Chapter 24
S omething’s off at The Ledger.
It’s been three days since I’ve seen Lucian. Three days of silence. No messages. No instructions. No sponsor-led training.
It’s like he vanished.
The first day, I was honestly relieved. I didn’t know how I was supposed to face him—not after what happened in his office. Not after the spanking. Not after I bent over his desk, dripping wet and panting like a sinner in confession.
Not after I went home, and put on a show just for him… right for his camera.
Because once I spotted the first one, it wasn’t hard to figure out there were more.
It was like a game.
A very twisted, voyeuristic game and I played it willingly.
I’ve found six so far.
The first one was in the vent above my bed. That stupid vent has always bothered me—it’s been slightly crooked since the day I moved in. I used to ask Ben to fix it. Told him it gave me the ick. That it looked wrong.
He never did.
But after I came home to new locks and a fresh security system, I laid on my bed, furious at Lucian and glaring up at the ceiling, and that’s when I noticed it.
The vent wasn’t crooked anymore.
Not only was it perfectly straight, but the two tiny screws on either side were lined up… too perfectly. Like someone took the time to tighten them with exact precision. The thin lines on the screw heads pointed directly up and down. Aligned like clock hands.
Lucian.
It had to be.
He didn’t install them because I was with him all day at The Ledger, doing all I could to piss in his espresso. But he was responsible for it.
I know it.
He would probably spank me again if he knew how I got up there to check it. I didn’t have a ladder, so I dragged my dresser across the room, set a chair on top of it, and climbed up like some short DIY spy.
And there it was.
A camera. Small. Black. Barely visible.
Pointing directly at my bed.
I should be scared. I should report it. Have someone come in and sweep the place. Rip them out and run.
I should quit. Walk away from this whole twisted, gorgeous mess.
I could. I’ve paid off my credit cards, redecorated my entire apartment and I’m stockpiling a good savings.
I should walk away.
But I’m not going to.
Because there’s a part of me that smiled when I saw it.
A part that liked knowing Lucian Vale wants to watch me. Wants to know where I am. Wants to make sure I’m safe—and dirty and his.
I won’t admit how many times I’ve fantasized about him watching me masturbate. How often I’ve imagined him in his office, hand fisting his cock while I come with a vibrator pressed against my clit.
That’s exactly what I thought about three days ago.
Right after I stormed out of his office—sore, humiliated, and so fucking turned on I couldn’t think straight.
I knew what I wanted.
And I knew he would be watching.
So, I gave him something to obsess over.
I spread my legs wide. Teased myself.
Came for him.
Then I licked the vibrator afterward like a lollipop made of desire while I looked right at that fucking camera.
Because if he’s going to invade my space, I’m going to make damn sure he regrets it.
Or maybe… maybe he’ll beg for more.
The truth?
I want him to watch me. I want him to taste me.
His brooding, controlling mouth between my thighs. That wicked tongue making me cry out his name.
It’s all I can think about.
That—and how it’ll feel when Lucian finally stops playing and fucks me into oblivion.
That’s the fantasy playing out in my head this morning as I scroll through client profiles, not even seeing them.
Me, straddling Lucian Vale in his office chair—riding him like my life depends on it. His head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut, a low growl rumbling in his throat as my hips slam down again and again. His hands gripping me hard, dragging me closer, guiding every movement.
Fucking me like he owns me.
Like I’m his .
My thighs squeeze together under the desk, and I try not to squirm, caught in the spiral, chasing the heat behind my ribcage and the tension between my legs. I don’t even realize someone’s standing in front of me until I hear the sharp snap of fingers.
“Office. Let’s go.”
I blink up and my fantasy shatters because Lucian is right in front of me.
Startling me with a single word and a flick of his hand. He’s already walking away, his broad shoulders cutting through the air with the same deliberate intensity that lingers in every part of him—even when he’s not touching me.
I scramble to my feet, nearly knocking my chair over in the process, jogging to catch up to him.
He doesn’t look back.
He doesn’t need to.
My pulse races, my stomach tightens. And when I get close enough to breathe him in—that familiar blend of sharp spice, coffee, and expensive sin—I nearly groan .
God, I missed this.
Missed him .
Even if he drives me insane.
Even if I want to scream every time he pretends like nothing’s happening between us.
But the moment we step into his office, the world narrows.
The noise fades.
The Ledger disappears behind the heavy door that clicks shut behind me, sealing us inside.
It’s just us.
Only us .
I walk forward slowly, but the confidence I usually challenge him with falters under his silence.
Lucian moves around the desk, calm and unreadable. Like the judge of hell deciding whether to tempt or punish.
I have no idea what to say.
No idea what he’s thinking.
And for the first time in days, I don’t feel like the one holding the leash.
Will he say anything?
