Chapter 1
WORTH
“Ah, fuck.” I grunt, the brunette on her knees in front of me moaning in response, mouth full and hands already down the front of her panties.
I like when a woman knows what she wants.
I like giving orders even more.
“Lift your skirt. I want to see your ass.” She doesn’t hesitate.
I’m in my corner office at the top of Miller Towers, in my thirty-nine-hundred-dollar ergonomic chair, staring out at the night sky while getting my dick sucked by my receptionist.
And I couldn’t be more bored.
You’ll rarely hear a man complain about getting head, but this is just maintenance.
A stress-relief exercise. After thirteen hours at the office—and still counting—my tension is through the roof, and she knew exactly what to propose when she walked in, pretending to be remorseful for misscheduling a supplier call.
I’m not even convinced it was an accident.
Shaina’s decent at this, I’ll give her that. She’s the only one bold enough to offer, and I’m too busy to seek out anyone else. The convenience outweighs the effort. I don’t have time for dates or emotional labor. I barely have time to sleep.
Still, I’m staring at the starless sky instead of her mouth. Thinking about the past instead of the present. Wondering how the hell my life became this tightrope of responsibilities and isolation.
I used to feel something once. Pleasure—maybe even the illusion of intimacy. But now, it’s just muscle memory. Habit. Another box to tick before moving on to the next task.
I sink my hand into Shaina’s hair and tilt my hips forward, pushing deeper. She gags a little, tears streaming down her face, but she doesn’t stop.
“Touch yourself until you come,” I tell her, voice flat. She’s close. I can feel it in the way her moans shift, in the vibration against my cock. I grit my teeth and chase the end. When I come, it’s hard and fast, pouring down her throat like it means nothing.
Because it doesn’t.
She wipes her mouth, smooths her skirt, and leaves without a word. That’s part of the arrangement—no talk, no delusions.
I tuck myself back in, loosen my tie, and lean back in the chair, eyes on the ceiling. I wonder if Dre can get someone to install a faux skylight. Something with stars.
Something to remind me that I used to feel alive.
Dre—Andrée—is the only one who really keeps my life from collapsing.
As my assistant, she handles everything I forget or refuse to deal with.
My appointments, food orders, my daughter’s pick-ups when I fuck up the schedule.
She even reminds me when it’s spirit day at Bri’s school, so my kid isn’t the only one who shows up in uniform.
Dre’s worth every cent I overpay her.
I glance at the time. 8:57 p.m.
Shit.
I shove the résumés for the junior designer position I’d been reviewing into my briefcase and lock up, pausing as I pass by Shaina’s desk.
It’s empty, but the scent of her perfume still lingers—too floral, too strong.
There’s a lipstick-stained coffee mug sitting beside her keyboard and a sticky note on her monitor that says ‘teach me a lesson tomorrow for messing up ;)’ in bubbly cursive.
I stare at it for a beat, then rip the note off the screen, crumpling it in my fist. I toss it into the trash.
I should fire her for being so fucking bold and inappropriate. But I won’t, because that would mean confronting the fact that I’ve let this go on far too long. That I’ve blurred the lines and pretended it was harmless. I shake my head and sigh. I’ll deal with Shaina another day.
As I hit the elevator, my phone rings. I pick up without looking.
“Yes?”
“Hi, Dad.”
My daughter’s voice immediately cracks something open in me. She’s the only person in my life who still makes me feel.
“Hey, sweetheart. I’m on my way. I’ll be home soon to say goodnight.”
Guilt tightens my chest. I missed dinner… again.
“I’m thirteen, Dad. You don’t need to tuck me in.”
I chuckle. “God forbid anyone finds out I still kiss you goodnight.”
The elevator doors open. I see Shaina heading toward me, and I jab the close-door button like my life depends on it.
Brianna giggles on the other end of the line. It’s the sound I live for. The one thing that still feels like joy.
“Maggie made me call to make sure you’re still alive. She said, ‘make sure your father hasn’t worked himself into cardiac arrest.’”
I roll my eyes, though Bri’s impression is spot-on. “Tell Maggie I’m taking my vitamins and drinking plenty.”
“She says whiskey doesn’t count as hydration and that you need rest. R-E-S-T.”
I laugh, walking through the underground garage to my car. Brianna’s only thirteen and already teaming up with Maggie against me.
Maggie is my mother’s best friend. She stepped in during my divorce when everything was falling apart. She’s been there for every scraped knee, every parent-teacher conference, every holiday dinner. She’s family by proximity, by loyalty, by love.
When my marriage imploded, Maggie never tried to take anyone’s place, but she filled in the cracks. Always steady and dependable. And now, she’s become a second grandmother figure to Brianna.
Maggie moved to Seattle a few years ago to be closer to her son, Griffin.
Henson—my younger brother and the company’s COO—Griff, and I grew up together in Mid-Island Nantucket.
We built forts out of two-by-fours and shared every stupid childhood dream.
We even worked the same crews after high school, doing grunt work and learning the trade with our hands in the dirt.
When Henson and I decided to start W.H.M.
Construction, Griff was the first call we made.
We didn’t just want him on board—we needed him.
He made the move with his wife, his high school sweetheart.
They packed up their life in Nantucket and took a chance on something new.
But then, right around the time my own ex walked out, Griff’s world shattered.
His wife got sick. And then… she was gone.
Just like that. Leaving him and his now three-year old son behind.
Griff never talks about it, but the grief clings to him, like sawdust in the air.
Maggie was already here by then, thankfully. She stayed close. Not just for him, but for Brianna. For me. For all of us.
I think about the note Brianna left on the fridge last week. Dinner’s in the oven. Hope you’re home in time to eat it warm this time.
I laughed when I saw it. Then I sat in the kitchen for ten minutes trying not to spiral about being a terrible father.
“I’ll be home soon,” I promise again.
But soon won’t matter forever. Briana is getting older. There will come a time when I won’t be able to fix this with a bedtime joke and a forehead kiss. When she won’t need me at all.
And maybe I deserve that.
I unlock my car, throw my jacket on the passenger seat, and slide behind the wheel. My head hits the headrest. I run a hand through my hair.
The blowjob didn’t help. I’m still stiff.
I think about what Maggie said the other night.
“Brianna needs stability, Worth. You can’t just throw your assistants and me at her and call it parenting. You either show up now or you lose her later.”
Maggie’s right. She always is. But how do I show up when I can barely keep my own head above water?
Maybe that’s why Henson has been pushing me to restructure the business, hire a junior designer, and delegate more. So I can make room to actually be present. As if that will be enough.
Before any of this—the skyscrapers, the suits, and the glass office with a view—I was hauling demolition debris and working site prep.
My brother was wiring breaker panels as an electrician’s apprentice.
We didn’t grow up rich, but we grew up solid.
Our parents taught us how to hustle and how to build something from the ground up.
So that’s what we did. W.H.M. wasn’t born from a trust fund or a loan—it came from sweat equity, second jobs, and the kind of risk that keeps you up at night. We built this company brick by brick.
I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles go white.
Thank God it’s Friday.
Not because the weekend promises rest—I haven’t had a real one of those in years—but because it means two full days with my daughter. Two days to try again. To show up, even if I don’t always get it right.
I exhale slowly and start the engine.
Time to go home.