Chapter One
Juliet
Whatever you do, don’t lose your temper.
Easier said than done. Mum always told me you can take the girl out of Scotland, but never the Scot out of the girl. She might be right. Waiting outside the office that used to be mine has me wishing for a claymore. And an army of kilted heroes to smash through this fucking door.
When Brightscape Games bought my company, the deal included my building, even though they have their own skyscraper in New York.
I assumed they’d sell it, but they decided to keep it as a satellite office, and I swear Brad Grayson, asshole that he is, set himself up here in my old office just to piss me off.
Our meeting should have started thirty minutes ago. Making me wait in my own waiting room is a sad little power play, the sort of shit I’ve come to expect from him. Even the changes he’s made to the space feel designed to aggravate me.
Gone is the hand-drawn artwork showing the evolution of my characters from scribbled concepts into the finished articles I poured my soul into.
Gone is the quirky antique furniture. Now it's as clinical and dull as a dentist’s waiting room.
And this meeting is going to be about as much fun as a root canal.
The door opens, and his secretary waves me in. A different woman from the last time. I've heard whispers that Brad is a nightmare to his underlings, the sort to throw potted plants around and scream at people in front of their colleagues.
I pass through the secretary's neat office and wait as she opens Brad's door a crack. He snaps, “She can come in.”
Who's she, the cat's fucking mother?
Gran had a way with words. I wish she was coming to this meeting. One look at her wooden spoon, and Brad Grayson would wet his pants.
The office is as boring as the waiting room, but a couple of pictures of Brad on the golf course with smug, sweaty men make it even worse. When I enter, he does that stupid thing where he pretends to be writing, as if he wants me to stand awkwardly in the doorway.
Not today. I ignore the pretense and park myself in the seat opposite. “Brad. Good morning.”
His lips purse, and he writes a few more sentences, pen scratching louder than it has any right to, meeting my gaze.
His look reminds me of the old-school mega-preachers you see on TV.
Orange tan, smooth skin, all housed in a face made weird by one too many plastic surgeries.
I swear his wavy blond hair wouldn’t move in a hurricane.
His glaring veneers glint as he gives me a phony smile. “Juliet. Lovely to see you. What can I do for you?”
Calm.
I plaster on a fake smile to match his. “Nice to see you too, Brad. I’ve just received some footage from the new game, and I’m disturbed by the content. I’m hoping it’s a mistake.”
It’s not a mistake, and we both know it. Brad, however, doesn’t miss a beat. His brow creases. “I received the same footage myself just this morning. It all looked great to me. Perhaps you received a corrupted file?”
My hands clench into fists by my sides, away from his eyeline.
“The file wasn’t the issue. It’s the content.
It’s nothing like we discussed, and it doesn’t fit with the history of the game or the characters.
And…” I take a deep breath, swallow what I really want to say, and settle for, “It’s revolting. ”
“Revolting? That’s a strong word, Juliet.” Brad’s pleasant mask is still in place, but there’s tension in his voice that wasn’t there a moment ago. “We’re very proud of the direction we’re taking with it. What seems to be the issue?”
I pull out my laptop in answer and open it to the file I prepared for the meeting. I spin it so Brad can see and scroll through the images in silence. Stills from the new game Brightscape is creating. Just looking at them puts my stomach in a vice, twisting it with brutal force.
When Brightscape offered me ten million for my company, I hesitated even though the money offered me freedom from the mountain of debt I’d struggled with since college. But the Brightscape executives promised they’d treat my IP with respect and bring my vision to millions.
Saldar’s Curse, the game I spent eight years creating, is my baby. And Brightscape is throwing it into a blender.
The still images from Brightscape’s game are sickening schlock horror—torture porn of the worse kind.
“This. This is the issue.” I jab a finger at the screen.
Don’t swear. Keep your tone level. First to raise their voice loses.
I’ve watched plenty of podcasts on how to win in negotiations, and they all emphasize keeping calm. But I flick to the next scene, see a picture of Saldar—my Saldar—stabbing a knife into a screaming woman’s guts, and my blood rushes fast enough to drown out all the sensible words.
“Look at this shit! What dumb teenage asshole came up with this bollocks? Who signed off on this? I certainly fucking didn’t.”
