2

Isabella

I just finished going down on Joey Tyson in the supply closet… while picturing his father instead.

And now—his father is standing right in front of me.

The harsh fluorescent lighting should wash a man out. On him, it’s a weapon. It turns the breadth of his shoulders into something imposing, etches the lines of his jaw into sharp edges, makes his blue-gray eyes look even more like the storm you see rolling in just before a hurricane swallows the coast.

That scowl—God, that scowl—should make me shrink. Instead, it makes my pulse slam in my ears. After what I just did, shame should be kicking in, but instead there’s a pulse between my thighs and a wild, treacherous part of me wants to drop to my knees all over again.

His gaze travels the length of me, deliberate, unhurried. It snags on my legs. I glance down—my knees are flushed red from the cold linoleum. My stomach flips.

“Just… uh… looking for a replacement vacuum piece,” I manage, waving a hand toward the shelves without actually moving.

“You all right?” His voice is low, rough. Like distant thunder promising it’s only a matter of time.

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve been crying.”

I touch my cheek without thinking, feeling the faint dampness of a tear I didn’t realize had fallen. “It’s nothing. Just… frustrated I couldn’t find the hose.”

He studies me like a man reading every line of a contract for hidden clauses. His mouth parts—about to ask something else—then closes again, his jaw tightening.

I try for polite. “Did you need something?”

“No. I thought I heard—” He stops himself, shakes his head once, and his fist tightens at his side. “If you need help with anything, you come to me. Anything.”

It’s not a suggestion. It’s an order. And my body reacts instantly, a curl of heat low in my belly. I force myself not to imagine him giving that order in a locked room, in a tone that means drop to your knees now.

“Yes, sir,” I whisper, my voice catching on the word. “Thank you, Mr. Tyson.”

“You’re on my payroll,” he says, tone like steel striking steel. “That means you’re under my protection.”

I nod, curling my fingers tight around the metal shelving so I don’t accidentally close the space between us. “I appreciate that. I’ll get back to work. I think I can manage without the hose.”

He doesn’t move. He just stands there, filling the doorway, watching me as I pass him, the heat of his gaze following me down the hall. I swear I can still smell him—dark, expensive, and dangerous—as I turn the vacuum back on.

What happened with Joey is already slipping into the background like a smudge you can barely see.

But what happened with Kyan? I’ll be replaying every second of it in my head tonight.

Kyan

I’m going to wring my son’s neck.

I don’t know what the hell he’s thinking—messing around with a cleaner. HR would have his head if they caught wind of it.

And this isn’t the first time.

But as much as I want to tear into him… I can’t exactly claim the moral high ground. Because that maid? I want her too. Badly.

Her curls fought to escape the bun at the back of her head. I hadn’t noticed the freckles dusting her nose until I saw her under those merciless lights. That uniform did nothing to hide her curves, and the combination of hesitation and heat in her eyes when she looked at me—hell, it was flawless.

She called me Mr. Tyson. She called me sir.

She was flushed. She smelled like arousal. And it took every ounce of restraint not to reach for her when she brushed past me. If I’d moved even an inch, I would’ve grabbed her, kissed her, consequences be damned.

But that’s not how I work. Consent first. Always.

After that? Satisfaction. Every damn time.

And maybe… just maybe… a little discipline along the way.

A sour thought cuts through my head—did Joey actually satisfy her? My gut says no.

Back in my office, I kill the overhead lights. At this hour, I prefer the soft gold from my desk lamp and the pale glow of my monitor. I’ll head home soon. After years of running this company, I’ve been trying to find balance. It’s not easy.

What’s harder is ignoring how my penthouse feels too big, too quiet. Joey’s mother left a long time ago, chasing someone richer the moment Joey graduated high school. Since then, it’s just been me.

Sometimes my friend Charles drops by—usually to drag me out for drinks or line up company for the night. Lately, even that feels stale. I’ve been craving something more… lasting. Charles might be feeling the same; he barely grumbled when I skipped the club last night.

Still, she keeps slipping into my thoughts. That maid. Too tempting for her own good. I force her image out of my mind. Joey’s involved with her, and I don’t cross lines with my staff.

But I can’t deny it—she could do a hell of a lot better than my son.

A buzz from my phone pulls me out of it.

Charles: If we don’t go to Vice, how are you finding a date for the gala?

“I don’t need a date,” I mutter as I text the words back.

His reply is instant: Tomorrow. Vice. We don’t have to pick anyone up. Just come. Please. You know I won’t go alone.

Fine, I text back. Tomorrow. Ten.

I lean back, deciding there’s no point pretending to work. I could go home, pour myself a drink, maybe get myself off and think about—

No. Not her. Not my son’s girl.

But… crossing lines has always been my favorite kind of game.