Passion Novels - Forbidden Romance

I took the worst-paid, worst-idea job on the island to pay off the debt my ex left me — and accidentally found the best life I've ever had. 🔥 The listing said "caretaker for exotic creatures." It didn't mention that behind seven sealed doors live seven monsters — and not one of them is interested in my heart, only in ruining me for anything human. 😳 The one who breathes underwater keeps me under till I forget my own name. The one with tentacles never runs out of hands. No strings. No feelings. No man asking how I feel in the morning. Just the best s*x of my life, on repeat, each one wilder than the last. 🐙 I came here broken, swearing off love forever. I never said anything about monsters. 💋 The only problem? What I signed up for goes far deeper than I ever read — and the price is one I never agreed to pay. 🤫 ——————————————————— 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. ——————————————————— What happens when she stops wanting to leave? 🫣 Read Monstrously Yours Now! 🐙🔥

I signed a 14-page contract without reading the fine print. I should have read the fine print. The listing promised great pay for "working with exotic creatures." What it didn't say was that I wasn't hired to care for the monsters behind those seven doors I was hired to breed with one. On day four they strapped me to a table and the man who hired me pressed a needle to my stomach. "You agreed to all of it when you signed," he smiled. "And I need your womb." They've spent years collecting from every species in this building, preparing for the one part they couldn't manufacture. Me. Every girl before me died, broke, or vanished. The only one trying to keep me alive is the very monster I'm meant to survive. ——————————————————— 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. ——————————————————— What did she really sign? Read Monstrously Yours Now!

I was just a single mom trying to survive—raising my twin girls alone, juggling daycare drop-offs and overdue bills 💔. Then I landed my dream job… and came face-to-face with my new boss: Xander Hale, the billionaire CEO who vanished after one unforgettable night five years ago 🔥. The man who never knew I was pregnant. The man who never knew he had daughters. Now I work for him every day, hiding the truth that could destroy everything—my career, my stability, my heart ❤️‍🔥. Because if Xander finds out my twins are his… I don’t know if he’ll save us—or take them from me 💔. Chapter 1 [POV Daphne] The morning started falling apart before I even properly opened my eyes. "Mommy, let’s make pancakes!" Nina's voice pierced through the apartment like a fire alarm. I found her in the kitchen rummaging through drawers. "We don't have time for pancakes today. Today is Mommy's big day with an interview for her new job, remember? I told you about it last night." "I don't care about your job." She stuck out her lower lip. "I want pancakes!" Before I could respond, Lisa appeared in the doorway, her face crumpled with distress. "Mommy, I can't find my purple shoes. I need my purple shoes." "What about your pink ones? The pink ones are pretty." "No!" Lisa's eyes welled with tears. "Only purple. Purple is my lucky color." I glanced at the clock on the near wall. Forty-five minutes until I needed to walk through those office doors. Forty-five minutes to feed two stubborn four-year-olds, get them dressed, drive across the city, and somehow look like a competent professional worthy of being hired. "Okay. Okay, let me find the shoes." I dropped to my knees and peered under the couch. One purple shoe, covered in dust bunnies. I searched the living room, the girls' bedroom, under their beds. Nothing. Nina was now actively flicking oatmeal onto the table with her spoon. I pretended not to see it because I didn't have time for that battle. The bathroom. Why the bathroom? But there it was—the second purple shoe, sitting inexplicably next to the toilet. I was on my knees reaching for it when Lisa's quiet voice stopped me cold. "Mommy, why don't we have a daddy like other kids?" My hand froze on the shoe. The question hung in the air, innocent and devastating—a knife slipped between my ribs with the gentleness only a four-year-old could manage. I turned to find her standing in the doorway, thumb hovering near her mouth, dark eyes wide and earnest. Eyes that looked exactly like someone else's. "What do you mean, baby?" My voice came out steadier than I expected. "Emma at daycare has a daddy. And Sophie." Lisa's lower lip trembled. "But we don't. Did our daddy not want us?" The words hit me like a physical blow. How could I possibly explain that to her? How to explain something