Chapter 6

Vivienne

Knock, Knock.

I yelp, taken aback by the unexpected sound. I’m not usually this skittish, but as this is my second day on the job, and I’ve already seen the boss in a compromising position, I’m not quite sure what will be on the other side of the door.

“Who’s there?” I ask.

At least this way, I’ll know who to prepare for.

“Charles. Can I come in?”

“Uhh, sure. One second.”

I quickly tidy my desk before unlocking the door.

I breathe a sigh of relief when I see Charles, and not David and his twelve-inch dick; though a small part of me wishes it was him. I know it’s wrong, but it’s the truth.

I’ll never be able to unsee what I walked in on yesterday. Not to mention, I replayed it all last night while using my favorite vibrator. As you might be able to tell, that tactic doesn’t work as well I thought it would.

I still fucking want him.

I open the door, and Charles pushes me aside with two large boxes in hand: one that’s unmarked, and another with the Louboutin label.

Oh, God. What the fuck is this?

“Go shopping today, did you?” I cock my head, wondering why he’s bringing me this delivery.

“I did. All courtesy of the King.” He puts the boxes down on my desk and continues, “And it’s for you.”

I’m not quite sure what my face did in reaction to that last bit of information, but all I’m certain of is that I’m shocked, pissed, and so damn confused.

“Excuse me?” Maybe I didn’t hear him right, so I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Forgive me, I should explain.” Charles shakes his head, and I see cracks start to form in his demeanor.

“Please, explain. Why is David buying me clothes?” I put my hands on my hips, my patience growing very fucking thin. “I don’t have all day, Charles.” I push him.

“The King requests your company tonight at the gala. He wasn’t sure if you would have anything to wear, given you’ve only just moved in, so we’ve arranged for a new dress and shoes,” Charles explains. He waves his hands over the boxes like some magician showing his tricks.

This is definitely a trick, though it’s not Charles doing it—it’s David. He’s the mastermind who orchestrated this whole damn thing.

“David is supposed to attend that gala alone. It’s in his father’s honor, and it’ll show his empathy towards the cause. Having me there will only be a distraction for him and, most importantly, for the media,” I try to explain to him as best I could.

But his big brown puppy eyes stare at me and blink rapidly. He tilts his head and almost looks sad. “I don’t quite understand what you’re saying.”

Ugh, seriously. I am not that gullible.

“Long story short, Charles, I’m not going with David tonight. You can return that dress and those shoes. And tell him that I kindly decline.”

“No, no, no, no.” He shakes his head, and his once naïve and sweet demeanor turns stern and cold. “That won’t do, Ms. Taylor. You will be attending the gala with the King tonight.”

Ah! There’s the guard dog’s bite.

“No, Charles.” I repeat, slower this time. “I will not be attending the gala. It is for him to attend, and for him to attend alone.”

I swear, men never listen.

“Here’s the thing, Vivienne,” he continues, his hand on his hip. “David will not take no for an answer. Trust me.”

This poor man, he’s so whipped by David, it’s almost sad. But I think he might also enjoy it. I need to get a better read on him.

He goes over to where he placed the boxes and starts unwrapping them.

“Please, just take a look at what I got you. Maybe this will change your mind,” he pleads.

“I doubt it,” I say, moving closer to him and the bribes.

I can’t help but feel a little giddy at the idea that David wants to take me to the gala, even getting me a dress and Louboutin’s for the occasion. Every teenage dream of mine is coming true right before my eyes.

The mere thought of him standing before me, inches away from my touch, in a tuxedo—a fucking tuxedo—has me dripping wet and screaming, “Yes, yes, yes!”

But I contain my excitement for two reasons. One, Charles shall never see me act like a little girl who once dreamt of David and fairytales. He’ll run straight to his boss and tell him everything, and I’m sure I’ll be out on my ass quicker than I can say “Louboutin.”

Second, because, again, falling for this shit will ruin me.

My whole career will blow up in my face, and there’ll be nothing to save me from that demise. How can you come back from fucking up a King’s reputation? Or in this case, not fixing it at all?

Oh. My. God.

Charles pulls out a long, red strapless satin gown.

I’m in awe; it’s breathtaking. But I only drink it in with my eyes. I’m too afraid to touch it, because, who knows, I might fall under its spell.

“I’m impressed, Charles. You picked this out yourself?” I ask.

“I had some guidance. But, yeah, mostly me. It’s Alexander McQueen, and it has off-the-shoulder sleeves and a cleverly hidden slit in the front. For modesty purposes.”

He shows me this extra flare like he’s a designer on “Project Runway.” “But the best part of the outfit are the shoes.” He hands me the dress to hold. I keep it at arms-length, treating it like it’s a bomb seconds away from destroying me.

“These sparkly numbers…” He pulls the Louboutin’s out of the box, and they shimmer delicately in the soft hue from my overhead light.

I discard the dress on the desk and reach for the shoes, completely mesmerized by their beauty.

“Oh, my God. They’re beautiful.”

“And they’ll perfectly compliment David’s attire tonight.”

And, like that, the magician snapped his fingers and broke the spell. This can’t happen. I almost gave in.

“Nope. I can’t accept these.”

I push the shoes back into Charles’ arms, discarding them like trash. It hurts me to treat such beautiful shoes like that, but I can’t let myself be enamored by their charms.

“You’ve got be kidding me!” he whines.

“You shouldn’t have wasted your time getting me these—these clothes. And the fact that David would just assume I would give into his demands because he threw some sparkly shit at me is frankly fucking offensive.”

Of course, there’s no way in hell I’d tell him the truth.

“You’re really saying no to Alexander MacQueen, Christian Louboutin, and King David Lockridge?”

It sounds crazy, right? Saying no to these three amazing men is like denying yourself. I don’t even fucking know because I doubt anyone has ever done it—it’s voluntary torture!

I walked to the other side of my desk, needing distance from Charles, and lean on the granite desktop.

“Yep. I’m saying no.” Shit, that hurts.

“I don’t know what to do with you: worship at your feet for being so damn strong or slap you across the face because you’re a fucking idiot.”

Whoa. I put my hands up in defense, feeling like he actually did hit me. It’s probably because I know I should do it and give in to my wildest dreams.

But I also know I can’t.

“I guess that’s fair,” I say, finally finding my words. “Please, go and tell him before it’s too late.”

“Tell him what?” A low, masculine voice rumbles through the office, and my pussy clenches instinctively.

David.

Fuck. His voice alone melts my panties off. He folds his arms and leans against the door frame.

I lose my breath, consuming the vision of him. Everything about him is so damn erotic.

Charles clears his throat and moves out of our view, and I cross my arms, mimicking his stance.

“I won’t be going to the gala tonight. Take back the clothes,” I blurt out.

His gaze gradually scrolls up and down my body, and I feel my ache for him intensify.

It’s so not fair how fucking hot he is.

“You’ll be coming with me, love. Accept the dress as a replacement for yesterday’s, though I can’t promise I won’t ruin this one.”

He winks and leaves.