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“You don’t have to be okay,” he said. I was twenty-one and untouched—not because I didn’t want to feel, but because no one ever made me feel safe enough 🥀. Until Ghost 🖤. In a world made of pixels and shadows, he gave me patience, desire, and comfort without pressure 🌒✨. When my boyfriend called me broken 😔 and my parents destroyed the only escape I had, Ghost stayed. He listened. He waited. He made me feel seen 💞. I went looking for a stranger just to prove I could feel something… and found the one man who already had my heart 💔🔥. Chapter 1 Nora’s POV Tristan is talking about himself again. I watch his mouth move, shaping words I stopped hearing ten minutes ago. His father's investment firm. A merger. Summer plans at the Hamptons house that our parents are already discussing without us. "And my mom mentioned the engagement timeline again," he says, swirling his wine. "Next spring. After graduation. Your father agrees." "That's nice," I say. He does not notice the flatness in my voice. He never does. Tristan reaches across the white tablecloth and takes my hand. His grip is firm, possessive — the touch of a man who has already calculated exactly what I am worth to him. "You seem distracted," he frowns. "Just tired. Long week." "You should take better care of yourself. I need you looking fresh for the charity gala next month." He squeezes my hand once, then releases it to check his phone. "Mom's already picked out your dress." I nod and smile, performing the role I have perfected over years of practice. He does not ask how my week was or why I am tired — he has never cared. I am an asset in his portfolio, a checkbox on his life plan. And I stay. Because this is what I know. Because my parents raised me to understand that love is a transaction and I should be grateful anyone is buying. He pays and walks me to my car. His goodnight kiss is brief, mechanical — all the passion of a handshake. His hands stay at my waist because he knows I will freeze if they wander lower, so eventually, he stopped trying. "Text me tomorrow," he says, and it is not a question — it is a command. I drive home with the windows down, letting the cold air bite my cheeks. The silence of my apartment wraps around me, and for the first time all night, I breathe. I shed the performance in pieces. Heels by the door, dress on the bathroom floor, makeup wiped away until my face looks like mine again. Old sweats, messy bun, and the VR headset waiting on my nightstand. My fingers close around it, and my pulse quickens. This is the only part of my day that belongs to me. "Echo" loads in layers when I put the headset on and immerse myself into a different reality. Sound first — ambient forest, distant water. Then light, painting trees and stone paths and a sky full of stars that do not exist anywhere but here. The forest zone materializes around me, and my shoulders drop for the first time all night. I am Siren now — silver-haired, sharp-jawed, dressed in midnight black with glowing violet accents that pulse when I move. Nothing like Nora with her neutral tones and pearls. Siren wears her confidence like armor, walks like she owns every pixel beneath her feet. She is the version of me I only let exist in the dark — the honest one, the real one. Ghost is already waiting by the old stone bridge. One year of this. One year of his voice in my ear, his presence at my side, the easy rhythm we built in a world where neither of us has to be real. "You're late," he says. His voice is warm, teasing, familiar in a way that makes something in my chest loosen. "Traffic." "In a video game?" "Shut up." He laughs, and I find myself smiling — actually smiling. Not the performance smile, not the one I wore through dinner while Tristan planned my future without asking. We fall into step together, moving toward the quest marker glowing in the distance. "Spike traps tonight," Ghost says, pulling up the mission brief. "You take left, I'll take right?" "When has that ever worked?" "Optimism is a virtue, Siren." "Optimism is a coping mechanism for people who haven't learned better." We navigate the traps together, our timing synchronized after months of practice. He calls out patterns; I adjust my path. I spot a pressure plate; he vaults over it. The gameplay is secondary. It has always been secondary. The conversations are the point. We reach a gate that requires both keys, and the loading screen traps us in a small clearing while the next section generates. Ghost's avatar settles onto a fallen log and I sit beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. "What are you running from tonight?" he asks. Direct, unfiltered — the way no one in my real life has ever been. "What makes you think I'm running?" "You're quieter than usual. And you didn't insult my combat strategy once." My chest tightens. "I spent two hours being planned like a dinner party. Engagement timelines. Charity galas. What dress I'll wear to impress his mother. And not once did anyone ask what I wanted." Ghost is quiet while the forest hums around us. "And what do you want?" he asks finally, soft and simple. No one has ever asked me that — not my parents, not Tristan. My throat tightens. "I don't know. I don't think I'm allowed to want things." "That's the saddest thing I've ever heard." "It's just how it is." "It doesn't have to be." A notification pulses. New paired level unlocked, accessible only to players Siren and Ghost. I stare at it, and my heart is doing something strange. "No pressure," Ghost says. "But I'm not going anywhere." I press ‘yes’ and the world shifts. The forest dissolves, replaced by something new — a sprawling virtual city I have never seen before, all neon lights and towering buildings and streets that pulse with possibility. Ghost's avatar stands beside me as we take in the new landscape. "Whoa," I breathe. "This is the paired level?" "Looks like it unlocks a whole new zone." He starts walking, and I follow, our avatars moving through streets filled with other players, shops, quest markers. Then I notice it — a building at the end of one street, its entrance blurred, pulsing with a soft pink glow. I move toward it and a prompt appears in my vision: 'Age verification required. Please confirm you are 18+ to access this area.’ "What is that?" I ask. "The Love Room." Ghost's tone shifts to something teasing. "Intimate space. Very popular and very... adult. PornHub style, really." My cheeks warm beneath the headset. "Oh…" "We could check it out if you want." A pause, deliberately loaded. "For research purposes, of course." "In your dreams." "Every night, Siren." I shove his avatar, and he laughs — warm, easy, the sound wrapping around me in a way that makes my stomach flip. We move on to the actual quest, but the blurred doorway stays in the back of my mind. I file it away under things I will never do and try to forget I saw it. We reach a plaza at the center of the city, and Ghost's avatar turns to face mine. Even though I cannot see his face, even though none of this is real, the proximity makes my breath catch. "I'm glad you stayed," he whispers. Something happens in my body. His voice drops lower, intimate, as if his mouth is pressed against my ear. A flush of heat spreads outward, pooling low in my belly — then lower still. My thighs press together instinctively. "Siren," he murmurs. "I think about you. Even when we're not playing." My breath hitches and heat floods between my legs — sudden, undeniable. I have never felt this with Tristan, not once. But Ghost's voice alone makes me ache in places I forgot existed. My hand drifts down my stomach without thinking, hovering, wanting. "Ghost—" I start, but my phone shatters everything. Tristan's name flashing on the screen. I rip off the headset, gasping. Skin flushed, underwear damp, hands shaking. I answer on the fourth ring, forcing my voice steady. "Hey." "Come over. I'm still up." His voice is flat, expectant. "The night doesn't have to end yet." I close my eyes, Ghost's whisper still echoing under my skin. "I'm tired, Tristan. Maybe tomorrow." A pause. Sharp exhale. "Fine. Tomorrow then. You owe me." The line goes dead before I can respond. I lie back, Ghost's voice still burning through me, Tristan's coldness ringing in my ears. What is wrong with me? Chapter 2 I went to Tristan's the next night. I owed him, after all. Now he's gone, and I'm still lying in his bed, staring at his ceiling, replaying the disgust in his voice when he pulled away. He tried again — hands pushing beneath my shirt without asking, mouth on my neck while he murmured about how long he's been waiting. How patient he's been. How much I owe him for that patience. And I froze. The way I always do. My body locked up the moment his fingers reached the waistband of my panties, every muscle going rigid beneath skin that refused to cooperate. "Six months," he said, rolling off me with a sigh. "Six fucking months, Nora. This is getting ridiculous." I did not answer. I never know what to say when he is like this. "My ex would have…" He stopped himself, jaw tight. "Never mind. I have an early meeting anyway." He dressed in the dark and did not even kiss me goodbye. Then the door closed behind him with a click that sounded like judgment. We have been together for six months, and I have never let him past a certain point. He expected it to happen by now — most girls in his world give themselves freely, and he made it clear he chose me despite my hesitation. A favor, the way he tells it. Patience he did not have to offer. I should be grateful, that is what I have been taught. Men like Tristan do not wait. Men like Tristan have plenty of options. But my body does not care about gratitude. It locks up every time he touches me, and I do not understand why. He is handsome, wealthy and exactly what my parents wanted for me, what I was raised to want for myself. I should feel lucky. I should feel desired. I feel nothing instead. Nothing except the vague nausea of being handled like property. I am twenty-one years old and still a virgin, and everyone acts like that is my failure. Tristan's frustration. My mother's pointed questions about grandchildren. My father's jokes about sealing the deal. They all expect me to perform, to deliver, to stop being difficult. And I cannot explain that my body refuses to give itself to someone who has never once asked what I want. Ghost's voice drifts through my memory. What do you want? My pulse jumps at the thought of him, and something complicated twists in my stomach. He asked me a question no one else has ever asked. He listened to the answer. He made me feel like my wants mattered. Maybe that is why my body locks up with Tristan. Maybe it knows something I am too trained to admit. I throw off the covers and grab my keys. The city unfolds outside my windshield, block by block, and I take the long route without meaning to. The one that cuts through West Side territory before looping back to neutral ground. Graffiti-tagged walls blur past my windows as flickering streetlights cast orange shadows across cracked sidewalks. A cluster of motorcycles gleams outside a late-night diner, chrome catching the neon glow. West Side College sits at the center of it all — underfunded buildings, chain-link fences, students who work three jobs to afford textbooks. A few blocks later, the landscape shifts and gated apartment complexes with doormen. Manicured hedges trimmed to geometric perfection. A coffee shop I recognize, the one that charges eight dollars for a latte and twelve for avocado toast. Two different worlds sharing the same city, pretending the other does not exist. The rivalry is not official. North Side University and West Side College share accreditation boards, funding committees, a city council that wishes they would just get along. But everyone knows the truth. It started decades ago — some say a scholarship dispute, others say a fight over a girl, most say it does not matter anymore because the hatred has become its own reason. North Side students call West Side dangerous, criminal, trash. West Side students call North Side fake, entitled, soft. They do not date each other. They do not befriend each other. They barely acknowledge each other exists except to sneer. I grew up hearing my father talk about West Side the way he talked about pests — something to avoid, something beneath us. I never questioned it. I never had reason to. That is why I study at North Side, why I live in a gated building. Why my world has clean edges and his approval stamped on every corner. Iron Hour appears through the windshield, and I pull into the parking lot. The gym sits on neutral ground, technically belonging to neither campus, but claimed by both. Twenty-four hours. No membership fees. The kind of place where I can disappear without anyone reporting back to my parents. I claim a treadmill in the back corner and start running. The noise in my head