My work clothes seem out of place in front of Kodiche’s house. I feel small and plain in my black slacks, flats, and simple floral blouse. This is seriously a mansion, like what you expect a celebrity to live in, not a CEO. It’s huge, and other than a single light above the entryway, the entire place looks dark and forbidding.

It’s not what I expected, not that I have any idea what to expect from Kodiche—Mr. Lamant, I correct myself. What did he mean when he said I’d have seven days to prove I can obey? I follow orders just fine! I've just been overtired and that's made me a little clumsy, that’s all.

Even the front door of his home is imposing. I feel like Belle going up to the Beast’s castle. The iron bars seem almost like a cage as I open the screen door they’re attached to. A painted sign bearing the words Lamants’ LaManse is the only decoration marring the austere finish. Knocking on the wooden door inside, I hear a faint echo of sound from somewhere beyond it, followed by the door being thrown open.

“Hello,” I start. I think I was expecting a house this size to have a butler or something, not to have Mr. Lamant open the door personally for me. He’s ditched his usual suit jacket, but otherwise, he looks like he stepped out of the office and in front of me. Black trousers, freshly ironed so that the lines are crisp, a silver button-down, a dark grey vest, and a sleek silver tie complete his look.

His sleeves are cuffed up to show hints of tattoos on his forearms, his pants hugging his crotch in a way that borders on obscene. The diamonds on his watch and earring complete the rich bad boy look.

“Vivian.” His voice is oddly warm, and it flows out from him as he looks me up and down. “I’m impressed you showed up.” He sounds surprised, but pleasantly so. The fact that he’s surprised makes me even more nervous about his plans.

I’ve seen his apartment downtown that he uses for hosting work parties. This is his “weekend house,” and he invited me here in the middle of the week. I try not to dwell on how far away we feel from the rest of the world.

“No bags? I did tell you you'd be here for the week.” His eyebrows lowers; my gut twists, because I've already made a dumb mistake. Mr. Lamant retreats into the vestibule without waiting for me to respond, leaving me to gawk at the marble floor and circular stairwell leading up. My breath catches in my chest as I take in the landing with stained glass artwork and a statue of a little girl holding a cat. “Don’t worry about that dusty old thing. It won’t fall, I promise. Come along, Vivian. I’ll show you around.”

Bedroom after bedroom, an office, a library, an in-house gym . . . The rooms pass on without sign of anyone being here but us while I’m given a tour. Out of all of them, my favorite room is one with a view of the glassed-in pool house and gardens. The huge bed looks fit for a princess when I peek inside.

“Whose room is this?” I ask.

“She doesn’t live here anymore. There’s more to see downstairs. Come on.”

I hope he isn’t going to show me a dungeon, although I could totally see him rocking a pair of leather pants. Kodiche is gorgeous, and being alone with him is making me fantasize all sorts of things I probably shouldn’t.

“This is the den, my favorite room here at LaManse.”

Looking around, it’s easy to see why. The dark wood paneling sets off the rich purple velvet couch and black leather chaise. The décor borders on being gothic, but it’s altogether too warm and lived in to be grim. A fireplace dominates one wall with a huge flat screen television hung above the mantle. The floor here is marble as well, but a deep, carpeted rug covers the space near the seating; it’s there to keep the occupants’ feet warm, I guess.

Mr. Lamant sits down in front of the fireplace in a plush chair that seems more throne than living room furniture. As he sinks into it, his eyes flash to me. I lock up on the spot, my heart thudding. “Kneel.” His extended finger at least offers some semblance of courtesy in offering me the option to kneel on his rug instead of the hard floor, but still . . .

“Why?” I ask. There’s a perfectly good chair opposite his. Why would I kneel when I can sit?

Narrowed eyes warn me I’ve misstepped. “Your memory is awful. Has it always been this way?” Somewhere between chiding and droll at first, Kodiche’s tone soon turns icy. “Do you not remember yesterday, Miss Robbins? How you ruined everything? You risked my company and the livelihood of your fellow employees. Every client our company loses hurts everyone.” The disappointment from yesterday is back, visible in his eyes and the slight hunch to his shoulders. I hate seeing it there.

“I still don’t get why I should kneel.” My whisper is so soft I can hardly hear it over the crackle of the wood in the fireplace.

