Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Hailey
Manhattan mornings always carried that cold industrial edge—glass towers stabbing the sky, catching the early sun in sharp, blinding flashes.
I stood at the base of Ivanov International Investment Group, neck craned back at the massive building they called a Manhattan landmark. I took a deep breath.
This wasn't my first time in Manhattan's financial district. But it was the first time I'd felt this desperate for sanctuary.
Three weeks.
Three weeks since I'd thrown that two-carat platinum ring in Matthew's face, and he'd finally dropped the nice-guy mask. He'd turned into a fucking lunatic, worming his way into every corner of my life.
Phone bombs. Showing up at my door. Breaking into my old apartment. My decent financial analyst job had turned into a shitshow because of his constant harassment. Even my boss had started looking at me like I was toxic.
To kill this nightmare for good, I'd left the old place, moved to a new neighborhood, and carpet-bombed every company with the tightest security—places a small-time prosecutor like Matthew couldn't touch.
Ivanov Group. This was my thirtieth resume. The only one that called me back.
I knew it sounded paranoid. But in this cutthroat, overpriced hellhole of a city, getting a desk in this building was like winning the career lottery.
I straightened my collar and walked into the lobby.
"Miss Hailey Woods?" The receptionist's voice dripped sweetness. She confirmed my identity before I'd even opened my mouth. "Finance is expecting you. This way, please."
The onboarding process was smooth. Too smooth.
The department head was a balding guy in his fifties.
I'd expected the usual Manhattan finance bro treatment—cold handoff to HR, nitpicking my credentials, maybe some casual condescension.
Instead, this guy came down himself. Personally. With warmth that bordered on eagerness.
He walked me straight into the core finance area. The salary package was double what I'd expected.
"Miss Woods, your resume isn't the flashiest we've seen, but we value potential. And instinct." He clapped my shoulder like we were old friends. "Do good work, you'll go permanent fast. And here? No one gets through our doors to bother you. Security's our top perk."
I settled into my spacious cubicle, looking around in disbelief.
Prime Manhattan view. Espresso machine that pulled actual hand-pour-quality shots. Colleagues who looked busy and competent. Compared to the soul-sucking grind of my last job, this was paradise.
I stared at the spreadsheets filling my monitor and felt something I hadn't felt in months: drive.
This was my shot. My chance to leave Matthew behind. Leave that suffocating past behind.
I was going to work my ass off. I was going to make this stick.
By the time I dragged myself home that night, my fingers could barely move. But the strange buzz of excitement wouldn't die down.
My phone lit up. The name on the screen made my face go hot.
Mr. X.
For three weeks now, he'd been haunting me. In the best way.
We texted every day—work gossip, late-night nonsense, everything. More than I'd ever talked to any ex.
He always knew exactly what I was feeling. He'd swoop in with that bossy, steady energy and smooth out my panic before I even realized I was spiraling.
I collapsed on the couch and sent him a message.
Me: Survived. Day one.
Me: You would not BELIEVE how insane this building is. The lobby could fit a plane. My chair costs more than my apartment.
Mr. X: Sounds like you're enjoying it.
Me: I'm obsessed. And—get this—my manager, an actual department HEAD, came downstairs to meet me, shook my hand, and called me "Miss Woods."
Me: My last job, I worked there three years, and my boss probably thought my name was "Hey You."
Mr. X: Maybe you've been underestimated too long.
Me: Maybe.
Me: Or maybe I got stupid lucky. I still think this offer was a clerical error and tomorrow they'll realize and boot me out.
Mr. X: They won't.
He replied fast.
Mr. X: Trust me. That offer wasn't a mistake.
I stared at the line. Weird. But I didn't overthink it—for three weeks now, he'd talked like this. Like he knew things I didn't. At first I thought it was an act, part of the whole "Mr. X" mystique. Then I got used to it. Then, somewhere along the way, I started... liking it.
It made me feel safe.
In a world where my parents forgot my birthday and my fiancé treated me like furniture, that "I've got this, don't worry" certainty was as rare as oxygen.
Me: What'd you do today, mysterious Mr. X? Handle your shady B-movie spy business?
Mr. X: Something like that. Had a few meetings. Made some people very unhappy.
Me: Sounds like your job is just making people miserable.
Mr. X: It's one of the few things I'm good at.
Me: What are the others?
The chat paused.
Mr. X: One of them, you experienced three weeks ago in a certain hotel room.
My face ignited.
Damn it. For three weeks we'd danced around that night like it was some shared secret we'd agreed not to mention. And now he just casually tossed it back on the table when my guard was at its lowest.