quiets, replaced by the rhythm of my own breathing, the mechanical whir of the machine and distant clang of weights. I run until my legs shake. Until my shirt sticks to my back. Until I cannot think about Tristan's entitled hands or Ghost's gentle questions or the war between what I was taught to accept and what I am starting to suspect I deserve. I slow the treadmill, gasping, and that is when I hear it — the rhythmic thud of fists against leather from the heavy bag in the back corner. I turn before I can stop myself. A guy works the bag with controlled violence — dark hair damp with sweat, sharp jaw, leather jacket discarded on a bench nearby. Tattoos peek from his collar, black ink disappearing beneath his shirt. His stance is too narrow as his guard drops between combinations. But there is something in the way he moves — raw, unpolished, alive in a way that makes my stomach tighten. Danny Vega. I know him by reputation. West Side, motorcycle club — one of the leaders, according to the whispers. Everything North Side students trade warnings about at parties and in dining halls. Stay away from the bikers. They are dangerous. They are criminals. They are everything we are not. He catches me looking and his fists still against the bag. A grin spreads across his face — slow, knowing, infuriating. "See something you want, sweetheart?" I roll my eyes and step off the treadmill, grabbing my water bottle. "Your form is sloppy. And the stance is too narrow." His eyebrows rise. "You box?" "I hit things when I'm stressed." "Must be stressed a lot." He tilts his head, dark eyes seeing too much. "North Side, right? Let me guess — business major, daddy's money, boyfriend who drives a BMW." "Do you practice being this charming, or does it come naturally?" He laughs — rough, warm, nothing like Tristan's polished chuckle. Something in my chest responds before I can shut it down. I turn toward the locker room, but the broken handle catches my bag strap. I yank it free, muttering, "This place is falling apart. Would it kill them to fix anything?" Danny's laugh dies. "Sorry the gym isn't up to your five-star standards, princess." I spin around. "Excuse me?" "You heard me." He steps closer, unwrapping his hands slowly. "Broken locker handle. Tragic. How will you survive?" His voice drips venom. "Must be rough, having problems like that. Meanwhile some of us work double shifts just to afford the membership." "I wasn't—" "You North Side girls are all the same." He's not smiling anymore. "You float through life complaining about chipped nails and slow wifi while people like me are trying to keep the lights on. But sure, tell me more about the broken handle. I'm fascinated." Heat floods my face — fury and something worse. Shame. "You don't know anything about me," I snap. "I know enough. Designer leggings. Forty-dollar water bottle. Probably never worked a day in your life." He tilts his head. "How's it feel, princess? Being handed everything and still finding reasons to complain?" The words land like a slap. Because part of me knows he's right — and I hate him for seeing it. "At least I don't have a chip on my shoulder the size of a motorcycle," I fire back. "Must be exhausting, hating everyone who has more than you. Maybe if you spent less time judging people you don't know, you'd actually get somewhere." His jaw tightens. For a second, something flickers in his eyes — hurt, maybe. Then it's gone, replaced by cold amusement. "Run along, princess. Daddy's probably waiting." I don't answer. I walk toward the locker room, hands shaking, throat tight. Narcissistic. Arrogant. Cruel. Everything I expected and worse. But for one treacherous moment, my mind wanders. I wonder what Ghost looks like. If his hands are rough. If his shoulders are that broad. If he would ever look at me with that much contempt. I shut the thought down hard. Tristan is my future. Tristan is the plan. Tristan is what I am supposed to want. But wanting has never been part of the equation. Step into a story where love begins behind a screen and nothing stays virtual for long in Love at First Login 💖

“Quantos anos elas têm?” Aquela pergunta quase me destruiu 😨. Meus gêmeos em pé no escritório dele, seus olhos percorrendo seus rostos como se sentisse algo que não conseguia explicar. Eu menti. Eu tive que mentir. Porque Xander Hale não possui apenas empresas—ele possui poder, advogados, controle 🖤. E eu não sei o que acontece quando um homem assim percebe que as crianças com quem está criando laços são suas 💔. Não estou só protegendo meu coração. Estou protegendo minhas filhas de uma verdade que poderia mudar suas vidas para sempre ❤️‍🔥🥀. Capítulo 1 [POV Daphne] A manhã começou a desmoronar antes mesmo que eu abrisse os olhos de verdade. "Mamãe, vamos fazer panquecas!" A voz da Nina atravessou o apartamento como um alarme de incêndio. Encontrei-a na cozinha, remexendo nas gavetas. "Não temos tempo para panquecas hoje. Hoje é o grande dia da mamãe, com uma entrevista para o novo emprego, lembra? Eu te contei ontem à noite." "Eu não me importo com seu trabalho." Ela fez um biquinho. "Quero panquecas!" Antes que eu pudesse responder, Lisa apareceu na porta, o rosto franzido de preocupação. "Mamãe, não acho meu sapato roxo. Preciso do meu sapato roxo." "E que tal o rosa? O rosa é bonito." "Não!" Os olhos da Lisa encheram-se de lágrimas. "Só roxo. Roxo é minha cor da sorte." Olhei para o relógio na parede próxima. Quarenta e cinco minutos até eu precisar atravessar aquelas portas do escritório. Quarenta e cinco minutos para alimentar duas teimosas de quatro anos, vesti-las, atravessar a cidade de carro e de alguma forma parecer uma profissional competente digna de ser contratada. "Ok. Ok, deixe-me encontrar os sapatos." Caí de joelhos e olhei debaixo do sofá. Um sapato roxo, coberto de bolinhas de poeira. Revirei a sala, o quarto das meninas, debaixo das camas. Nada. Nina agora estava ativamente lançando aveia na mesa com a colher. Fingi não ver porque não dava tempo para essa briga. O banheiro. Por que o banheiro? Mas lá estava—o segundo sapato roxo, inexplicavelmente ao lado do vaso sanitário. Eu estava de joelhos, estendendo a mão para pegá-lo, quando a voz suave de Lisa me paralisou. "Mamãe, por que a gente não tem um papai como as outras crianças?" Minha mão ficou imóvel sobre o sapato. A pergunta pairou no ar, inocente e devastadora—uma faca deslizando entre minhas costelas com a delicadeza que só uma criança de quatro anos poderia ter. Virei-me