I don’t know myself? He probably didn’t want me, because he left too early to even get to know about our girls. I pulled her into my arms, pressing my lips against her dark hair, breathing through the ache in my chest. "Our family is perfect just the way it is," I whispered. "Mommy loves you and Nina enough for a hundred parents. You know that, right?" Lisa nodded against my shoulder, small fingers clutching my shirt. "I know, Mommy." But the question lingered in my chest like a bruise as I helped her into the purple shoes. I heard a crash from the kitchen. My coffee mug. My full coffee mug, knocked over by Nina's flailing arm during her oatmeal protest, now spreading a brown river across the counter and down the front of my carefully chosen white blouse. I stood there for a moment, coffee dripping onto my shoes, and reminded myself that crying wouldn't help. "Mommy, you're messy," Nina observed. "Yes. Thank you, Nina. I noticed." The backup outfit, a slightly wrinkled gray blazer and black pants I'd meant to iron but never got around to, would have to do. I changed in three minutes flat, wrestled both girls into their jackets, and somehow got them buckled into their car seats only twenty minutes behind schedule. "Mommy, why are you driving so fast?" Lisa asked from the backseat. "I'm not driving fast, baby. I'm driving efficiently." "What's efficiently?" "It means Mommy's trying not to lose her mind." I dropped them at daycare with rushed kisses and promises to pick them up right on time. Five years of this—five years of being everything to them, of stretching myself so thin I'd forgotten what it felt like to be whole. But this job could change things. This job meant stability. A real paycheck instead of scraping by on freelance projects that barely covered rent. Health insurance for the girls. A chance to rebuild something of the person I used to be before sleepless nights and endless toddler tantrums hollowed me out. The building made me feel small the moment I stepped inside. Marble floors, mirrored elevators, employees moving with quiet efficiency in their tailored clothes and confident strides. I tugged at my wrinkled blazer and tried to stand taller. Everything about me felt wrong—shabby, out of place, like I'd wandered into someone else's life by mistake. While waiting for HR near the reception desk, I overheard two assistants whispering nearby. "Did you hear? Xander Hale rejected three candidates last week," one said, shaking her head. "Three. All perfectly qualified." The other woman nodded gravely. "He's impossible to please. Remember Sarah? He made her cry on her second day." They exchanged knowing looks, and my stomach tightened. The name meant nothing to me, but their tone painted a picture I didn't like. HR arrived before I could spiral further—a kind-faced woman named Patricia who smiled like she meant it. "Ms. Carter? Right this way. Mr. Hale is expecting you." She led me to the top floor through a corridor lined with large black-and-white photographs. Corporate achievements. Award ceremonies. Men in suits shaking hands, accepting plaques. One image made me freeze mid-step. My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I thought Patricia must have heard it. A man stood at a podium—sharp features, dark hair, an unwavering stare, and a familiar tension in his jaw. I knew that face. I knew it intimately, even though I'd only seen it for one night five years ago. The stranger from the bar. The man who'd made me feel seen and wanted for the first time in my life. Who'd vanished before morning, leaving only a fake name and a phone number that didn't work. Who'd given me Nina and Lisa without ever knowing it. "Ms. Carter?" Patricia glanced back, concern flickering across her face. "Everything alright?" I forced a smile, tearing my eyes away from the photograph. "Fine. Sorry. Just… admiring the décor." I must being ridiculous. Men like him, scruffy, charming strangers in bars, didn't become billionaire CEOs. It was just a resemblance. The world was full of dark-haired men with intense eyes. It didn't mean anything. Right? We reached the corner office. Patricia knocked once, announced my name, and left with an encouraging smile. "Mr. Hale will brief you personally. Good luck." The door clicked shut behind me. A man stood at the window with his back to me, phone pressed to his ear. Tall. Broad shoulders. Expensive suit. "I don't care about the timeline," he said, his voice low and commanding. "Make it happen." That voice. My chest tightened. I knew that voice. I'd heard it whisper my name in a dark hotel room, had felt it rumble against my skin. He ended the call and turned slowly. When our