Story Bloom

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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! 🔥👔

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« Touche-toi, » dit-il doucement. Personne ne m’avait jamais fait sentir désirée auparavant 🥀. Ni mon petit ami. Ni ma famille. Personne. Jusqu’à lui. Ghost ne me pressait pas — il attendait 😮‍💨. Il écoutait. Il me donnait assez de sécurité pour avoir envie de plus 💞🔥. Sa voix seule faisait trembler mon corps, accélérait mon pouls, rendait mes doigts fébriles entre mes cuisses 💦. Je me répétais que ce n’était pas réel. Juste un jeu. Juste un fantasme. Mais mon corps s’en fichait. Et mon cœur aussi ❤️‍🔥. Chapitre 1 Point de vue de Nora Tristan parle encore de lui. J’observe ses lèvres former des mots que j’ai cessé d’entendre il y a dix minutes. La société d’investissement de son père. Une fusion. Les projets d’été dans la maison des Hamptons, que nos parents discutent déjà sans nous consulter. « Et ma mère a encore parlé du calendrier des fiançailles, » dit-il en faisant tourner son vin. « Au printemps prochain. Après la remise des diplômes. Ton père est d’accord. » « C’est bien, » je réponds. Il ne remarque pas le manque de chaleur dans ma voix. Il ne le remarque jamais. Tristan tend la main par-dessus la nappe blanche et prend la mienne. Sa prise est ferme, possessive — le geste d’un homme qui a déjà calculé exactement ce que je lui rapporte. « Tu as l’air distraite, » dit-il en fronçant les sourcils. « Juste fatiguée. Longue semaine. » « Tu devrais mieux t’occuper de toi. J’ai besoin que tu sois resplendissante pour le gala de charité le mois prochain. » Il serre ma main puis la relâche pour regarder son téléphone. « Maman a déjà choisi ta robe. » J’acquiesce en souriant, jouant le rôle que j’ai perfectionné au fil des années. Il ne me demande jamais comment s’est passée ma semaine ou pourquoi je suis fatiguée — il ne s’y est jamais intéressé. Je suis un atout dans son portefeuille, une case à cocher dans son plan de vie. Et je reste. Parce que c’est tout ce que je connais. Parce que mes parents m’ont appris que l’amour est une transaction, et que je devrais être reconnaissante que quelqu’un veuille bien acheter. Il paie et me raccompagne jusqu’à ma voiture. Son baiser de bonne nuit est bref, mécanique — il a toute la passion d’une poignée de main. Ses mains restent à ma taille parce qu'il sait que je vais me figer si elles descendent plus bas, alors, avec le temps, il a cessé d'essayer. « Envoie-moi un message demain », dit-il, et ce n'est pas une question — c'est un ordre. Je rentre chez moi, les vitres baissées, laissant l'air froid mordre mes joues. Le silence de mon appartement m'enveloppe, et pour la première fois de la soirée, je respire. Je me défais de la performance en morceaux. Les talons près de la porte, la robe sur le sol de la salle de bain, le maquillage effacé jusqu'à ce que mon visage redevienne le mien. Vieux survêtements, chignon en bataille, et le casque VR qui m'attend sur la table de nuit. Mes doigts se referment dessus, et mon pouls s'accélère. C'est le seul moment de la journée qui m'appartient. « Echo » se charge par couches lorsque j'enfile le casque et que je m'immerge dans une autre réalité. Le son d'abord — forêt ambiante, eau lointaine. Puis la lumière, qui peint arbres, sentiers de pierre, et un ciel rempli d'étoiles qui n'existent nulle part ailleurs qu'ici. La zone forestière se matérialise autour de moi, et mes épaules s'abaissent pour la première fois de la soirée. Je suis Siren maintenant — cheveux argentés, mâchoire acérée, vêtue de noir nuit avec des accents violets luminescents qui palpitent à chacun de mes mouvements. Rien à voir avec Nora, ses tons neutres et ses perles. Siren porte sa confiance comme une armure, marche comme si elle possédait chaque pixel sous ses pieds. Elle est la version de moi que je ne laisse exister que dans l'obscurité — la sincère, la véritable. Ghost m'attend déjà près du vieux pont de pierre. Un an de ceci. Un an de sa voix à mon oreille, de sa présence à mes