para encontrá-la parada na porta, o polegar pairando perto da boca, olhos escuros abertos e sinceros. Olhos que pareciam exatamente com os de outra pessoa. "Como assim, meu amor?" Minha voz saiu mais firme do que eu esperava. "A Emma na creche tem um papai. E a Sophie." O lábio inferior de Lisa tremeu. "Mas a gente não tem. Nosso papai não quis a gente?" As palavras me golpearam como um baque físico. Como eu poderia explicar isso para ela? Como explicar algo que nem eu mesma sei? Provavelmente ele não me quis, porque foi embora cedo demais até para saber das nossas meninas. Acolhi-a em meus braços, pressionando meus lábios contra seus cabelos escuros, respirando fundo para suportar a dor no peito. "Nossa família é perfeita do jeitinho que é", sussurrei. "A mamãe ama você e a Nina como cem pais juntos. Você sabe disso, não sabe?" Lisa assentiu sobre meu ombro, os dedinhos apertando minha camisa. "Eu sei, mamãe." Mas a pergunta permaneceu dentro de mim, como uma marca roxa, enquanto eu a ajudava a calçar os sapatos roxos. Ouvi um estrondo vindo da cozinha. Minha caneca de café. Minha caneca cheia, derrubada pelo braço agitado da Nina durante seu protesto contra a aveia, agora espalhando um rio marrom pelo balcão e descendo pela frente da minha blusa branca cuidadosamente escolhida. Fiquei ali parada por um momento, o café pingando nos meus sapatos, lembrando a mim mesma que chorar não adiantaria. "Mamãe, você está bagunçada", observou Nina. "Sim. Obrigada, Nina. Eu percebi." A roupa reserva—um blazer cinza um pouco amassado e a calça preta que eu pretendia passar mas nunca consegui—teria que servir. Em três minutos, troquei de roupa, coloquei as duas meninas nos casacos e, de alguma forma, consegui prendê-las nas cadeirinhas do carro apenas vinte minutos atrasada. "Mamãe, por que você está dirigindo tão rápido?" Lisa perguntou do banco de trás. "Não estou dirigindo rápido, querida. Estou dirigindo de forma eficiente." "O que é eficiente?" "Significa que a mamãe está tentando não perder a cabeça." Deixei-as na creche com beijos apressados e promessas de buscá-las bem na hora certa. Cinco anos disso—cinco anos sendo tudo para elas, me esticando tanto que esqueci como era me sentir inteira. Mas esse emprego podia mudar as coisas. Esse emprego significava estabilidade. Um salário de verdade em vez de sobreviver com trabalhos freelancers que mal cobriam o aluguel. Plano de saúde para as meninas. Uma chance de reconstruir algo da pessoa que eu costumava ser, antes que noites sem dormir e birras intermináveis de crianças pequenas me esvaziassem. O prédio me fez sentir pequena no instante em que entrei. Pisos de mármore, elevadores espelhados, funcionários se movendo com uma eficiência silenciosa em suas roupas sob medida e passos confiantes. Puxei meu blazer amarrotado e tentei ficar mais ereta. Tudo em mim parecia errado—desleixada, deslocada, como se tivesse entrado por engano na vida de outra pessoa. Enquanto esperava pelo RH perto da recepção, ouvi duas assistentes cochichando por perto. "Você soube? Xander Hale recusou três candidatos na semana passada," disse uma delas, balançando a cabeça. "Três. Todos perfeitamente qualificados." A outra mulher assentiu com gravidade. "Ele é impossível de agradar. Lembra da Sarah? Ele a fez chorar no segundo dia." Elas trocaram olhares cúmplices, e meu estômago se apertou. O nome não significava nada para mim, mas o tom delas pintou um quadro de que eu não gostei. O RH chegou antes que eu pudesse me afundar ainda mais—uma mulher de rosto gentil chamada Patrícia que sorria como se realmente quisesse dizer aquilo. "Sra. Carter? Por aqui, por favor. O Sr. Hale está esperando por você." Ela me conduziu até o último andar através de um corredor ladeado por grandes fotografias em preto e branco. Conquistas corporativas. Cerimônias de premiação. Homens de terno apertando as mãos, recebendo placas. Uma imagem me fez parar no meio do passo. Meu coração bateu contra minhas costelas com tanta força que achei que Patricia deveria ter ouvido. Um homem estava em um púlpito—traços marcantes, cabelo escuro, um olhar inabalável e uma tensão familiar no maxilar. Eu conhecia aquele rosto. Conhecia intimamente, mesmo tendo o visto apenas por uma noite, cinco anos atrás. O estranho do bar. O homem que me fez sentir vista e desejada pela primeira vez na vida. Que desapareceu antes do amanhecer, deixando apenas um nome falso e um número de telefone que não funcionava. Que me deu Nina e Lisa sem nunca saber disso. "Srta. Carter?" Patricia olhou para trás, uma preocupação passando pelo seu rosto. "Está tudo bem?" Forcei um sorriso, desviando os olhos da fotografia. "Tudo bem. Desculpe. Só... admirando a decoração." Eu devia estar sendo ridícula. Homens como ele, desconhecidos charmosos e desleixados em bares, não se tornam CEOs bilionários. Era só uma semelhança. O mundo está cheio de homens de cabelos escuros e olhos intensos. Não significava nada. Certo? Chegamos ao escritório da esquina. Patricia bateu uma vez na porta, anunciou meu nome e saiu com um sorriso encorajador. "O Sr. Hale vai te instruir pessoalmente. Boa sorte." A porta se fechou atrás de mim. Um homem estava em pé na janela, de costas para mim, telefone encostado à orelha. Alto. Ombros largos. Terno caro. "Não me importo com o prazo," disse ele, a voz baixa e autoritária. "Faça acontecer." Aquela voz. Meu peito se apertou. Eu conhecia aquela voz. Já a tinha ouvido sussurrar meu nome em um quarto de hotel escuro, já a tinha sentido vibrar contra a minha pele. Ele encerrou a ligação e se virou lentamente. Quando nossos olhos se encontraram, o tempo pareceu parar. Era definitivamente ele, sem dúvidas. Mais velho agora, mais afiado, a barba por fazer substituída por linhas limpas e uma aura de poder que eu nunca tinha visto antes. Mas era inconfundivelmente ele. Os mesmos olhos escuros. A mesma intensidade que um dia me fez sentir como a única mulher do mundo. Surpresa cintilou em seus traços—uma fissura na fachada polida, ali e desaparecendo no espaço de um piscar de olhos. Mas eu percebi. O leve arregalar dos olhos, o quase imperceptível entreabrir dos lábios, o jeito como seu corpo ficou completamente imóvel, como um predador que acabara de avistar algo inesperado em seu território. Ele deu um passo à frente, e eu tive que lutar contra o impulso de recuar. Ele estudou meu rosto com um foco perturbador—seu olhar percorreu meus traços como se estivesse comparando-os a uma lembrança, catalogando cada detalhe. A