eyes met, time seemed to stop. It was definitely him, no doubts. Older now, sharper, the scruff replaced by clean lines and an aura of power I hadn't seen before. But unmistakably him. The same dark eyes. The same intensity that once made me feel like the only woman in the world. Surprise flickered across his features—a crack in the polished facade, there and gone in the space of a heartbeat. But I caught it. The slight widening of his eyes, the almost imperceptible parting of his lips, the way his body went completely still like a predator who'd just spotted something unexpected in his territory. He stepped forward, and I had to fight the urge to step back. He studied my face with unsettling focus—his gaze tracing my features like he was comparing them to a memory, cataloging every detail. The line of my jaw. The shape of my mouth. The eyes that had looked up at him in a dim hotel room five years ago… "Have we... met before?" he asked. My mouth went dry. But I stood frozen, heart pounding, as the truth crashed over me like a wave. My potential boss was the father of my children. Oh my God?! 😱 Read Two Little Secrets From My Boss to know what happens next! 🔥👔

Eu era apenas uma mãe solteira tentando sobreviver—criando minhas filhas gêmeas sozinha, equilibrando as idas à creche e contas atrasadas 💔. Então consegui o emprego dos meus sonhos... e fiquei cara a cara com meu novo chefe: Xander Hale, o CEO bilionário que desapareceu após uma noite inesquecível cinco anos atrás 🔥. O homem que nunca soube que eu estava grávida. O homem que nunca soube que tinha filhas. Agora trabalho para ele todos os dias, escondendo a verdade que poderia destruir tudo—minha carreira, minha estabilidade, meu coração ❤️‍🔥. Porque se Xander descobrir que as gêmeas são dele... eu não sei se ele vai nos salvar—ou tirá-las de mim 💔. Capítulo 1 [POV Daphne] A manhã começou a desmoronar antes mesmo de eu abrir os olhos direito. "Mamãe, vamos fazer panquecas!" A voz de Nina atravessou o apartamento como um alarme de incêndio. Encontrei-a na cozinha, remexendo as gavetas. "Hoje não temos tempo para panquecas. Hoje é o grande dia da mamãe, tem entrevista para o novo emprego, lembra? Te contei ontem à noite." "Eu não me importo com seu trabalho." Ela fez biquinho. "Quero panquecas!" Antes que eu pudesse responder, Lisa apareceu na porta, o rosto franzido de aflição. "Mamãe, não acho meu sapato roxo. Preciso do meu sapato roxo." "E o rosa? O rosa é bonito." "Não!" Os olhos de Lisa se encheram 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. "Tá bom. Tá bom, deixa eu procurar o sapato." Caí de joelhos e olhei debaixo do sofá. Um sapato roxo, coberto de bolinhas de poeira. Procurei na sala, no quarto das meninas, debaixo das camas delas. Nada. Nina agora jogava aveia na mesa com a colher. Fingi que não vi porque não tinha tempo para essa batalha. O banheiro. Por que o banheiro? Mas lá estava ele — o segundo sapato roxo, inexplicavelmente ao lado do vaso sanitário. Eu estava de joelhos, estendendo a mão para pegá-lo, quando a voz baixa de Lisa me paralisou. “Mamãe, por que a gente não tem papai como as outras crianças?” Minha mão ficou imóvel sobre o sapato. A pergunta pairou no ar, inocente e devastadora — uma faca escorregando entre minhas costelas, com a delicadeza que só uma criança de quatro anos poderia ter. Virei-me e a vi parada na porta, o polegar pairando perto da boca, olhos escuros, grandes e sinceros. Olhos idênticos aos de outra pessoa. “O que você quer dizer, meu amor?” Minha voz saiu mais firme do que eu esperava. “A Emma na creche tem papai. E a Sophie também.” O lábio inferior de Lisa tremeu. “Mas a gente não tem. Nosso papai não quis a gente?” As palavras me atingiram como um golpe físico. Como eu poderia explicar isso para ela? Como explicar algo que nem eu sei? Provavelmente ele não me quis, porque foi embora cedo demais para sequer saber das nossas meninas. Abracei-a, apertando meus lábios contra seus cabelos escuros, tentando respirar apesar da dor no peito. “Nossa família é perfeita do jeito que é,” sussurrei. “A mamãe ama você e a Nina por cem pais. Você sabe disso, não sabe?” Lisa assentiu no meu ombro, dedinhos agarrados na minha blusa. “Eu sei, mamãe.” Mas a pergunta ficou no meu peito como uma mancha roxa enquanto eu a ajudava a calçar os sapatos roxos. Ouvi um estrondo vindo da cozinha. Minha caneca de café. Minha caneca de café cheia, derrubada pelo braço agitado da Nina durante seu protesto contra a aveia, agora espalhava um rio marrom pelo balcão e descia pela frente da minha blusa branca cuidadosamente escolhida. Fiquei ali por um momento, com o café pingando nos meus sapatos, e lembrei a mim mesma que