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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.