linha do meu maxilar. O formato da minha boca. Os olhos que o olharam naquele quarto de hotel mal iluminado, cinco anos atrás… "Nós já... nos conhecemos antes?" ele perguntou. Minha boca secou. Mas eu fiquei paralisada, o coração disparado, enquanto a verdade me atingia como uma onda. Meu possível chefe era o pai dos meus filhos. Capítulo 2 O silêncio se estendeu entre nós, denso e insuportável. Minha mente buscava uma fuga, uma negação, qualquer coisa que me tirasse daquele escritório. Longe daqueles olhos escuros e penetrantes que viam demais. Forcei minha expressão a uma confusão educada. "Desculpe, acho que não." Minha voz saiu mais firme do que eu esperava, mas Xander não acreditou. Seus olhos se estreitaram levemente, estudando meu rosto com a mesma intensidade que eu lembrava de anos atrás. O jeito como ele olhara para mim do outro lado do bar, como se tentasse memorizar cada detalhe. "Você me parece familiar," ele disse devagar, cada palavra deliberada. "Tenho certeza de que já nos encontramos." Balancei a cabeça, mantendo a mentira mesmo quando meu coração ameaçava saltar do peito. "Eu só tenho um daqueles rostos... As pessoas vivem dizendo isso para mim." Tentei sorrir, mas o sorriso parecia quebradiço nos meus lábios. Como se pudesse trincar e se despedaçar a qualquer momento. Xander me observou por um longo momento, algo indecifrável passando por seu olhar. Eu quase podia ver as engrenagens girando em sua mente, vasculhando memórias, tentando se lembrar de mim. Então ele recuou, gesticulando para a cadeira à frente de sua mesa. "Sente-se." Não era um pedido e eu obedeci, grata pela chance de esconder minhas mãos trêmulas no colo. A cadeira de couro era cara, macia—do tipo de mobília que custava mais do que três meses do meu aluguel. Tudo naquele escritório gritava riqueza e poder. Tudo nele gritava perigo. "Seu currículo é impressionante", ele começou, acomodando-se em sua própria cadeira. "Gerenciamento de agenda, correspondência, coordenação de reuniões—você listou experiência em todas essas áreas. Fale-me sobre seu último cargo." "Trabalho administrativo freelance, principalmente. Clientes remotos, horários flexíveis." Mantive minha voz profissional, distante. "Gerenciei agendas, cuidei da correspondência por e-mail, organizei viagens." "Por que freelance?" Porque eu estava grávida e sozinha e não conseguia manter um emprego fixo enquanto criava gêmeos sozinha. Porque você desapareceu e me deixou com nada além de um nome falso e dois bebês crescendo dentro de mim. "Circunstâncias pessoais", respondi em vez disso. "Mas essas circunstâncias mudaram. Estou pronta para me comprometer com um cargo em tempo integral agora." Xander assentiu, mas sua atenção continuava voltando para o meu rosto. Eu podia senti-lo tentando se lembrar de mim, procurando em suas memórias como alguém folheando um álbum de fotos antigo. A tensão tornou-se sufocante. "Sua velocidade de digitação?" "Noventa palavras por minuto." "Conhecimento de softwares?" "Pacote Microsoft completo, Google Workspace, programas básicos de design gráfico, várias plataformas de gerenciamento de projetos." Minhas respostas pareciam mecânicas, ensaiadas. Eu só precisava passar daquela reunião. Só precisava sobreviver ao primeiro dia. Depois eu poderia descobrir o que fazer, como lidar com o homem que… "E quanto ao seu sonho de se tornar escritora?" Eu congelei. “Desculpa?” A voz dele estava mais baixa agora, desprovida daquela autoridade habitual. Algo quase vulnerável passou pelo seu rosto. "Aquela noite no bar, cinco anos atrás. É isso que você me contou." Minha compostura se quebrou. O ar ficou preso na minha garganta e vi o reconhecimento surgir de vez nos olhos dele—a confirmação que ele buscava. A confusão educada que eu vestia como armadura desmoronou, e não fazia mais sentido negar. "E sobre o seu nome ser Alex," eu disse, e as palavras saíram mais duras do que eu pretendia. Anos de mágoa reprimida vindo à tona. "Que você trabalha na construção civil. Algumas coisas estão mudando bem rápido, pelo visto." Xander ficou tenso. Ele não negou. "Eu acreditei em você." Ouvi o tom amargo na minha própria voz e não consegui evitar. "Mas você decidiu que eu não era digna da verdade." "Não é bem assim..." "Não estou esperando nenhuma explicação, não precisa." A expressão dele mudou—surpresa, talvez até culpa—mas eu não lhe dei tempo de responder. Bom, certamente não pareço alguém que não se importa. Mas já que finalmente me deram a chance de dizer tudo que pensei, seria um pecado não aproveitar. "Mas sabe de uma coisa? É realmente absurdo como você planejou tudo. O número de telefone que me deu não funcionava. A construtora que não existe. Procurei por 'Alex' em todo lugar que pude imaginar, e não encontrei nada." A ferida antiga se abriu de novo, derramando tudo que eu mantive trancado. A humilhação daquelas semanas depois da nossa noite juntos, quando o teste de gravidez mostrou duas linhas e eu tentei desesperadamente te encontrar. "Eu realmente tentei te achar..." falei baixinho. A confissão escapou antes que eu pudesse impedir, crua e honesta de um jeito que eu não tinha planejado. Algo brilhou nos olhos dele. Dor? Arrependimento? Não consegui dizer, e nem queria saber. “Não importa mais,” continuei, endireitando-me na cadeira, recolocando minha máscara profissional como uma armadura. “Isso foi há muito tempo. Outra vida.” “Daphne, eu não fazia ideia de que…” “Estou aqui para trabalhar, Sr. Hale.” Encarei-o firmemente, desafiando-o a insistir. “O que aconteceu antes—ficou no passado. Quero que continue lá.” Xander sustentou meu olhar por um longo momento. Eu podia ver as perguntas ardendo por trás de seus olhos, as palavras que ele queria dizer pressionando seus lábios. Suas mãos apertavam os braços da cadeira como se ele realmente estivesse se contendo para não falar. Mas finalmente, ele assentiu devagar. “Certo. Vamos manter isso profissional, então.” Seu tom era seco, controlado, mas algo em sua expressão me dizia que aquela conversa não tinha terminado. Só estava adiada. “Você está contratada”, disse ele. “Patricia vai mostrar sua mesa e explicar a papelada de integração. Você começa imediatamente.” Pisquei, pega de surpresa. Era só isso? Apesar da tensão, do constrangimento, apesar de provavelmente ter sido a entrevista mais curta e estranha da história corporativa… Ele ia me contratar? “Você não quer… checar minhas referências? Fazer uma segunda entrevista?” “Não.” Seus olhos encontraram os meus, indecifráveis. “Já vi