Chapter Two
Safe Word
Livia
Head Bitch in Charge.
That was the name of the shade of deep red lipstick I smoothed over my top lip, careful to inch it up into the swells perfectly before I dragged it along my bottom lip next. It was also the persona I was embodying for the evening, the one I wore so effortlessly.
Carter Fabri, center for the Tampa Bay Ospreys, was coming over to sign contracts that would bind us — in more ways than one.
And I was asserting my dominance in this situation immediately.
Not that I needed to, considering that boy was about as dominant as a kitten. But I never did anything half-assed. If we were going to do this, we were going to do it right — legally, financially, and consensually.
I tucked my lipstick away before exiting the bathroom and crossing to the full-length mirror in my bedroom. With one manicured brow cresting into my hairline and a slow smirk climbing on my freshly colored lips, I assessed the full outfit, reveling in the power it sent running through me.
I didn’t care what anyone said — clothing, makeup, and jewelry were just as important as armor going into war. A woman could create her destiny with the right outfit. She could tell the whole world not to fuck with her with a perfectly curated ensemble.
Tonight, I was playing the part of businesswoman, teacher, and psuedo-Domme at once, which was why I’d chosen a tailored blood-red suit that hugged every curve like it had been sewn straight onto my skin.
The blazer was sharply cut, cinched at the waist to accentuate my long, sculpted frame, with sleeves that flared slightly at the wrists and shimmered with a delicate gold-threaded pattern.
Underneath, a deep-V silk blouse as black as midnight framed the soft swells of my breasts and the elegant dip of my chest bone.
I didn’t wear a bra. I didn’t have a need to.
My pants were high-waisted and wide-legged, elongating my frame and pooling just enough over the pointed toes of my black stiletto heels — the bottom of them the same crimson shade as my lips.
I wore my hair in a sleek, low ponytail, edges laid, the length falling straight and glossy down my back like a whip.
My gold jewelry gleamed against my deep brown skin — thick hoops, a stack of bangles, and a chain necklace that dipped between my breasts and disappeared beneath it at the apex, inviting curiosity.
My eye makeup was smoky and bold but precise, my highlighter sharp as a tiger claw and my expression completely unbothered.
I looked like I could sign a million-dollar deal, ruin a man’s life, and ride him into repentance — all without breaking a sweat.
Satisfied, I let the familiar sound of my heels clacking against my marble floor soothe me as I walked to the kitchen island, pouring myself a glass of red wine from the decanter I’d situated earlier.
Tampa Bay stretched out in all its glory outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of my high-rise condo, and I tipped my glass toward the city I loved so much before taking a sip.
My stomach was a mess.
I didn’t know if it was butterflies or cockroaches causing the fluttering sensation, didn’t know if I was more excited or nervous or regretful.
It was an absolutely ludicrous arrangement to agree to — being Carter Fabri’s teacher in exchange for two-million dollars.
But it was also absolutely genius.
Part of me longed to call my best friend, Maven, and tell her the predicament I’d found myself in.
We’d known each other since we attended college together — her in undergrad, me in dental school — and we’d been thick as thieves since.
I knew she’d laugh with me, knew she’d make jokes and have the tension coiled in my gut relaxing within sixty seconds on the phone with her.
But the bigger part of me was thankful Carter and I had agreed not to share this arrangement with anyone, friend or otherwise.
Because it was fairly easy to explain my willingness to participate to Carter, but my best friend would have called me on the bullshit immediately.
Sure, it made sense to the puppy dog rookie that I would say yes to teaching him to be a proficient lover in exchange for a nice payday.
There weren’t very many sane people in the world who would say no to an offer for that amount of cash.
And I did mean what I’d said to him when he was halfway numb in my chair earlier this week.
I did deserve to be spoiled.
I worked my ass off. I had since the day my family cut me off and made me figure out how to do dental school — and life — on my own.
Nothing had held me back, not the realization that reputation meant more to my family than my well-being, nor the mountain of trials I’d had to survive in order to gain my degree.
I didn’t just open a basic practice in the suburbs somewhere, either.
I found the perfect partner to go into business with, one who had the same big dreams I did.
We wouldn’t just be dentists; we’d be artists.
