As we stepped out of the Maybach, the air itself seemed to bend around Charlotte. I grabbed her laptop like it was mine, no hesitation, no glance back. Charlotte didn't blink, no objection. Just adjusted her blazer like she'd expected it.
That told me everything I needed to know.
'Either she trusts me now... or she's too overwhelmed to think straight and trusts me now completely. Probably both. That works.'
She raised a single manicured hand and flicked two fingers. Her front bodyguards, Duncan and Jake—both the kind of men who looked like they had ex-military trauma stored alphabetically—stepped back like chess pieces.
A perimeter opened up around us in silence, not a word exchanged, just the smooth choreography of people used to operating in classified zones and hostile territories.
"This way," Charlotte murmured, her voice all cool command and subtle thrill.
She led me toward a side entrance I hadn't even noticed. No crowds. No mall jingles. No influencers clogging up the walkways with ring lights and teeth like bleached tombstones.
Just a sleek black panel set into the wall beside a matte onyx door. Minimalist. Discreet. Expensive.
'Of course, there's a separate door for people who can afford to buy small countries. Why would Charlotte Thompson use the same entrance as people who buy bulk toilet paper?'
She slid a keycard from her wallet—platinum, no numbers—and pressed it to the panel, a soft affirmative chime like a secret being acknowledged. Then a fingerprint scanner slid out, glowing pale blue.
She placed her finger on it. The scanner pulsed, then retracted with a sigh, and the door unlocked.
The hallway that opened up on the other side wasn't marked on any directory. Probably didn't exist to anyone without a net worth followed by at least seven zeroes.
The floors were so polished I could see the reflection of her heels cutting into the silence. The walls were brushed steel and obsidian, lined with abstract paintings that probably cost more than my neighborhood's yearly utility bills.
Everything about it whispered wealth the way a god whispers thunder—low, effortless, final.
We stepped into a private elevator. No floor buttons. Just a biometric camera and voice-activated panel.
The elevator obeyed without a sound. As we rose through floors the general public would never access, I felt a shift. Not in the air. Not even in her. The space was designed to make you aware of your worth—measured in influence, money, and how many layers of velvet rope had to be moved for you to even exist in a place like this.
'This isn't just how the other half lives. This is how the 0.01% flies above the world while the rest choke on economy-class air.'
She glanced at me once—brief, unreadable—and then looked forward again. I let the silence stretch.
Then the elevator opened.
And I stepped into a different world.
This wasn't a mall. It was a temple to commerce. The hallway ahead looked like the lobby of a private art museum crossed with a billionaire's yacht. Soft gold lighting washed over imported Italian marble.
The scent of something floral-but-not-too-floral floated in the air—luxury brands always paid top dollar for a signature smell.
On the walls: not posters. Not ads. Original art. Real. Framed. Lit. One I recognized from a Sotheby's auction that had made headlines a few years ago.
"VIP shopping suites," Charlotte said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "I browse collections from here. Everything's on tablets. If I like something, they deliver it to the suite. No crowds, no chaos, no paparazzi trying to guess whether I'm buying heels for a date or a boardroom coup."
She stepped forward, doors parting as if the building recognized her scent.
'This is... insane. And impressive. Mostly insane. I'm starting to see how she survived in a world full of wolves.'
She didn't slow down.
'Jesus Christ. This is where she comes to buy shoes that cost more than most people's annual rent.'
Charlotte's private suite wasn't just over-the-top—it was obscene. Picture a luxury hotel penthouse.
Now imagine it got into a steamy relationship with a high-end fashion boutique, then cheated with a billionaire tech CEO's workspace. The result? This room. The thing had more square footage than my entire school and probably better Wi-Fi, too.
Floor-to-ceiling windows showed off the kind of skyline that made you feel like a Bond villain surveying your empire. Holographic displays floated like magic, cycling through items too expensive for actual stores. And the seating area? I've seen war summits with less effort put into diplomacy furniture.
'This? This is 'I-own-a-private-island-and-the-ocean-around-it' rich.'
