deserve to stay.”
“Don’t confuse luck with talent. You stumbled into a hole in the market, no pun intended. You have three reputable developers chasing your tail and a litany of incompetent staff running your marathon. Your adversaries will catch up with you, and when they do, you can kiss Daddy’s black card goodbye.”
He scratched his temple. “Adversaries?”
“Competitors. Opponents. Rivals. People far smarter than you. You have no idea how to monetize your own brand. I’m the Jesus to your Lazarus, kid.” I waltzed past two servers, who held each double door open, revealing a columned dining room with floor-to-ceiling French windows. “You’re not here to bargain. You’re here to make carpet sounds and let the grown-ups talk.”
“They said you were a cold bastard, but I thought they were exaggerating,” he muttered.
“They didn’t.” I stopped at the chair at the head of the long oval table. “In fact, they probably lowballed it.”
People forgave me for my cutthroat attitude because I was too rich and too powerful to cross.
Also because I’d collected a long list of favors over my thirty-three years, and the prospect that I’d demand their souls in exchange made them tremble in their sleep.
Four servers rushed to pull out our chairs. The catering staff hovered around the table, popping wine bottles and angling them into our glasses.
Junior gestured for a waitress to continue pouring. That idiot needed alcohol in his system like I needed a second dick.
Jasper and Senior fretted with their napkins, glancing at me, unsure what to do.
“Sit,” I ordered.
They did.
I shook my head, producing my phone from my inner pocket.
Zach Sun:
SOS.
Ollie vB:
FUCKING FINALLY.
Ollie vB:
Told you those formative Pilates classes were gonna pay off.
Ollie vB:
And not just because of the bored trophy-wife pussy.
Romeo Costa:
WTF do you think SOS stands for, Ollie?
Ollie vB:
Sucked One’s Sausage.
What else?
Zach Sun:
Rom.
Ollie vB:
Huh? His name doesn’t even have an S in it.
Romeo Costa:
@ZachSun, yeah?
Zach Sun:
I need you to crash my business dinner.
Romeo Costa:
Do I want to know why?
Zach Sun:
Don’t trust myself not to kill the guest.
Romeo Costa:
The Asters?
Zach Sun:
Worse. The Conners.
Zach Sun :
Junior is a pain.
Ollie vB:
Had a fivesome with him once.
Ollie vB:
Might be overcompensating.
Romeo Costa:
That explains it.
Romeo Costa:
I’m bringing Shortbread.
Zach Sun:
If you must.
Ollie vB:
Wow. You really are desperate.
Ollie vB:
I’m bringing a date, too.
Zach Sun:
You’re not bringing anyone.
Ollie vB:
Why?
Zach Sun:
Because you’re not invited.
Ollie vB:
Why not?
Romeo Costa:
Because then I’ll have two people I need to stop Zach from killing.
Ollie vB:
[Kim K Crying GIF]
Ollie vB:
But where else will I have the opportunity to wear my wife pleaser?
Zach Sun:
@RomeoCosta, how fast can you get here?
Romeo Costa:
Already on my way.
Zach Sun:
@OllievB, you can come, but leave the wife pleaser and the date in the car.
Ollie vB:
Aww, but Daddy, why?
Zach Sun:
Because they’re probably a fugitive.
Ollie vB:
First of all, thanks for the vote of confidence.
Ollie vB:
Second of all, her lawyers are in talks for her surrender, and it was only a DUI.
Zach Sun:
Respectfully, Oliver, fuck off.
Ollie vB:
Fine. I’ll bring pink coke.
Zach Sun:
Don’t you dare.
Ollie vB:
It’s rude to come to a dinner empty-handed.
Zach Sun:
Then don’t come at all.
Ollie vB:
I love it when you play hard to get.
Ollie vB:
You know I have a weakness for unattainable holes.
Zach Sun:
You’re about to acquire a brand new one between your eyes if you don’t shut up, courtesy of my knife.
Romeo Costa:
We’ll be there in ten minutes, Zach.
Ollie vB:
And I’m bringing the pink coke. <3
As we texted, the caterers piled more dishes onto the table.
Piri piri chicken. Jollof rice and egusi soup. Kanpachi crudo and spicy miso carbonara.
“More food. My goodness.” Senior patted his ample stomach, snapping my attention back into the room. “You really do spoil us, Mr. Sun.”