chorar não adiantaria. "Mamãe, você está bagunçada", observou Nina. "Sim. Obrigada, Nina. Eu percebi." A roupa reserva, um blazer cinza levemente amassado e uma calça preta que eu pretendia passar, mas nunca consegui, teria que servir. Troquei de roupa em três minutos, enfiei 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, esticando-me tanto que esqueci como era me sentir inteira. Mas esse emprego poderia mudar as coisas. Esse emprego significava estabilidade. Um salário de verdade, em vez de sobreviver com projetos freelancers que mal pagavam o aluguel. Plano de saúde para as meninas. Uma chance de reconstruir algo da pessoa que eu era antes que as noites sem dormir e as intermináveis birras de criança me esvaziassem. O prédio me fez sentir pequena assim que entrei. Pisos de mármore, elevadores espelhados, funcionários se movendo com eficiência silenciosa em suas roupas sob medida e passos seguros. Puxei o blazer amassado e tentei me endireitar. Tudo em mim parecia errado—desleixada, deslocada, como se eu tivesse entrado por engano na vida de outra pessoa. Enquanto esperava pelo RH perto da recepção, ouvi duas assistentes sussurrando por perto. "Você ouviu? Xander Hale rejeitou 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 pintava um quadro que eu não gostava. O RH chegou antes que eu pudesse mergulhar ainda mais nos pensamentos—uma mulher de rosto gentil chamada Patrícia que sorria como se realmente quisesse. "Sra. Carter? Por aqui, por favor. O Sr. Hale está esperando por você." Ela me conduziu ao último andar por um corredor ladeado de 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 caminho. Meu coração bateu tão forte contra as costelas que achei que Patrícia devia ter ouvido. Um homem estava em um púlpito—traços marcantes, cabelos escuros, um olhar inabalável e uma tensão familiar no maxilar. Eu conhecia aquele rosto. Conhecia intimamente, embora só o tivesse visto 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. "Sra. Carter?" Patrícia olhou para trás, uma preocupação passando rapidamente por seu rosto. "Está tudo bem?" Forcei um sorriso, desviando o olhar da fotografia. "Sim. Desculpe. Só... admirando a decoração." Eu devia estar sendo ridícula. Homens como ele, estranhos charmosos e desgrenhados em bares, não se tornam CEOs bilionários. Era só uma semelhança. O mundo estava cheio de homens de cabelos escuros e olhos intensos. Isso não significava nada. Certo? Chegamos ao escritório da esquina. Patricia bateu uma vez, anunciou meu nome e saiu com um sorriso encorajador. "O Sr. Hale irá lhe informar pessoalmente. Boa sorte." A porta se fechou atrás de mim com um clique. Um homem estava de costas para mim, junto à janela, telefone pressionado 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 minha pele. Ele encerrou a ligação e se virou devagar. 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 traços limpos e uma aura de poder que eu nunca tinha visto antes. Mas inconfundivelmente ele. Os mesmos olhos escuros. A mesma intensidade que um dia me fez sentir como se eu fosse a única mulher no mundo. A surpresa cintilou em seus traços—uma rachadura na fachada polida, ali e desaparecida no espaço de um batimento cardíaco. Mas eu percebi. O leve arregalar de seus olhos, o quase imperceptível entreabrir de seus lábios, o modo 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 inquietante—seu olhar percorrendo meus traços como se os comparasse a uma lembrança, catalogando cada detalhe. O contorno do meu queixo. O formato da minha boca. Os olhos que tinham olhado para ele em um quarto de hotel escuro cinco anos atrás… "Nós já... nos conhecemos antes?" ele perguntou. Minha boca ficou seca. Mas eu fiquei congelada, o coração disparado, enquanto a verdade me atingia como uma onda. Meu possível chefe era o pai dos meus filhos. Meu Deus?! 😱 Leia Dois Pequenos Segredos do Meu Chefe para saber o que acontece a seguir! 🔥👔

Her POV: I was just Lyla Monroe—quiet, overlooked, the secretary nobody took seriously. But in reality, I was actually Nova Kingsley 👑, heir to the Kingsley empire and I’m about to be married to the CEO I worked for: Luca Steele 💍 but he doesn’t know I was the secretary who worked for him. Neither of us wanted this marriage, arranged before we were even born, but fate doesn't ask for permission. Now I'm caught between duty, secrets, and the man whose cold stare once pierced through me—but whose touch now sets me on fire 🔥🥵. Chapter 1: Lyla Monroe “What the heck!?” His voice sliced through the room like a whip. I blinked, heat rising to my cheeks as every eye in the conference room swung to me. My hands trembled slightly around the coffee tray, but I held onto