He hears me, though. One moment he’s seated, the next he’s right in front of me. The musky scent of him, some combination of cologne and just him makes my heart race. I’m affected elsewhere, too. When Kodiche bends so that his lips are at my ear, the sudden wetness between my thighs is surprising. It’s not like I’m a virgin, but I’ve never had the time for dates.

My whole body throbs in time with his bone-rattling low whisper. “You have to kneel because you don’t know your place.” The heat of his breath fans out over my cheek. “But, Vivian,” he promises, “in seven days of my training, you’ll know it well.”

What I know already is that in seven days I’m going to need several new pairs of panties if just being in the same room is enough to get me horny like this. There isn’t much I can do but play along, not if I want to keep my job. And it’s not like kneeling costs me much more of my dignity. Watching everyone file out of our office yesterday was worse.

I kneel on the rug, my fingers curling into the plush carpet’s strands. A sound from above me could almost be—No, it couldn’t have been a groan. Looking up at him, the way he’s breathing fast and staring at me is almost unmistakable. Is he as turned on as I am? Maybe he is, judging by the bulge I can see pushing at his pants. It’s my reaction that’s more concerning. I didn’t know that submitting myself to a man was a turn on for me.

“This is how it’s going to work, Vivian.” He’s circling me, almost stalking me. He’s gone from bear to lion in the rolling way he walks. “I am going to put you through a very unique work retreat . . .” He pauses and waits for me to meet his eyes.

“This training session will last seven days. You will do everything I say. You will listen and obey.” I can almost picture a riding crop or stick in his hands, snapping down with each statement. That’s what the leading guy did in that naughty film my friends dragged me to years ago. Just thinking of it brings a blush to my cheeks.

“This is the only way you can make me believe that you will change your sloppy, unprofessional ways at work, Vivian. If you can do every last thing I ask, no matter what it is, I’ll let you keep your job. Fail . . .” He trails off with a wicked grin. “Fail and I will make it clear to everyone in town and any future job references that you are worthless to hire. It’s your fault I lost a huge client, and you’ll never find decent work in this city ever again if you can’t prove yourself for these seven days.”

I’m stunned. He’s blackmailing me? This is way more serious—way more dark—than anything I had ever expected or even thought possible. My head spins with the uncertainty of it all. Can I do this? Can I agree to do anything . . . everything . . . he’ll ask of me? Is that worth a job? I could move away, start over somewhere else, couldn’t I? That’d be safer.

It's also impossible. I'd never be able to move my dad out of the hospital and elsewhere, especially with no money.

The room spins with me, and even though I can see that everything is holding still, I feel as if I’ve been plunged under water and being twirled by the back of my neck. Each nerve twitches along my arms and legs, fighting an invisible battle with my brain as I try to find my balance. The panic attack comes on suddenly, knocking me for a loop. If I can just focus on something, anything. I try to count backwards, to find five things that I can see, four I can hear . . .

“Vivian?” I know he’s calling me, but it’s as if the fuzzy water between us is drowning me, pulling me down even harder as punishment for listening to him and not letting the panic attack win. I can almost hear the words, but the waves in my ears—the static—is louder and crashes over me. Sudden vertigo tips me over, and I’m glad I was kneeling. The fall will hurt less.

I tense, ready for the crash, but heat envelopes me before I can hit the floor. My shoulders jolt out of the fall, and somewhere beyond the weight tugging me flat and forward, I feel arms around me holding me gently until I’m laying on the rug.

Finally holding still, the attack recedes, leaving me to stare up at Kodiche who is kneeling over me, one hand on my cheek as he looks at me with this odd, worried expression. It’s out of place on his face. He doesn’t look like the cold boss who would ask me to be his robot for a week, and the heat of his hand is making my nipples tighten and letting me know that oh, hell yes, I would like to do anything he asks of me . . . Any last thing.

Blushing, I push my boss off me and scoot back on the rug.

Kodiche stands, all semblance of the worried human version of himself gone beyond the icy mask. He really is the Kodiak bear my coworkers call him.

“Your answer, Vivian?”

I try to give him a much braver smile than I’m feeling. “I’ll do it, Mr. Lamant. I’ll do anything.”