So much for keeping calm.
Brad holds his hands out, ugly varsity ring glinting. “Look. There’s no need to get all emotional. We can discuss this like adults.”
Soothing. Patronizing. I’m playing right into his hands.
I take a deep breath and force my voice lower, tearing my gaze from the screen. I can’t stay calm while I’m looking at those pictures. Brad’s smug, plastic face isn’t much of an improvement, but it’s the best of two bad options.
“This”—I wave at the screen without looking at it—“is unacceptable. You’re destroying my brand. Fans of the game will hate this. What are you hoping to get out of it? I won’t have my name associated with this crap.”
Brad leans back in his chair and studies me, blue eyes sharp. There’s a dark edge beneath his tacky smile, and I catch him narrowing his eyes, assessing me. Something chilly runs up my spine.
“We bought your name. We paid you ten million dollars, sweetheart. Ten million. What we do with our property is our business. You don’t work here anymore.
Show up to the launch, smile, look pretty, shake a few hands, then go back to your beach house in Malibu or wherever the hell you live.
Sip a cocktail. Fuck the pool boy. Enjoy yourself.
Your position in this company is ceremonial. ”
Director of Vision.
Of course it’s ceremonial—I understood that when I signed the contract—but I imagined myself as a strong guiding force in the background.
After all, why would they want to push me out?
At the time, surrounded by smiling executives gushing about my work, my continuing relevance in the company seemed like a no-brainer.
Big. Fucking. Mistake.
“This wasn’t what I agreed to. This shite”—I tap the screen again, hard enough it makes a sharp, ominous clunk—“is sick.” I stare at Brad, trying to find a shred of humanity somewhere in his soulless face. “And it makes no sense. Saldar wouldn’t do this. He’s not evil. He’s just—”
“Misunderstood? You could fix him?” The condescension is so thick I could spread it on toast and shove it down Brad’s throat until he chokes.
“You’re too close to this, sweetheart. I get it, you’ve been single for a while. It must be easy to get a little too attached. But, Jules.” He drops his voice to a stage whisper. “He’s not real.”
I open my mouth, but nothing finds its way out of my constricting throat. How dare he? How fucking dare he?
His lips twitch up as though he’s had a win, and I slam my laptop closed.
My voice rises to a shout. “My name is not fucking Jules. And I won’t stand for this.
If you push ahead with this, I’ll speak out on every online forum there is.
I’ll poison the whole gaming world against this crap before it’s even announced. ”
Even as I say it, my skin heats. Would I dare? Brightscape’s lawyers are on par with Disney’s. They could bankrupt me or worse. Would protecting my legacy be worth that?
Brad’s lips thin, wrinkling his mouth at the corners. He’ll have to pay someone to iron that out again later. “I’d think hard about that, Jules. Very hard. Now, get out of here. You’re no longer permitted in this building. Security will escort you to your office to collect your stuff.”
He thinks he can throw me out of my own building? I’ll…
But it’s not my building. Not my office, not my company, not my game. None of this is mine anymore. I get to my feet, clinging to the shreds of my dignity. The podcasts were right. I raised my voice first, and I lost.
Brad picks up his desk phone. “Rob. Take Miss Stewart to her office to collect her things. She’s not to talk to anyone on the way, and don’t let her out of your sight.”
Rob, a silent wall of a man, does his job politely enough. His presence is enough to scare off anyone who might have approached me, and whispers follow in our wake.
What’s happened?
Bet Brad gave her the boot.
She looks like she’s about to cry.
I won’t. I won’t fucking cry.
The office they gave me, tucked away in a quiet corner, never really felt like mine.
It only takes minutes for me to collect everything into one of those sad cardboard boxes that only ever seem to get used for this.
What is their actual purpose? Into it goes my half dead plant, my coffee mug, the horrifically pink HAVE A SUPER DAY!
!! stress ball an intern once got me as a joke.
And my journal, of course. The thick book full of sketches I never leave home without, even though it feels pointless now.
Before Brightscape approached me with an offer to buy Triple-6 Games, I’d been busy working on the next iteration of Saldar’s Curse.
I’d sketched out several new characters and started work on the storyboards. All a waste.