côtés, du rythme naturel que nous avons construit dans un monde où aucun de nous n'a besoin d'être réel. « Tu es en retard », dit-il. Sa voix est chaude, taquine, familière d'une façon qui relâche quelque chose en moi. « Embouteillage. » « Dans un jeu vidéo ? » « La ferme. » Il rit, et je me surprends à sourire — à vraiment sourire. Pas le sourire de façade, pas celui que j'ai affiché tout le dîner pendant que Tristan planifiait mon avenir sans me demander mon avis. Nous tombons en pas ensemble, avançant vers le marqueur de quête qui luit au loin. « Pièges à pointes ce soir, » dit Ghost, consultant le briefing de mission. « Tu prends la gauche, je prends la droite ? » « Quand est-ce que ça a déjà marché ? » « L’optimisme est une vertu, Siren. » « L’optimisme est un mécanisme d’adaptation pour ceux qui n’ont pas encore appris mieux. » Nous naviguons à travers les pièges ensemble, notre synchronisation affinée par des mois de pratique. Il annonce les motifs ; j’ajuste mon chemin. Je repère une plaque de pression ; il la franchit d’un bond. Le jeu est secondaire. Il l’a toujours été. Les conversations sont le but. Nous arrivons devant une porte qui nécessite les deux clés, et l’écran de chargement nous enferme dans une petite clairière pendant que la section suivante se génère. L’avatar de Ghost s’assoit sur un tronc d’arbre tombé et je m’assieds à côté de lui, assez près pour que nos épaules se frôlent presque. « De quoi fuis-tu ce soir ? » demande-t-il. Direct, sans filtre — comme personne ne l’a jamais été dans ma vraie vie. « Qu’est-ce qui te fait croire que je fuis ? » « Tu es plus silencieuse que d’habitude. Et tu n’as même pas insulté ma stratégie de combat une seule fois. » Ma poitrine se serre. « J’ai passé deux heures à être planifiée comme un dîner de gala. Calendrier des fiançailles. Galas de charité. Quelle robe je porterai pour impressionner sa mère. Et pas une seule fois quelqu’un ne m’a demandé ce que je voulais. » Ghost reste silencieux tandis que la forêt bourdonne autour de nous. « Et qu’est-ce que tu veux ? » demande-t-il enfin, tout doucement, tout simplement. Personne ne m’a jamais posé cette question — ni mes parents, ni Tristan. Ma gorge se serre. « Je ne sais pas. Je crois que je n’ai pas le droit de vouloir des choses. » « C’est la chose la plus triste que j’aie jamais entendue. » « C’est juste comme ça. » « Ça n’a pas à l’être. » Une notification pulse. Nouveau niveau en duo débloqué, accessible uniquement aux joueurs Siren et Ghost. Je le fixe, et mon cœur fait quelque chose d’étrange. « Aucune pression, » dit Ghost. « Mais je ne vais nulle part. » J’appuie sur ‘oui’ et le monde bascule. La forêt se dissout, remplacée par quelque chose de nouveau — une ville virtuelle tentaculaire que je n’ai jamais vue auparavant, tout en néons, en immeubles imposants et en rues qui palpitent de possibilités. L’avatar de Ghost se tient à mes côtés tandis que nous découvrons ce nouveau paysage. « Whoa, » je souffle. « C’est le niveau en duo ? » « On dirait que ça débloque toute une nouvelle zone. » Il commence à marcher, et je le suis, nos avatars avançant dans des rues remplies d’autres joueurs, de boutiques, de points de quête. Puis je la remarque — une bâtisse au bout d’une rue, son entrée floue, pulsant d’une douce lueur rose. Je m’en approche et une invite apparaît dans mon champ de vision : « Vérification de l’âge requise. Veuillez confirmer que vous avez plus de 18 ans pour accéder à cette zone. » « C’est quoi, ça ? » je demande. « La Love Room. » Le ton de Ghost prend une nuance taquine. « Espace intime. Très populaire et très… adulte. Façon PornHub, vraiment. » Mes joues chauffent sous le casque. « Oh… » « On pourrait aller voir, si tu veux. » Une pause, volontairement appuyée. « Pour la science, bien entendu. » « Dans tes rêves. » « Toutes les nuits, Siren. » Je bouscule son avatar, et il rit — un rire chaleureux, naturel, dont le son s’enroule autour de moi d’une façon qui me donne le vertige. Nous poursuivons la vraie quête, mais la porte floutée reste dans un coin de mon esprit. Je la range