And what was worse—
My body reacted before my brain did. Heat crawled up my spine and pooled low in my stomach.
I was about to type a comeback when my phone buzzed.
New message. Different thread.
Unknown number: Hailey, stop avoiding me. I heard you changed jobs? Why would you leave? I just want you to be okay. Can we talk?
Matthew.
Again.
He was like a cockroach. No matter how hard I tried to scrub him out, he always crawled back from some dark corner to tear open the wound and remind me how stupid I'd been to love him.
I stared at the messages. My stomach turned.
That suffocating feeling—being watched, tracked, controlled—wrapped around me again like a snake.
Me: Leave me alone.
But the words felt pathetic.
Matthew's messages kept coming.
God, I'd thought my life was finally getting better.
Why?
My hands shook as I blocked the new number. Out of sight, out of mind. Then another notification dropped.
Mr. X: You still there?
I hesitated. Then typed.
Me: Yeah. Just—got some messages I didn't want to see.
Mr. X: What happened?
I stared at his question, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Should I tell him?
The past three weeks, we'd talked about a lot—work stress, random life shit, things I'd never told anyone. But Matthew? I'd avoided the topic.
Not because I still cared about him.
Because I didn't want Mr. X to see me like this. Pathetic.
But right now, with those gross texts still glowing on my screen and Matthew's creepy control issues dragging me back into that suffocating past—
I was too tired.
Me: My ex. He's harassing me again.
A few seconds passed.
Mr. X: The prosecutor?
I froze.
Me: I—I never told you what he did for a living.
Mr. X: You did. Three weeks ago. When you were drunk.
I tried to remember the details of that night, but most of it was a blur—alcohol, music, my torn dress, his mouth on mine.
Maybe I had mentioned it?
Me: Oh. Maybe. Anyway, he found out I changed jobs. Won't stop texting.
Mr. X: What did he say?
I screenshotted and sent it.
Looking at Matthew's fake, manipulative bullshit made me nauseous all over again.
"I just want you to be okay."
"Can we talk?"
Fuck off.
If he actually wanted me okay, he wouldn't have let me walk in on him screwing someone else on my birthday. He wouldn't be stalking me now.
Mr. X went silent for a long time.
Long enough that I started worrying I'd overshared. That he thought I was too much trouble.
Then—
Mr. X: Block him.
Me: I have. He changes numbers.
Mr. X: Then keep blocking him.
Me: That doesn't fix it. He knows where I work. Where I live. He'll always find me.
Mr. X: No.
Me: What?
Mr. X: He won't find you anymore.
The tone of that line made me frown.
Me: Why are you so sure?
Mr. X: Because I'm the mysterious underground X.
Me: What? You're not gonna Spider-Man into his window at night and vigilante-murder him, are you?
Mr. X: Uh... maybe. But the important thing is, he won't bother you anymore.
Me: Wait, you're not doing anything illegal, right?
The chat paused again.
Mr. X: Define "illegal."
Me: Mr. X!
Mr. X: Kidding, princess. Relax.
Mr. X: I'm just saying, some things can be solved more civilly.
Me: Like?
Mr. X: Like making him realize that continuing to bother you will cost him more than letting go.
That sounded a little scary. But also—there was a dark thrill in it.
Me: You talk like you're good at this.
Mr. X: I am.
Mr. X: It's one of my specialties—making people who don't listen start listening.
Me: Sounds violent.
Mr. X: No. Just effective.
I bit my lip, staring at the screen.
I should've felt uneasy. Should've realized this guy—this stranger I only knew through texts—might not be a good person.
But I didn't.
I just felt... protected.
It was a foreign feeling.
No one in my life had ever really protected me. After my parents' divorce, I became the "extra" kid. Matthew said he loved me, but really he just needed a compliant accessory.
But Mr. X—
He didn't need anything from me.
Me: Thank you.
Mr. X: Don't thank me.
Mr. X: I just don't like people bothering my princess.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
He'd used that nickname a lot over three weeks. It still made me blush every time.
Me: Are you always like this?
Mr. X: Like what?
Me: This bossy?
Mr. X: Yes.
Mr. X: Does that bother you?
I thought about it. Then answered honestly.
Me: No. It—it actually makes me feel safe.
Mr. X: Good.
Mr. X: Because I'm not changing.
I smiled, hugging my phone to my chest and sinking into the couch.
Matthew's texts were still there. But suddenly they didn't matter as much.
Me: Let's change the subject. First day today. I was so nervous.