o suficiente.” Eu não sabia o que pensar daquilo. Não sabia se era algo bom ou um aviso. “Obrigada”, consegui dizer. “Não vou decepcioná-lo.” “É bom mesmo.” Levantei-me com as pernas trêmulas e caminhei até a porta, sentindo o olhar dele cravado em minhas costas a cada passo. Minha mão já estava na maçaneta quando a voz dele me deteve. “Daphne.” Ele estava atrás da mesa, poderoso e intocável, a anos-luz do homem que eu conhecera naquele bar. “Eu tinha meus motivos. Pelo nome. Por tudo.” Esperei por mais, mas nada veio. “Boa noite, Sr. Hale”, disse, e saí. A porta se fechou atrás de mim com um clique, e me apoiei na parede, tentando recuperar o fôlego. Minha mente girava, mas um pensamento se cristalizou com perfeita clareza: ele me deu um nome falso. Uma vida falsa. Ele nunca quis que eu o encontrasse. Quaisquer que fossem seus motivos, ele deixou claro que aquela noite não significou nada para ele além de algumas horas passageiras. E se ele não quis ser encontrado então, certamente não merecia saber sobre Nina e Lisa agora. O segredo permaneceu enterrado. Eu garantiria isso. Quer ler mais? 😉 Confira Dois Pequenos Segredos do Meu Chefe agora! 🔥👔

"What if he doesn't fit?" I asked it like a scientist reading off a clipboard. He answered it like a promise: "Then we find out how much you can learn to take." 😳 Four tentacles in the water — one at my wrist, one at my waist, one sliding slow up my thigh — learning the exact shape of me, inch by impossible inch. 🐙 "Tell me when it's too much," he said. I never did. 🔥 I walked into that chamber so sure of the limits of my own body. He spent the whole night proving every single one of them wrong — and by morning I was the one asking for more. 💋 Turns out I wasn't broken. I was just waiting for something that was never going to be human. 🤫 ——————————————————— Chapter 1 — Crystal's POV Position: [not specified]. Location: Saint-Barthélemy, on-site housing provided. Compensation: €4,500/month. Start date: immediate. Requirements: female, single, good health, experience with caregiving preferred. Good fertility. Nature of work: daily care and interaction with exotic creatures. Interested applicants reply to this address only. I'd found it buried in a local forum between an ad for a retired fisherman's boat and someone selling homemade coconut oil, and I'd screenshot it before it could disappear, the way things on that forum tended to do. I read it for the fourth time, and it didn't get any less suspicious. The waiting room was trying hard to impress. White leather chairs, a marble coffee table, and a massive aerial photograph of Saint-Barthélemy's coastline. I crossed and uncrossed my legs. Checked my phone, read the listing again. "Weird listing, right?" The woman two chairs over was watching me. Mid-thirties, tanned, the kind of sun-bleached hair that came from actually living near the ocean She nodded at my phone. "No company name, no job title. Just 'exotic creatures' and a salary that's too good to be real." "We might be considered crazy for coming here." "Honey, half the island applied. That money?" She whistled low. "I've got two kids and an ex who thinks child support is optional. I'd scrub dragon cages for that number." I almost laughed. But before I could open my mouth, the door at the end of the room opened, and a voice cut through. "Crystal Le Grand?" I put my phone away so fast I nearly dropped it. The woman who stepped through was the kind of beautiful that made you immediately aware of every flaw on your own face. Her badge was saying ‘Anaïs’. Tall, dark hair pulled into something effortlessly perfect, sharp cheekbones. She looked like she belonged on the cover of Vogue. "That's me." I stood and extended my hand. "Nice to meet you. I love your shoes, are those…" "Follow me, please." Anaïs turned on those shoes I wasn't allowed to compliment and walked back through the door. I followed, hand still half-raised, smile dying on my face. She was the assistant to the facility's owner, and she had the interpersonal warmth of a tax audit. She led me to a small office, gestured to a chair, and opened a folder without looking at me once. "I see here you were previously married. Is that correct?" "Correct." I smiled tightly. ‘Best’ decision I never made. I was twenty-one and stupid and in love, and he had a smile that made me forget nobody had ever taken care of me without a price tag. "And your current relationship status?" "And your current relationship status?" "Single. Very, very single. The marriage was annulled, so technically I was never even married. Fun little legal detail." My now ex-husband vanished and left a stack of credit card statements with my name on them. Debts I didn't know existed, signatures I stupidly signed without looking. Now I understood why he'd been in such a rush to walk me down the aisle. Not in the name of love, but because he couldn’t wait to max out credit cards in his wife's name. Anaïs wrote something without looking up. The pen moved in short, precise strokes. Her nails were clean and unpolished, trimmed to exactly the same length. "Your credit history shows some irregularities. Can you explain?" "Student loans. You know how it is." I laughed. Anaïs didn't. Everything about this woman was controlled — posture, breathing, the way she held her face like a mask. Student loans my ass. I've got about four weeks of savings, a mountain of debt, and a disabled brother whose care I help pay for. "Menstrual cycle. Regular or irregular?" I blinked. "Regular, but that's kind of a…" "Clothing size?" "Eight. Sometimes ten if it's European sizing, which, honestly, always feels like a personal attack." "Professional experience?" "Nursing. Two years at Hôpital de Bruyn before I took a break." Before my fiancé convinced me to quit. "I'll take care of us, baby. You deserve better than nightshifts and bedpans." Turns out what he meant was he'd strip away every safety net I had, then vanish. "Do you have family or close contacts on the island? Anyone you speak with regularly?" "My mother, on the mainland. She takes care of my brother Lionel — he's disabled. I call her every few days, send money when I can. Here on the island? No one." Anaïs's pen stopped moving. She looked at me and something shifted across her features. Quick, controlled, barely there. Surprise and something sharper underneath it, almost like satisfaction. Then it vanished, and she was writing again. "Do you have family or close contacts on the island? Anyone