Cue Janet: the attendant. Mid-thirties, sharp, polished hair, probably made more in a week than I'd seen in my life.
She stepped into the room, and for a second, I forgot my own damn name.
Janet.
Wearing a black suit that wasn't made to be worn—it was made to ruin people. Smooth, satin-lined, tailored like a second skin. No blouse. Nothing beneath the blazer but skin. Golden, smooth, glowing skin. The cut plunged low, deep enough to hint at the curve of her breasts— they were big, high, and full like gravity was scared to touch them. I could see a big chunk of her boobs
The fabric clung to them just enough to leave room for my imagination to fall off the edge of grace.
Dear gods.
She moved like she wasn't walking—like she was giving gravity orders. Her hips swayed, slow and precise, each step saying, Look, but you'll never survive touching me.
My eyes did what my mouth couldn't. They traced her—starting with her neck, that long, caramel stretch leading down to the delicate dip of her collarbones. The line of her chest, rising and falling just enough to wreck me. I followed the shape of her body under the suit—the blazer tapered tight at her waist before flaring just slightly over her hips.
Dangerous hips. She was slim, but sculpted, the kind of body that made you think of fast cars and even faster regrets.
Nice shaped peaky ass and her legs—long, lethal legs in black wide-leg slacks, slitted high enough on the sides to show flashes of thigh when she turned. Skin like velvet. Heels like weapons.
She looked like a corporate goddess on the verge of committing a felony. And I would've let her ruin me in every language.
I could see every sensitive spot mapped out like a blueprint my body suddenly remembered. The hollow just below her neck.
The inside of her thighs when she shifted. The small of her back where the fabric creased when she moved. If I touched her, I knew it would burn—but some part of me was already on fire just from looking.
So, burning after touching her only made it worthy every attempt.
And then she smiled.
Not sweet. Not polite.
It was a warning. A test. A promise.
Try it, boy.
And damn me—I wanted to.
"Good afternoon, Ms. Thompson," she said, her voice oozing that trained, corporate luxury-warmth but with a seductive edge that made me hard. "Shall I prepare the usual refreshments?"
"Please, Janet. And whatever my guest wants," Charlotte said, gesturing to me like I was some visiting prince—not the masked, very-much-out-of-place teenager I was. "Janet, treat anything he says like it's coming from me directly. No questions asked."
Janet nodded, but I wasn't buying it. My brain, courtesy of a few divine upgrades, kicked into full analysis mode. Watch: designer. No Ring: classic—so she's not married, but stable. Expression: calm, but subtly alert. Probably loyal to Charlotte, sure... but everyone has a price.
Charlotte clocked the look on my face. Her voice sliced through the air with that spoiled-but-dead-serious tone she'd perfected.
"Really? You think Janet is some undercover spy?"
I didn't flinch. "I think your personal assistant's been bleeding you dry and leaking intel to your rivals for the last six months. So yeah, excuse the trust issues. I'm a little paranoid about who's listening to our conversations."
'Especially when we're about to discuss my family. The people who matter more to me than any amount of money or any business deal.'
Charlotte's face went through several emotions—annoyance, understanding, and something that might have been grudging respect. She'd just learned that her inner circle was full of traitors; maybe a little paranoia wasn't completely unreasonable
She blinked. Once. Then again, slower. You could almost see the gears grinding behind her designer lashes.
Her expression shifted from irritated to impressed in record time.
'People always get quiet when you expose the rot they didn't want to see.'
"This is my private space," she said, her tone softer but still carrying that spoiled rich girl edge that suggested she wasn't used to being questioned. "I've had this suite for three years. If my enemies had surveillance here, I'd already be dead or completely ruined."
"People don't need to bug a room when they can just bug the people inside it," I muttered, eyes flicking to the now-too-quiet Janet.
I wasn't suspecting her. I was just teaching Charlotte that not everything is as it seems. Of course, Janet was clean, it was a conclusion I didn't know how I reached it. Of course not because she's freaking hot.
Part of the reasons though.
***
A/N: Thank you so much @sgtcwby for the gifts. This is the most generous anybody has ever been on my novels. Thank you buddy.