Mr. X: Why nervous? You're excellent.
Me: How do you know? You've never seen me work.
Mr. X: I don't need to. I know you.
Me: From texting?
Mr. X: Mm-hmm.
A few seconds of silence.
Mr. X: Like how I'm guessing you're sitting on that ratty couch right now, wearing—my shirt?
I glanced down at myself. My face went nuclear.
Damn it.
I was wearing the black shirt. I didn't even remember changing into it, but over the past three weeks I'd found myself reaching for it more and more—sleeping in it, lounging in it, sometimes just... wanting to smell it.
Me: How do you know?
Mr. X: I'm guessing because you like being wrapped in my scent.
God. His escort professionalism was really showing.
I blushed and typed back.
Me: You're too confident.
Mr. X: Not confident. Factual.
Mr. X: Admit it, princess. You miss me.
I bit my lip, fingers hovering over the screen.
I should deny it. Salvage some dignity.
But I didn't want to lie anymore.
Me: Yes. I miss you.
Mr. X: What do you miss?
Me: Your voice. Your hands.
Mr. X: My hands?
Me: Don't make me say it.
Mr. X: But I want to hear you say it.
Mr. X: Tell me, Hailey. What do you want my hands to do?
My breathing quickened. The room was silent except for my heartbeat pounding in my ears.
Me: I want—I want your hands on me.
Mr. X: Where?
Me: Everywhere, damn it, everywhere.
Mr. X: Be specific.
Me: On my waist, on my thighs.
Mr. X: Keep going.
Me: I can't say it.
Mr. X: Then show me.
Me: What?
Mr. X: Touch yourself.
My face burned hotter.
Me: Are you insane?
Mr. X: I'm serious.
Mr. X: Touch yourself, Hailey. Pretend it's my hand.
Me: I've never...
Mr. X: Liar.
Me: Okay, fine. Rarely.
Mr. X: Tonight's a good opportunity.
Mr. X: Do it. For me.
My hand trembled as it slid toward my thigh.
This was insane. I was following instructions from a stranger—a man I'd only met once—to do this.
But my body was already heating up, that familiar ache waking low in my belly.
Me: I'm doing it...
Mr. X: Good.
Mr. X: Are you wearing underwear?
Me: Yes.
Mr. X: Take them off.
I did. Then sat back down on the couch.
Me: Off.
Mr. X: Now touch yourself. Think about that night. Think about how I made you scream.
I closed my eyes. My fingers moved.
My fingers circled slowly at first, slick with need as I closed my eyes tighter, surrendering to the memory of that night.
The way his strong hands had gripped my hips, pulling me down onto him in the dim hotel room, my thighs straddling his lap as I sank onto his thick cock.
God, the stretch, the fullness—how I'd rocked against him, desperate and shameless.
A voice message pinged through.
Mr. X's low, commanding tone filled my ears: "That's it, Hailey. Remember how you sat on me? Legs spread wide, riding my cock like you couldn't get enough. Feel my fingers now—deep inside that tight pussy. Fuck yourself with them. Slow... just like I fucked you."
I moaned softly, pushing two fingers in, imagining they were his—thicker, rougher, curling perfectly against that spot. My hips bucked, breath coming in short gasps.
"You're getting close, aren't you?" his next voice growled. "Don't you dare cum yet."
I whimpered, typing frantically: Please, Mr. X, I need to—
"Beg properly. Tell me who you belong to."
I gasped, even as my body clenched around my fingers, betraying me.
Me: I belong to myself.
"Liar," his voice snapped, dark and velvet-rough. "Say it. You're mine."
The pressure built unbearably, my clit throbbing under my thumb. I was almost screaming, hips grinding wildly.
Me: Fuck, I'm yours! I belong to you!
"Good girl," he praised, voice thick with satisfaction. "Now cum for your Master."
The command hit me like a switch. My body shattered. The orgasm crashed through me in waves, and I bit my lip hard, choking back the scream clawing up my throat, shaking all over.
It took a while to come down. I collapsed against the couch, boneless.
I grabbed my phone with trembling hands.
Me: You're an asshole.
A moment later—
Mr. X: You loved it.
Mr. X: Good girl.
I bit my lip, my heartbeat still erratic.
Maybe it was the exhausting first day. Maybe it was the physical crash. But sleep started pulling me under like a tide.
Before my eyes closed completely, I managed to type one last message.
Me: Goodnight, Mr. X.
My phone buzzed one final time. I squinted at the screen through heavy lids.
Unknown number: Sweet dreams, princess.
Then I was out.