Will he acknowledge what he did? That he bent me over his desk and made my ass sore for two days? That he watched me lick my own pussy off that vibrator like a goddamn dessert and did nothing about it?
Act like none of it happened?
Jesus. Something is wrong with me.
I stand there, pulse thudding in my throat, waiting for something—anything—but all I get is:
“Come over here.”
His voice is cool. Commanding. Like we’re back to business, like he hasn’t seen every inch of me in exquisite, trembling detail.
He slides his office phone closer and presses the speaker button.
One hand braces the desk, the other dials. It rings once. Twice. Then someone answers.
Lucian launches into a pitch—clean, polished, professional. He needs a new supplier for a high-end restaurant uptown. One of those elite places perched at the top of a skyscraper, spinning ever so slowly to give patrons a 360-degree view of the city.
It’s the kind of place where you need a tuxedo to blink in the direction of a reservation. Booked a year in advance. Dress code stricter than airport security.
He barely finishes his first sentence before the other end cuts him off with a curt, “No thank you,” and hangs up.
His jaw ticks.
Apparently, this isn't the first time.
He slowly removes his hand from the desk, turning to look at me.
“You catch all that?”
His steel-gray eyes pin me to the spot. I feel warm instantly. Like heat is blooming in my chest and rolling downward with dangerous speed.
“Yes, sir.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. Reflexive. Instinctual.
His mouth twitches—just barely. Not a smile. Not quite. But something dangerous glints behind his eyes.
He slides a folder across the desk toward me.
“Here’s a list. The restaurant info. Find a supplier.”
Then he stands—slowly, deliberately—pulling out his leather desk chair and stepping aside. Waiting.
I blink at him. Once. Twice.
I don’t move immediately. Not because I don’t understand the task. But because I do . And I’m not sure if this is just another job or some kind of silent punishment—or worse, a reward.
Eventually, I cross the room.
My hand brushes the back of the chair as I lower into it, his scent clinging to the leather, wrapping around me. That same stormy cologne that makes me want to close my eyes and forget myself.
But I don’t.
I keep my face neutral. My spine straight. My fingers grip the folder, and I focus.
At least on the surface.
Because inside?
I’m already unraveling.
The first three vendors are a bust.
Each time I mention the restaurant, the tone changes. The warmth in their voice dies. Some stall. Others go silent for a moment too long before scrambling for an excuse.
And when I mention it’s on behalf of Lucian Vale ?
They practically trip over themselves to get off the phone.
Something is going on.
It’s not just about exclusivity or high standards. These people are nervous . Like they’ve been warned.
Like they’ve been threatened .
I sit back, frowning slightly. The rejection stings less than the growing realization that something is wrong. That whatever Lucian’s been dealing with for the last three days—whatever kept him away—is bleeding into everything.
I want to ask.
Where he’s been.
Who he’s been with.
If he was with someone else.
If watching me come undone on his camera made him snap… and he spent the next three nights fucking one of The Ledger’s more experienced companions just to burn it off.
The thought makes my stomach turn.
God. What the fuck is wrong with me?
This isn’t real. He’s not mine. I’m not his. This entire arrangement is a game I agreed to play.
And right now, these vendors are playing a game of keep-away.
So, I decide to change the rules a little.
I pull out my phone and do a quick search—details about the restaurant, the executive chef, upcoming press events.
An idea forms.
I dial the fourth number and put on my best composed voice.
“I’m calling about an emergency vendor change for La Tour du Ciel ,” I say smoothly, using the restaurant’s full name. “You may already be aware, but renowned Chef Alessandra Lin is in pursuit of her third Michelin star.”
Across the room, Lucian perks up from where he’s sitting in the leather chair, a file in hand. I don’t look at him. Just keep going.
“Several of the world’s most prestigious critics are set to dine at the restaurant any moment now, and unfortunately, our current vendor is experiencing a major recall due to contamination at one of their storage facilities. We’re looking for someone who can step in immediately with high-quality product.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then the person on the other end practically lights up .
“Oh—we would be honored. I had no idea Chef Lin was pushing for a third star. Absolutely. We can adjust our delivery schedules. Send over your kitchen manager’s details and we’ll start the onboarding process today.”
Bingo.
I smile, letting out a polite, professional laugh. “You’re a lifesaver. I’ll have my manager get in touch shortly.”
Click.
“Done.” I say in an overly chipper tone because I am quite pleased with myself.
When I look up, Lucian’s watching me.
Not just watching— studying . His head tilted slightly, brows raised, mouth curled at the corners in what might be the closest thing to impressed I’ve seen from him.
“Crisis management tactic?” he asks, his voice like silk.
“Something like that,” I reply, coy.
He nods once, slow and deliberate, his gaze lingering a little too long before he looks away.
But I see it.
The spark in his eye.
The slow simmer of heat behind that cool exterior.
And just like that, the power shifts again—tilting, dancing between us like a match waiting to be struck.