mentalement dans la catégorie des choses que je ne ferai jamais, et j’essaie d’oublier que je l’ai vue. Nous atteignons une place au centre de la ville, et l’avatar de Ghost se tourne vers le mien. Même si je ne peux pas voir son visage, même si rien de tout cela n’est réel, la proximité me coupe le souffle. « Je suis content que tu sois restée, » murmure-t-il. Quelque chose se passe dans mon corps. Sa voix descend d’un ton, devient intime, comme si sa bouche était collée à mon oreille. Une vague de chaleur se répand, s’accumule plus bas dans mon ventre — puis descend encore. Mes cuisses se serrent instinctivement. « Siren, » murmure-t-il. « Je pense à toi. Même quand on ne joue pas." Mon souffle se coupe et une chaleur soudaine, indéniable, envahit mon bas-ventre. Je n'ai jamais ressenti ça avec Tristan, pas une seule fois. Mais la voix de Ghost, à elle seule, me fait mal dans des endroits que j'avais oubliés. Ma main glisse sur mon ventre sans réfléchir, suspendue, avide. « Ghost— » je commence, mais mon téléphone brise tout. Le nom de Tristan clignote sur l'écran. J'arrache le casque, haletante. La peau rougie, la culotte humide, les mains tremblantes. Je décroche à la quatrième sonnerie, forçant ma voix à rester stable. « Salut. » « Viens. Je suis encore debout. » Sa voix est plate, pleine d'attente. « La nuit n'est pas obligée de s'arrêter là. » Je ferme les yeux, le murmure de Ghost résonnant encore sous ma peau. « Je suis fatiguée, Tristan. Peut-être demain. » Un silence. Souffle coupé, sec. « D'accord. Demain alors. Tu me dois. » La ligne se coupe avant que je puisse répondre. Je m'allonge, la voix de Ghost brûlant encore en moi, la froideur de Tristan résonnant dans mes oreilles. Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas chez moi ? Chapitre 2 Je suis allée chez Tristan le soir suivant. Je lui devais bien ça, après tout. Maintenant il est parti, et je suis toujours allongée dans son lit, à fixer son plafond, repassant en boucle le dégoût dans sa voix quand il s'est éloigné. Il a essayé encore — ses mains glissant sous mon tee-shirt sans demander, sa bouche sur mon cou tandis qu'il murmurait depuis combien de temps il attendait. À quel point il avait été patient. À quel point je lui devais pour cette patience. Et je me suis figée. Comme toujours. Mon corps s'est bloqué dès que ses doigts ont atteint la ceinture de ma culotte, chaque muscle tendu sous une peau qui refusait d'obéir. « Six mois, » a-t-il dit, se détournant de moi avec un soupir. « Six putains de mois, Nora. Ça devient ridicule. » Je n'ai pas répondu. Je ne sais jamais quoi dire quand il est comme ça. « Mon ex aurait… » Il s'est arrêté, la mâchoire crispée. « Laisse tomber. J'ai une réunion tôt de toute façon. » Il s'est habillé dans le noir et ne m'a même pas embrassée pour dire au revoir. Puis la porte s'est refermée derrière lui avec un clic qui sonnait comme un jugement. Nous sommes ensemble depuis six mois, et je ne l'ai jamais laissé aller au-delà d'un certain point. Il s’attendait à ce que cela arrive depuis longtemps — la plupart des filles dans son monde se donnent sans réserve, et il m’a clairement fait comprendre qu’il m’a choisie malgré mes hésitations. Un service, selon ses mots. Une patience qu’il n’était pas obligé d’offrir. Je devrais être reconnaissante, c’est ce qu’on m’a appris. Les hommes comme Tristan n’attendent pas. Les hommes comme Tristan ont l’embarras du choix. Mais mon corps se moque de la gratitude. Il se verrouille chaque fois qu’il me touche, et je ne comprends pas pourquoi. Il est séduisant, riche et exactement ce que mes parents voulaient pour moi, ce pour quoi j’ai été élevée à désirer pour moi-même. Je devrais me sentir chanceuse. Je devrais me sentir désirée. Mais je ne ressens rien. Rien, sauf la nausée diffuse d’être manipulée comme un bien. J’ai vingt et un ans et je suis toujours vierge, et tout le monde agit comme si c’était mon échec. La frustration de Tristan. Les questions insistantes de ma mère sur les petits-enfants. Les blagues de mon père sur le fait de conclure l’affaire. Ils