We’d serve the highest clientele with the most complicated requests.
We’d fix the shattered teeth of hockey players and also sculpt diamond-studded grills for rap stars.
And we’d succeeded.
Full-mouth reconstructions, anti-aging bite lifts, luxury sedation suites — our office wasn’t just a dental practice, it was a status symbol.
Years and years of hard work meant I had a lot to show for my efforts.
But it also meant I was tired.
Not just the kind of tired a vacation fixes. Bone-tired. Soul-tired.
Alone-tired.
I was over being everything for everyone and having no one to catch me when I collapsed.
Yes, like any hard-working woman, I wanted private airfare and bungalows over crystal-clear water. I wanted Michelin-starred dinners and luxurious massages on the beach. I wanted shopping sprees in Positano and yacht charters in the Seychelles.
But more than any of that, I wanted something I wasn’t ready to admit to my best friend or anyone else.
A child.
My throat went dry even as the thought passed through me, chills breaking over my arms as I took another sip of wine to conjure my power back. This wasn’t the time to get in my head, but I couldn’t help but ruminate on the real reason I’d said yes to Carter’s proposal.
To everyone around me, I was a powerhouse — Doctor by title and co-owner of the boutique dental practice in Tampa. I lived a life of luxury, from my clothes and shoes to my car and condo.
But in reality, even making the high salary that I did, I wasn’t the kind of rich who never had to worry about anything.
Between the cost of living the lifestyle I’d chosen and paying off my half-a-million dollars in student loans, what I had left to put away for savings was good, but not good enough — not for where I wished to be in the next five years, anyway.
Two-million dollars would be the equivalent of more than two decades of the best savings scenario for me, and I was about to make it in the snap of my fingers.
With Carter’s offer and the means it provided, I could finally do what I’d been sitting on for years.
I was going to freeze my eggs.
I was going to start a family on my own time, without a man, whenever I felt ready.
Single mom — by choice.
I knew it wouldn’t make sense to anyone, not even those closest to me, which was exactly why I’d never chosen to share it.
Because I needed control — over my life, my timeline, my body.
And admitting I wanted a child, especially as a single woman, cracked open too many doors.
There would be questions I didn’t know I could answer, risk of someone as logical as my best friend trying to talk me out of it and possibly succeeding, and an ocean of vulnerability I wasn’t ready to swim in.
When I was ready — truly ready — I’d tell Maven and the rest of the girls.
But for now, this was just for me to know.
I was giddy at the fact that I wouldn’t have to wait any longer. I was only thirty-two, but the last time I’d had my levels tested, my Anti-Müllerian hormone was lower than it should have been for someone my age. My doctor said not to panic, but the whisper was there — ‘sooner is better.’
Part of the reason I’d stalled was that I knew the financial burden I’d have to undertake, and I didn’t want to take it lightly — not on top of the student debt I already had. I wanted this, a family, but I also didn’t want to give up my life of luxury — or my autonomy.
But now, I’d have the financial backing for everything: the medical procedures, the pregnancy, the delivery, the cost of caring for a child, and the paid help I’d need to do it my way.
My daughter and I wouldn’t want for anything.
Okay, so I didn’t know the gender of my future child, but in my mind, it was always a little mini me. It was always me and my baby girl taking on the world together.
And I’d always keep her safe.
I’d never abandon her.
Unlike my own parents.
The next swig of wine tasted a bit sour with my mind going down that path. Fortunately, I didn’t have time to wander too far down it before my phone rang.
“Miss Young, I have a Carter Fabri for you,” Rolando said. He was one of the employees who ran the front desk in my condominium building.
“Send him up, please.”
I was surprised to find the butterflies winning the battle in my belly as I ended the call, the anticipation of what was to come finally surpassing the anxiety I felt over my hidden reasons to agree in the first place.
I was going to play teacher and pseudo-Domme to Carter Fabri.
I couldn’t help the smirk that spread on my lips at the thought.
I’d been a Domme to my fair share of men, but I’d never served as a full-on teacher.
It excited me, the thought of training him to please me.
It also sent a strong wave of power through me to think he’d please other women with what I taught him, that they’d be unknowingly thanking me when they called out his name in bed.