you speak with regularly?" "My mother, on the mainland. She takes care of my brother Lionel. I call her every few days, send money when I can. Here on the island? No. Caleb was my whole social life, which, again, is a red flag. I'm seeing all the red flags now." Anaïs closed the folder, excused herself, and returned two minutes later with him. Albert Bernard, the owner of this company, walked into the room. Tall, obscenely handsome, the kind of man whose jaw looked sculpted rather than grown. He shook my hand with both of his and smiled like we were already old friends. "Crystal! Anaïs tells me you're perfect." "She… Really? She didn't seem…" "Wonderful! Tell me about your sex life." I choked on nothing. "My what?" "Your sex life. Active, dormant, somewhere in between?" He leaned back in his chair, completely at ease. "I ask because I want you to be comfortable. Some of the work here is intimate in nature: not sexual, but physical, close-contact, and I need to know your boundaries won't make you a liability." I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. Albert tilted his head like a man watching a fish try to climb a tree. "I'll go first, since you look like you might swallow your own tongue. I'm bisexual, and the last person I was with told me I had the emotional availability of a desk lamp. Your turn." Surprisingly, It worked. Something about his absurd candor cracked the seal. I was still stiff when I found myself talking: "Dormant. Dead, actually. My ex killed any interest I had in men, and honestly, at this point the only physical contact I want is the kind where nobody asks how I'm feeling afterward." Albert listened with his chin on his fist and nodded like everything I said was fascinating. The contract was three pages. I should have read every word. I read the salary line, the housing clause, and the duration — twelve months, renewable — and I signed. Albert clapped his hands together. "Anaïs, transport! We leave now." “H-Hold on, what?” “Why wait? You’re gonna have so much fun there!” Anaïs stood, and as she passed Albert's chair, his hand swung out and slapped her across the ass — casual, proprietary, the sound sharp in the small room. She didn't flinch, didn't react at all. Just kept walking. I stared. My mouth opened, closed. Two attractive adults, I told myself. Clearly a thing between them. Who am I to judge? God knows I wouldn't mind someone who looked like either of them doing that to me. I tried to forget the look on the other candidates' faces when Albert enthusiastically told them to leave because the position was closed. Outside, a black SUV waited with the engine running. Anaïs took the wheel without a word; Albert held the rear door open for me with a little bow that was either gentlemanly or mocking, hard to tell with him. I climbed in, and the leather seats were cool against my thighs. Nobody spoke. Anaïs drove like she'd made this trip a hundred times, eyes fixed ahead, and Albert scrolled through his phone beside me. The drive took us to the island's far eastern edge, where the roads narrowed to dirt and the vegetation thickened until the ocean disappeared behind a wall of green. The facility sat at the end of a gravel path — low concrete, no signage, built like something designed not to be found. Inside, the air was cooler and carried a strange undercurrent, something organic and faintly mineral, like wet stone in a cave. Albert walked ahead, hands clasped behind his back like a tour guide. "Your schedule will be straightforward — feeding rounds three times a day, health checks once in the morning, and the rest of the time is yours to spend with the residents. Think of it as..." I was trying to listen, I really was, but then we passed a corridor junction and I saw the monitor. A security screen mounted high on the wall, showing a dark chamber in grainy night vision. Something massive was moving inside: too many limbs, too fluid, and a thick muscular appendage uncurling against the reinforced glass, ridged suckers pressing flat against the surface. My vision tilted. The corridor stretched and compressed, fluorescent lights bleeding into long white smears. My knees folded, and the last thing I registered before the dark swallowed everything was the cold of the concrete floor against my cheek. ——————————————————— How far past her limits will she go? 🫣 Read Monstrously Yours Now! 🐙🔥

Před osmi lety mě přiměli sténat, prosit a zlomit se. Teď jsou to moji šéfové—a já jsem ta, kdo jejich děti drží v utajení. Kapitola 1 Thaliin pohled * Před osmi lety * Drápu na dveře svého pokoje tak zuřivě, až si lámu nehty a zanechávám krvavé šmouhy na bílém nátěru. Což je upřímně ta nejběžnější věc, která se mi za celou noc stala. Máma už zevnitř otočila klíčem, její ledový hlas se v nízkém syčení nese skrz dřevo. „Dnes večer jsou tu Alfa a jeho synové. Nechceme, aby při diskusi o budoucnosti naší rodiny cítili tvé odporné hárání.“ Jasně. Protože nic neříká „milující rodina“ tak jako zamknout devatenáctiletou dceru v jejím pokoji během jejího prvního hárání, zatímco se bratříčkujete s vlčí šlechtou. Rodina Blackwoodova: dávají „funkcionalitu“ do dysfunkční od roku 1987. Sesunu se ke dveřím, nohy mi vypoví službu, když mě zasáhne další vlna. Je to, jako by mi někdo vpustil tekutý oheň přímo do žil a zapomněl dodat, že to přichází s dávkou zoufalé, drásající touhy. Oficiální večeře zní skrz podlahu nahoru. Zdvořilý smích, cinkání křišťálu, mohutný otcův hlas v roli vlídného hostitele. Sestřina naučená hihňání, když se pravděpodobně ovíjí kolem Kierana jako trofejní přítelkyně, kterou se ze sebe snaží udělat. Mezitím se tu nahoře topím ve vlastní kůži. Stehna se mi samovolně svírají, hledají tlak, který nepřijde. Každé nervové zakončení je v pohotovosti, přecitlivělé do té míry, že i povlečení působí najednou jako smirkový papír i hedvábí. Bolest mezi nohama mi pulsuje v rytmu vlastního srdce—naléhavá, vyžadující a naprosto ponižující. Moje první hárání se mnou projíždí s násilím, o kterém mě nikdo neupozornil. Protože proč taky? Dcery bez vlka přece žádný rozhovor nedostanou. Nemáme přece cítit, jak nám tělo unáší každou racionální myšlenku a nahrazuje ji čistou, zvířecí touhou. Díky, Vesmíre, za rozbití toho vzorce. Opravdu sakra oceňuju to překvapení. Doplazím se zpátky do postele, každý pohyb je utrpení. Moje tílko se mi lepí na kůži, celé promočené potem, který páchne divně. Sladce a zoufale. Jakmile se látka otře o moje bradavky, vyšle to blesk přímo do mého středu a