attendent tous que je me conforme, que je donne, que j’arrête d’être difficile. Et je ne peux pas expliquer que mon corps refuse de se donner à quelqu’un qui n’a jamais pris la peine de me demander ce que je veux. La voix de Ghost flotte dans ma mémoire. Que veux-tu ? Mon pouls s’accélère à cette pensée, et quelque chose de complexe se tord dans mon ventre. Il m’a posé une question que personne d’autre ne m’a jamais posée. Il a écouté la réponse. Il m’a fait sentir que mes désirs comptaient. Peut-être que c’est pour ça que mon corps se bloque avec Tristan. Peut-être qu’il sait quelque chose que je suis trop conditionnée pour admettre. Je repousse les couvertures et attrape mes clés. La ville se déploie derrière mon pare-brise, bloc après bloc, et je prends la longue route sans vraiment le vouloir. Celle qui traverse le territoire du West Side avant de revenir sur un terrain neutre. Les murs couverts de graffitis défilent devant mes vitres tandis que les lampadaires vacillants projettent des ombres orangées sur les trottoirs fissurés. Un groupe de motos brille devant un diner ouvert tard, le chrome captant la lueur des néons. Le West Side College se trouve au centre de tout cela — des bâtiments sous-financés, des clôtures en treillis, des étudiants qui cumulent trois emplois pour pouvoir acheter leurs manuels. Quelques rues plus loin, le décor change : des immeubles résidentiels sécurisés avec portiers. Des haies taillées à la perfection géométrique. Un café que je reconnais, celui qui fait payer huit dollars le latte et douze pour un toast à l’avocat. Deux mondes différents partageant la même ville, faisant semblant que l’autre n’existe pas. La rivalité n’est pas officielle. L’Université du North Side et le West Side College partagent des commissions d’accréditation, des comités de financement, un conseil municipal qui voudrait qu’ils s’entendent enfin. Mais tout le monde connaît la vérité. Cela a commencé il y a des décennies — certains parlent d’un conflit de bourse, d’autres d’une bagarre pour une fille, la plupart disent que cela n’a plus d’importance car la haine est devenue sa propre justification. Les étudiants du North Side disent que West Side est dangereux, criminel, des déchets. Les étudiants du West Side disent que North Side est faux, privilégié, mou. Ils ne sortent pas ensemble. Ils ne se lient pas d’amitié. Ils reconnaissent à peine l’existence des autres, sauf pour se moquer. J’ai grandi à entendre mon père parler du West Side comme il parlait des nuisibles — quelque chose à éviter, quelque chose de inférieur à nous. Je n’ai jamais remis cela en question. Je n’en ai jamais eu de raison. C’est pourquoi j’étudie au North Side, pourquoi je vis dans un immeuble sécurisé. Pourquoi mon monde a des bords nets et son approbation tamponnée à chaque recoin. Iron Hour apparaît à travers le pare-brise, et je me gare sur le parking. La salle de sport se trouve sur un terrain neutre, techniquement n’appartenant à aucun des deux campus, mais revendiquée par les deux. Ouverte vingt-quatre heures sur vingt-quatre. Pas de frais d’adhésion. Le genre d’endroit où je peux disparaître sans que personne n’en parle à mes parents. Je prends possession d’un tapis de course dans le coin du fond et commence à courir. Le vacarme dans ma tête s’apaise, remplacé par le rythme de ma propre respiration, le vrombissement mécanique de la machine et le tintement lointain des poids. Je cours jusqu’à ce que mes jambes tremblent. Jusqu’à ce que ma chemise me colle au dos. Jusqu’à ce que je ne puisse plus penser aux mains pleines de droits de Tristan, aux questions douces de Ghost, ou à la guerre entre ce qu’on m’a appris à accepter et ce que je commence à soupçonner mériter. Je ralentis le tapis de course, haletante, et c’est alors que je l’entends — le bruit rythmique des poings contre le cuir du sac de frappe, dans le coin du fond. Je me retourne avant même de pouvoir m’en empêcher. Un gars travaille le sac avec une violence maîtrisée — cheveux noirs, humides de sueur, mâchoire aiguisée, blouson de cuir abandonné sur un banc tout