I cut my gaze to the entrance, following his line of sight.
Farrow swept in through the double doors, dressed in her tight-fitted black maid’s dress with the white Peter Pan collar.
She carried a silver tray, not sparing me a glance as she glided past.
But I knew that with a single word, I could wipe off that stoic expression from her face. Conjure sweat at her temple, ruining the French braid she’d twisted her pale hair into.
In the few days she’d worked for me, Farrow had befriended all of my staff. The cook, the gardeners, the house manager.
She was a breath of fresh air in this lifeless mansion.
Problem was, I didn’t like air.
Suffocating suited me fine.
I slid my phone back into my pocket, my fingers twitching in my lap. Each time she moved, the A/C vent forced a current of her scent my way.
I held my breath to prevent it from trickling into my system. Wordlessly, she set down caviar pots, her lithe, athletic body leaning over my plate.
She tested my limits, constantly inching nearer. Stretches of empty space unfurled on either side of me.
Farrow could’ve occupied any piece of it, but she’d decided not to. I had no choice but to conclude that this was her dipping her toe into the water to check the temperature.
Had she figured out her purpose here?
It was entirely possible she’d put everything together.
The fact that I could picture myself touching her did not provide me any comfort. On the contrary.
It made me feel like an inferno seared beneath my skin.
Junior whistled low and rubbed his hands together, his eyes running up and down Farrow’s body. “Nice staff, man.”
My blood—normally a frozen, useless liquid in my veins—sizzled into lava within seconds.
“I see what you’ve done here.” Junior winked, licking his lips. “Very smart. No need to settle down, saddle yourself to one chick. A rotating staff is the way to go. Where’s she from, anyway? Norway? Holland?”
“Your worst nightmares,” Farrow muttered under her breath.
“Aw, she talks, too.” Junior slapped his thigh, cackling. “Baby, you’re no nightmare. A wet dream, maybe.”
“How about we test the theory with a sharp object?” She smiled, batting her lashes as she set down the last caviar pot. “I’m pretty good with handling those.”
Understatement of the century.
I knew she could hold her own.
But I wanted to kill him for her.
When she tucked the empty tray under her arm, pivoting to leave, I stopped her with the tip of my butter knife. It kissed her elbow each time she exhaled.
I leaned in for privacy, hissing out, “You should not be serving food.”
My fingers rebelled against my brain, twitching, eager to latch onto her wrist and drag her out of here in front of everyone.
I didn’t recognize myself these days.
I needed to do something about it.
Perhaps a lobotomy, since narrowing my masturbation window from every 48 hours to every 24 hadn’t worked.
Normally, I jerked off for the sole purpose of healthy sperm circulation. Not to fantasize over Farrow’s lips rolling down my shaft.
The little octopus pried away my butter knife.
“They’re short on staff.” She rearranged my utensils on the wrong side, her elbow nearly touching my chest. I could hardly breathe. “The manager of the catering company said you scared someone off. You caught her on a break in the garden and kicked her out?”
“She was smoking.”
“So is this chick.” Junior threw a thumb Farrow’s way, laughing. “Smoking hot.”
Farrow tossed a smile back. “Burn in hell.”
She had no idea how close he was to this fate.
“Might take you up on that offer.” Junior rubbed his hands together. “You coming with me?”
Latching onto the steak knife, I leaned forward, leveling my eyes with Brett’s as I slammed the blade an inch from his pinky finger.
He jumped back in his seat, gasping.
“I will say this once, and I will say it nicely—never, ever, under any circumstances, look, touch, talk, or breathe in this woman’s direction. Am I understood?”
But I obviously wasn’t.
Because Brainless Brett responded by tossing his empty head back and laughing wildly, nearly coughing out a lung. “Damn, bro, chill. She’s just the help. I have a dozen like her waiting in my house if you wanna do a little switch-a-roo.”
“Junior,” Brett Senior barked from my left.
My chair scraped the floor as it shot back. I started to stand, ready to put a knife between Junior’s eyes, when two things happened at once.
One, Dallas Costa’s annoying, high-pitched voice ripped through the air as she singsonged from the foyer, “Oh, Zacharyyy.”
And two, Farrow Ballantine brushed her fingertips on my wrist to stop me.