it like my life depended on it. Luca Steele stood at the head of the long glass table, tall, lethal, and entirely too composed for a man who’d just been drenched in a splash of boiling cappuccino. Steam still rose from his tailored black suit, but his steel-gray eyes were colder than ice. “You’ve worked for me for two years,” he said, each word slow, deliberate, laced with venom. “And you still manage to be a walking disaster. Fix it. Or quit.” No one dared to breathe. The coffee stain spread across the crisp white papers in front of him, slowly bleeding into confidential numbers and contract drafts worth millions. I scrambled forward, grabbing tissues from the tray, muttering apologies that sounded too small, too broken, too pathetic. “I’m sorry, Mr. Steele—” “Sorry doesn’t clean Armani.” He stepped back, brushing off his sleeve with visible disgust. “And what the hell are you wearing?” I froze. His eyes dragged over me. Every inch. My oversized brown cardigan hung off my shoulders like a borrowed curtain. The faded blouse underneath clung to me awkwardly, a button missing near the collar. The olive-green skirt was too long, too wrinkled, and paired horribly with the scuffed, worn-out flats I’d owned since college. My foundation was two shades too pale. My lipstick was crooked. The jet-black wig I wore hung limply around my face, uncombed and clearly fake. And the massive round sunglasses I wore indoors? That was the final punchline. I was a caricature. And everyone knew it. Chuckles rippled softly across the room. “I’m not running a charity,” Luca said, cutting through the silence. “If you can’t show up looking like a professional, then don’t show up at all.” He didn’t wait for a response. He turned his back and walked toward the screen, launching into a presentation like I hadn’t just been stripped of every ounce of dignity in front of ten high-ranking executives. I stood there, cheeks burning, throat tight. And then I turned and walked out. The moment the bathroom door clicked shut behind me, I collapsed into the farthest stall. My hands gripped the toilet seat as sobs wracked my chest. Quiet, sharp, hopeless sobs. I didn’t even care about the coffee anymore. Or the cardigan. Or the snickers in the room. I was just so… tired. Tired of hiding. Tired of pretending. Tired of working ten times harder just to be invisible. I reached into my purse for tissues and caught my reflection in the mirror through the gap in the stall door. God. I did look awful. The glasses had fogged up from my breath. My mascara was smudged beneath the frames. And the wig—it sat like a lifeless animal on my head, tangled, greasy, and suffocating. I buried my face into my hands, trying to breathe. Then—my phone buzzed. LUCA STEELE. I swallowed hard. I wiped my face with toilet paper, fixed my lipstick with shaking fingers, tucked a strand of wig behind my ear, and inhaled once. Twice. By the time I stepped out of the stall, the tears were gone. The mask was back. I walked through the hallway, the same hallway I walked every day, except now it felt like a spotlight was burning holes in me. Two interns passed by, whispering a little too loudly. “She looks like a blind clown.” “I heard she lives in her car.” “She probably has blackmail on him. No way Steele keeps that thing around otherwise.” I didn’t flinch. I didn’t break stride. I never did. Luca’s office loomed ahead, the frosted glass doors tall and foreboding. I stepped in without knocking. He didn’t look up. His office was cold, like everything else about him—monochrome, sharp lines, minimal furniture. But he was the only part of the room that radiated heat. Not warmth—heat. Intensity. Luca Steele, age twenty-nine, CEO of one of the most ruthless corporate empires in the world. Jet-black tousled hair. Perfectly sculpted jawline. That expensive three-day stubble that looked like it belonged on a magazine cover. And those eyes—ice-colored and emotionless.They’d never softened. Not once. I handed him the corrected reports in silence. He barely acknowledged me. “Get me Victoria Ames on the line. And fix the deck from slide 8 onward. It’s sloppy.” “Yes, Mr. Steele.” I turned, heading for the door. My phone rang. I paused, glanced at the screen. Unknown Number. “Hello?” I whispered. A soft voice crackled on the line. “Hi, this is Carla from the reception desk. There’s… um… there’s a man here to see you.” My stomach tightened. “A man?” I said, confused. “Who?” She hesitated. “He gave his name. Said you’d recognize it.” I waited. “Jonathan Kingsley.” Why did she say she was tired of pretending? And who was Jonathan Kingsley? 🤔 Read Behind the Lies—I Was Always His to find out now! ❤️‍🔥