já potlačím vzlyk, který by se určitě donesl až do jídelny. Tohle je říje. Ne ten romantický nesmysl z příběhů smečky, kde přijde nějaký Alfa s magickým pérem a všechno napraví. Tohle je biologická válka, při které se mé tělo úplně vzbouří a zaplaví mě hormony, které křičí ‚páření, potřeba, hned‘, zatímco se můj mozek zoufale snaží udržet si trochu důstojnosti. Pak mě přes topení zasáhne jeho vůně. Temný cedr, kouř a nezaměnitelně Kieran. Moje zrádné tělo se rozzáří, jako by mě Kieran právě svlékl donaha a dal svoje ústa a ruce všude tam, kam by neměly. Každé nervové zakončení je v pozoru, křičí po něčem, co nemůžu mít, nechci mít, odmítám chtít. Můj mozek ho vyvolá bez dovolení. Ty ruce na mé kůži, mozolnaté z nějakých těch bohatých Alfa koníčků, přitahují mě k němu, zatímco mi šeptá omluvy do kůže za každé kruté slovo, které mi řekl od té doby, co ho Lia proměnila ve můj osobní noční můru ve druháku. Zaryju si nehty do dlaní tak silně, až teče krev. Přestaň. Prostě přestaň. Ale fantazie na moji důstojnost kašle. V mé hlavě je zbožný, zoufalý, dívá se na mě, jako bych byla něco, co by zabil, aby mohl vlastnit, ne jen oblíbený boxovací pytel smečky. Je to ubohé. Jsem ubohá. Poštěvák mi pulzuje do rytmu srdce a nenávidím se za to, jak strašně moc toužím po někom, kdo mi pomohl zničit život. Do hlavy se mi vrací ta vzpomínka—Lia na tom kafetériovém stole, můj deník v jejích upravených rukách, čte moje strašné básně o Kieranovi desítkám svědků. „Opravdu si myslíš, že by Alfa dědic chtěl vadnou, vlkolaků prostou zrůdu?“ Smečka se ke mně chovala jako k odpadu už předtím. Ale potom? Potom jsem byla neviditelná, když jsem měla štěstí. Terčem, když ne. Lia byla vždycky posedlá Kieranem, plánovala ho "dobýt" už od základní školy. Takže když zjistila o mé hloupé zamilovanosti, nejenže mě ponížila—využila ho jako zbraň. Postarala se, aby přesně věděl, jak odporná jsem, a pak si ho nárokovala jako svou trofej, zatímco s chirurgickou přesností režírovala moji sociální popravu. Nejhorší na tom? Fungovalo to. Kieran se téměř přes noc změnil z lhostejného na aktivně krutého, a já měla to štěstí sledovat z první řady, jak se kluk, kterého jsem hloupě milovala, proměnil v toho, kvůli kterému jsem se začala bát každé školní chodby, každého setkání smečky, každé nucené rodinné večeře, kde jsem je musela sledovat spolu. Další vůně mě zaplaví – divoká borovice a déšť. Lysander. Moje tělo se stáhne, prázdné a bolavé. Vybavují se mi obrazy, jak jsem mezi nimi, naplněná a použitá a— Kurva. To horko nerozlišuje mezi těmi, kdo tě zlomili, a těmi, kdo by tě možná mohli zachránit. Prostě chce, násilně, zoufale a úplně bez zábran. Stehna mám vlhká touhou, kterou nemůžu ovládnout, tělo se připravuje na něco, co se nikdy nestane. Vzpomínám na ty týdny po tom, co se Kieran změnil v krutého, kdy si mě Lysander začal všímat – opatrné úsměvy, dlouhé pohledy. Až jsem ho jednoho dne našla, jak se směje s přáteli, sleduje další kolo mého ponížení jako prvotřídní zábavu. Jeho laskavost? Pravděpodobně sázka, jestli bude vlkodlačí dívka bez vlka tak zoufalá, že uvěří, že ji může chtít dědic Alfy. Vůně obou mi způsobuje, že mám pocit, jako by mi kůže tálala z kostí. Potřebuju tření, tlak, cokoli, co by ulevilo té násilné prázdnotě, která se ze mě snaží vyškrábat ven. Přichází další vlna a já se zakusuji do polštáře, abych potlačila vzlyk. Přetočím se na bok, vtisknu ruku mezi stehna jen kvůli tomu tlaku, je mi jedno, jak uboze to vypadá. Tátův smích duní skrz podlahu—politika a mocenské hry, zatímco já jsem tady zavřená jako špinavé rodinné tajemství. Tělesná teplota mi stoupá tak vysoko, že si myslím, že se vážně rozletím v plamenech. Nikdo nepřežije svou první hárání sám, ale požádat o pomoc by znamenalo nechat je cítit mě takhle—zoufalou, vlhkou a naprosto zničenou. Prsty najdou zámek u okna, který trénuji od dvanácti. Tři pokusy a povolí. Chladný vzduch mi ofoukne přehřátou kůži, když bosá klopýtám ven na zadní trávník, nohy sotva poslouchají. Deset kroků. To je všechno, co zvládnu, než narazím do pevného svalnatého těla. Kieran. Samozřejmě že to je zatracený Kieran, nejspíš utíkající před Liinou okázalou dokonalostí. Ve chvíli, kdy ho zasáhne můj pach, zčernají mu oči. Nozdry se mu roztáhnou. Sleduji, jak se jeho sebekontrola tříští v přímém přenosu—dva roky pečlivé krutosti se rozletí a místo nich přijde něco prvotního, děsivého a přesně to, po čem mé tělo volá. Utíkám. Bosá, pitomá a naprosto v háji, běžím ke starému domku pro hosty, kam už nikdo nechodí. Štěrk mi trhá chodidla, ale nezastavuji, nemůžu zastavit. Protože ten pohled v jeho očích slíbil věci, které mé tělo chce a má mysl ví, že by mě zničily. Skoro jsem to zvládla. Prsty se mi skutečně dotkly kliky. Ale pak jeho ruka obepne mé zápěstí a otočí mě. Záda mi narazí do dřeva, když mě uvězní, jeho tělo je zeď žáru, svalů a toho pachu, kvůli kterému jsem celá mokrá ve svých šortkách. Ruce mi svírá u hlavy, těžce dýchá, a když se nakloní, cítím, jak je u mého boku tvrdý. Každý instinkt ve mně bojuje mezi útěkem a touhou se o něj otírat jako zvíře. Nosem mi přejede po tepně na krku, celé tělo se mu třese zadrženou touhou, která očividně selhává. Když promluví, hlas má úplně zničený—zbavený veškeré krutosti, syrový, zoufalý. "Do prdele, Thalio..." Nosem mi znovu přejede po tepně a ruce mu sevřou do pěstí ve dveřích. "Voníš jako..." Zastaví se, čelist se mu napne, bojuje s něčím, co ho, jak vidím, trhá zevnitř. „Jako moje," zavrčí. Co se stane dál? 🫣 Přečtěte si Kdo je tatínek mých trojčat teď! 🤩

Crafted from high-quality polished leather. Designed for comfort where it matters most. A flexible low-cut profile, soft padded collar, cushioned insole, and supportive dual-density sole work together to keep every step comfortable, all day long.

Crafted from high-quality polished leather. Designed for comfort where it matters most. A flexible low-cut profile, soft padded collar, cushioned insole, and supportive dual-density sole work together to keep every step comfortable, all day long.

Crafted from high-quality polished leather. Designed for comfort where it matters most. A flexible low-cut profile, soft padded collar, cushioned insole, and supportive dual-density sole work together to keep every step comfortable, all day long.

Crafted from high-quality polished leather. Designed for comfort where it matters most. A flexible low-cut profile, soft padded collar, cushioned insole, and supportive dual-density sole work together to keep every step comfortable, all day long.