près. Des tatouages dépassent de son col, l’encre noire disparaissant sous sa chemise. Sa posture est trop étroite quand sa garde tombe entre deux enchaînements. Mais il y a quelque chose dans sa façon de bouger — brut, non poli, vivant d’une manière qui me serre le ventre. Danny Vega. Je le connais de réputation. West Side, club de motards — un des chefs, d’après les rumeurs. Tout ce dont les étudiants du North Side se méfient lors des soirées ou dans les cafétérias. Évite les bikers. Ils sont dangereux. Ce sont des criminels. Ils sont tout ce que nous ne sommes pas. Il m’aperçoit qui le regarde, et ses poings s’arrêtent contre le sac. Un sourire s’étire sur son visage — lent, entendu, exaspérant. « Tu vois quelque chose qui te plaît, ma belle ? » Je lève les yeux au ciel et descends du tapis, attrapant ma gourde. « Ta technique est brouillonne. Et ta posture est trop étroite. » Ses sourcils se haussent. « Tu boxes ? » « Je tape sur des trucs quand je suis stressée. » « Tu dois être stressée souvent. » Il penche la tête, ses yeux sombres devinant trop de choses. « North Side, pas vrai ? Laisse-moi deviner — filière commerce, papa plein aux as, copain qui roule en BMW. » « Tu t’entraînes à être aussi charmant, ou c’est naturel ? » Il rit — un rire rauque, chaleureux, rien à voir avec le rire lisse de Tristan. Quelque chose dans ma poitrine réagit avant même que je puisse l’étouffer. Je me tourne vers le vestiaire, mais la poignée cassée accroche la sangle de mon sac. Je la tire violemment, marmonnant : « Cet endroit tombe en ruine. Est-ce qu’ils pourraient au moins réparer quelque chose ? » Le rire de Danny s’éteint. « Désolé que la salle de sport ne soit pas à la hauteur de tes standards cinq étoiles, princesse. » Je me retourne brusquement. « Pardon ? » « Tu m’as très bien entendue. » Il s’approche, défaisant lentement les bandages de ses mains. « Poignée de casier cassée. Tragique. Comment vas-tu t’en sortir ? » Sa voix dégouline de venin. « Ça doit être dur, des problèmes comme ça. Pendant que certains d’entre nous font des doubles shifts juste pour pouvoir payer l’abonnement. » « Je n’étais pas— » « Vous êtes toutes pareilles, les filles du North Side. » Il ne sourit plus. « Vous traversez la vie à vous plaindre de vos ongles ébréchés et du wifi trop lent, alors que des gens comme moi essaient juste de garder la lumière allumée. Mais vas-y, parle-moi encore de la poignée cassée. Je suis captivé. » La chaleur envahit mon visage — de la colère, mais aussi pire encore. De la honte. « Tu ne sais rien de moi, » je crache. « J’en sais assez. Leggings de marque. Gourde à quarante dollars. T’as probablement jamais bossé de ta vie. » Il incline la tête. « Ça fait quoi, princesse ? On te donne tout et tu trouves encore le moyen de te plaindre ? » Ses mots frappent comme une gifle. Parce qu’au fond, je sais qu’il a raison — et je le déteste de l’avoir vu. « Au moins, moi, j’ai pas un complexe gros comme une moto, » je réplique. « Ça doit être épuisant, de détester tous ceux qui ont plus que toi. Peut-être que si tu passais moins de temps à juger des gens que tu ne connais pas, t’irais quelque part. » Sa mâchoire se crispe. Un instant, quelque chose vacille dans ses yeux — de la peine, peut-être. Puis tout disparaît, remplacé par une froide amusement. « Va-t’en, princesse. Papa doit sûrement t’attendre. » Je ne réponds pas. Je marche vers le vestiaire, les mains tremblantes, la gorge serrée. Narcissique. Arrogant. Cruel. Tout ce à quoi je m’attendais, en pire. Mais pendant un instant traître, mon esprit s’égare. Je me demande à quoi ressemble Ghost. Si ses mains sont rugueuses. Si ses épaules sont aussi larges. S'il me regarderait jamais avec autant de mépris. Je chasse cette pensée avec force. Tristan est mon avenir. Tristan est le plan. Tristan est ce que je suis censée vouloir. Mais le désir n'a jamais fait partie de l'équation. Entrez dans une histoire où l'amour commence derrière un écran et où rien ne reste virtuel bien longtemps dans Love at First Login 💖

“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! 🐙🔥