I mentally punch myself in the face as I refuse Rob’s generous offer to help me to my car. As Mum and Gran were both fond of saying, there are kids starving in Africa. I’m sitting on a fortune and moping about a videogame. I need to have a stern fucking word with myself.
It doesn’t make it hurt any less, though.
As I emerge onto the rooftop car park, the day is obnoxiously sunny. The weather here doesn’t have any sense of drama. It should be sheeting rain, or at the least a good fog. Not a warm, pleasant afternoon.
I wrestle the box into the trunk, and my phone beeps.
For a moment, I let myself pretend it’ll be an apology from Brad.
An invitation to come back and take the lead on the creative team.
It’s not, of course. But when I see the name, a little thrill runs through me, banishing some of the horrible day.
Alex: How’s my good little slut today?
I stare at the message, hand shaking as I read the words. I’ve never met this guy, but his dirty messages are on point. We've been talking for a few weeks now.
I get into my car and absently open the central console, looking for a pack of cigarettes even though I quit two years ago. I catch myself in the act, slam it shut, and stare back at the phone. A smile touches my lips as I tap out a reply.
Juliet: Wet, sir.
My skin prickles as the three moving dots appear.
Alex: It’s time you got on your knees for me. You’ll come to me Friday, and you’ll be my toy for the weekend.
Fuck.
This is where it always starts to go wrong.
I love the fantasy of submitting to a man, but reality never manages to live up to what is in my head. The minute we start discussing limits and safe words, my pussy mimics the Sahara Desert. What is the point of submitting when you have all the power anyway?
Stop it. Remember where that line of thinking got you last time?
I rub a finger over the three circular burn scars on my inner thigh and force myself to remember.
Trent ticked all my boxes but had a million red flags waving above his head, all of which I chose to ignore.
Rushing things. Insisting we meet at his place.
Immediately jumping into play without any safety discussion.
I was in heaven, right up to the point he stubbed the lit cigarette out on my thigh. And as I screamed and cried, he did it again. And again.
When he finally untied me, I ran sobbing from his house. The fucker stood in his driveway, arms crossed over his chest, and watched me go. When I screamed out of my car window that I was calling the cops, he smirked.
“Good luck with that. I’ve got screenshots of all the messages you sent begging me to hurt you. They’ll laugh you out of the room.”
I should have been brave and gone to the cops anyway, but I didn’t. I just blocked him on everything and told myself I’d be more careful in the future.
And I have been. Sort of. Most of the time. Two years later, and nothing else bad has happened, anyway. Maybe he was just a poison apple in a barrel of good ones.
My phone buzzes again.
Alex: I just said you’re going to be my fuck toy for the weekend. Don’t make me say it again, or you won’t like the punishment you get.
The familiar shivery thrill runs through my body at his words. Why am I built like this? I want him to punish me. God, I need it.
My clit throbs as I imagine what those words could mean. I start to type “Yes, sir” but force myself to stop. What am I doing?
Don’t rush into this. Be sensible. With a sigh, I type.
Juliet: I want to meet up. But we should have a coffee first. Discuss safe words, etc.
There it is. The Sahara. The thrill I’ve been riding dies as I read the words back to myself. We’ll meet. We’ll talk. I might even go to his place. But the fantasy will be dead, and with it, my interest. Soon, I’ll be ghosting him.
Fuck. I’m messed up.
The answering buzz comes quickly this time.
Alex: You don’t get a safe word. When I say you’re my toy, I mean it, Juliet.
Oh God.
My head fills with images, all of them filthy. The ache between my legs returns threefold, and I squirm on my seat. That’s it. That’s what I want. What I need.
Don’t be a fucking idiot.
I know. I shouldn’t. It’s stupid.
A knock on my window drags a shriek from my lips. I sit up straight and press my legs together before rolling it down to reveal Rob, the security guard. “Sorry. Boss says if you’re not off the roof in five, he’s calling a tow truck.”
That fucking asshole. I manage to nod politely to Rob and start the car. The phone buzzes again, and I snatch it up.
Alex: Don’t keep your master waiting.
Blood rushes in my ears, and I can’t tell if it’s anger or pure adrenaline. My heart pumps, and as I stare at the message, everything else recedes. I want this. I need it.
Fuck it.
Juliet: Yes, Master.