Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
I’m starting to hate people.
I’m starting to hate myself for hating people.
But the girl, my mind whispers back.
Monday morning, I get to play with the girl.
I walk into the bedroom and hang the suit carrier in the closet. Tomorrow’s armor, ready for church and family.
The apartment feels different from the mansion—smaller, but it’s mine. No idiots breaking the silence with their conquests. No reminders of what I don’t want.
I slip off the Royal Oak—seventy-five grand of bad decisions if you don’t treat it right. The weight of it disappears from my wrist, the platinum catching the light as I place it on the bedside table.
The tie comes next. Italian silk, black as oil. I loosen the knot with practiced fingers, slide it from around my neck, and hang it on the hook beside the closet. Each movement precise. Controlled.
My jacket follows. I run my hand down the lapel, checking for anything out of place before adjusting it carefully on the wooden hanger. The shoulders must sit perfectly. Details matter.
I step out of my pants, crease them along the line that’s already there, and fold them over the back of a chair.
Everything in its place.
Order creates power.
Standing at the window in my shirt and boxer briefs, I stare at the lights of Riverview below. Small town, small minds. Easy to own. I work the platinum cufflinks from my wrists—my father’s, given to me when I graduated. Not because he was proud, but because appearances matter. I set them on the windowsill without looking.
My fingers move to the buttons of my shirt, working down the line of crisp white cotton. The green-eyed girl—Emmaleen—flashes through my mind. Something about her lingers there, refusing to be filed away with all the other forgettable faces I’ve encountered today.
Perhaps it’s the way she held my gaze without flinching, or that hint of defiance beneath her professional demeanor. Unexpected, in a town where most people’s spines seem to dissolve at the mere weight of my attention.
Monday morning, 8:00 a.m. First test. Will she be early or exactly on time? How she arrives will tell me everything I need to know.
She’ll need handling from the first second. Not the way Dom or Ricky would handle her—all obvious intent and clumsy moves. Something more precise. She’s cautious about working for me, but excited about the money.
The perfect contradiction to exploit.
I could start with intimidation—make her wait while I finish a call. Let her feel small in my space. Or perhaps the opposite—full attention, eyes never leaving hers until she breaks the contact first.
I unbutton the last button and pull the shirt off, hanging it with the same care as everything else. My reflection catches in the window glass—the scar at my eyebrow from when Marco pushed me into a table when I was nine. The muscle built from necessity, not vanity.
Emmaleen doesn’t understand the game she’s stepped into. Smart girl, but not smart enough. I’ve watched people fold under pressure for years. Seen what makes them crack, what makes them bend.
She’ll bend. They all do.
I don’t feel bad about it. She’ll get paid more than she’s worth. More than that bakery job ever would have given her. Fair exchange for becoming another piece on my board.
Monday, I’ll find her weakness.
Everyone has one.
The desperate ones just have more to choose from.
Finally, I drop the boxers and walk into the bathroom. The tiles are cold against my bare feet, a stark reminder of my nakedness. I flick on the light, squinting against the sudden brightness reflecting off the marble surfaces.
This bathroom, like everything else in the apartment, speaks of money without personality—all function and luxury, nothing that reveals who I am beyond what I can afford.
Black matte double sinks blend in with the soapstone counter like shadows merging with night. They’re sleek, understated luxury—the kind that doesn’t announce itself but expects to be noticed anyway. I run my fingertips along the smooth edge where sink meets stone, appreciating the seamless transition, the careful attention to detail that most people would never consciously register but would feel, nonetheless.
Then I stare at myself in the mirror. Wondering how the girl—Emmaleen—sees me. I’m not vain, but I know what I look like to most people: intimidating, controlled, a man who commands rooms without trying.
But what does she see? The careful suit, the practiced stillness, or something beneath that?
It’s strange to suddenly care what someone might think when they look at me—not what they should think, which I’ve always calculated precisely, but what they actually do.
People see what I allow them to see: the power, the control, the threat beneath the polished exterior. I’ve spent years perfecting that image, crafting it as meticulously as my tailored suits.
How would she see me if I allowed the facade to fall away?
If I revealed not the carefully constructed version I present to the world, but the man beneath—the one with scars deeper than this one Marco gave me, with thoughts I’ve never voiced aloud.