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“Tell her I’m coming. Tonight.” I never meant for Zayden to find out. But when Mia got sick and the doctors needed both parents, I had no choice 😢. I told him everything—the gala, the baby, the truth. I thought he’d hate me. Walk away. Instead, he showed up… ready to fight for her 😭. The cold CEO I feared? He’s gone. What’s left is the man I fell for in the dark… and the father I never thought he could be ❤️‍🔥. Chapter 1 POV Jocelyn “Shit, shit, SHIT—” The words tear from my throat like a battle cry. My heel catches the elevator threshold like it’s personally offended by my existence. I’m airborne for exactly two seconds. Papers explode from my death grip like the world’s saddest confetti. My coffee launches across pristine marble flooring that probably costs more per square foot than I make in a month. My dignity? Already dead and buried six feet under. I hit that floor like a meteor strike, and somewhere in the distance, I swear I hear the universe laughing. “Smooth, Jocelyn. Real fucking smooth.” I’m scrambling on hands and knees, chasing scattered documents across marble that’s so polished I can see my own mortified expression reflected back at me. This is it. This is how I lose the only job that could save Mia’s life—face-first on the 43rd floor of some corporate palace that screams money and intimidation from every surface. “Ma’am, are you—” “I’m fine!” The words snap out harder than I intended, but panic makes me sharp-edged. The secretary behind the massive desk looks like she’d rather call security than acknowledge my existence. Her nameplate gleams in gold letters: Patricia. “Just… me versus physics. Physics won, I guess.” I’m hauling myself upright, while my hands won’t stop shaking, and it has nothing to do with the fall. Twenty-six hours at the hospital watching your six-year-old fight cancer will do that to you. Sleep becomes optional when your kid’s life hangs in the balance. Patricia’s mouth twists like she’s tasting something particularly unpleasant. “Mr. Wolfe doesn’t tolerate—” “Disruptions. Crystal clear.” I straighten up, trying to look like a functioning adult instead of a tornado survivor. The mantra starts looping in my head like a broken record: ‘Don’t mess this up, Jocelyn. You can’t afford to.’ Triple salary. The words dance in my vision like a mirage. Enough for Mia’s treatment. Enough for the experimental therapy her doctors mentioned in hushed tones. Enough to maybe—maybe—keep my baby alive and healthy. If I don’t faceplant again in the next five minutes. “You’re the new assistant?” Patricia’s voice could freeze hell over and charge admission. “That’s me. Professional disaster, at your service.” The sarcasm slips out before I can stop it, but I’m past caring. A door slams behind Patricia’s desk, and the sound ricochets through the space like a gunshot. Then he walks out, like he owns the world. Broad shoulders that strain against a charcoal suit, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that should be illegal. Hair that’s somewhere between gold and ash, perfectly tousled in that way that takes either professional styling or incredible genetics. Phone pressed to his ear, voice cutting through the air like a blade: “I don’t give a damn what Shanghai thinks. Fire them. All of them. I want new contractors by morning.” Then he turns and those eyes hit me like a freight train carrying a cargo load of holy shit. Green like sea surface, like emeralds, like every cliché poets use when they’re trying to describe something indescribable. They’re sharp enough to cut glass and focused enough to dissect my soul in under three seconds. Jesus Christ, he's beautiful in that dangerous, untouchable way that makes smart girls do monumentally stupid things. There's something about him. Something that pulls at the edges of my memory like a half-forgotten dream. I know this face or maybe I've imagined it a thousand times. The way he carries himself, that particular tilt of his head, even his presence feels achingly familiar. The recognition hits like déjà vu mixed with pure, undiluted want. “You’re late.” He ends his call with military precision, sliding the phone into his pocket without breaking eye contact. “Sorry, traffic was—” “I don’t want excuses. I want results and discipline.” His voice hits different. Low, commanding, with an undertone that sends weird shivers down my spine for reasons I absolutely cannot and will not analyze right now. “Right. Results and discipline. Got it.” My own voice sounds foreign, breathless in a way that makes me want to kick myself. He’s already moving, all purpose and controlled energy. “Conference room. Cunningham files. Twenty minutes.” “Which Cunningham files?” He stops. Pivots. Those green eyes narrow to laser points that could probably bore holes through steel. “The ones you should have reviewed instead of whatever kept you looking like you went ten rounds with a blender and lost spectacularly.” Ouch. Direct hit to the ego. “I was at the hospital—” “Personal problems stay personal. This is business.” Cold bastard. Beautiful, intimidating, completely heartless bastard. The next eight hours are psychological torture disguised as employment. Every order delivered like I’m an incompetent child who can’t be trusted with safety scissors. He criticizes my filing system, my coffee-making skills, my ability to transfer calls without hanging up on people. Nothing I do meets his standards, which apparently exist somewhere in the stratosphere. But I need this job. Mia needs this job. So I swallow my pride, along with several creative profanities, and do whatever Zayden Wolfe demands. Even when my body keeps freaking out around him. Something about him sets my nerves on fire, but I can’t figure out why. Maybe it’s just intimidation. Rich, powerful men have that effect, right? The whole alpha predator thing that makes normal humans want to either flee or submit. Basic biology. Except it doesn’t feel basic. It feels complicated and messy and terrifying. At exactly five o’clock, I bolt from that building like it’s on fire and I’m the last person to notice. Straight to the hospital. Straight to Mia. Straight to the only thing that matters. She’s awake when I slip into her room, dark curls spread across the pillow like a halo. Those huge light-green eyes, that came from someone I try very hard not to think about, light up when she sees me. “Mama! Look what I drew!” Another tiger. Always tigers. This one is orange and black, with fierce eyes and powerful paws. She’s been drawing them for months now, ever since she started the new treatment. Tigers in every possible configuration—sleeping tigers, prowling tigers, tigers with cubs. “Why tigers, baby?” She considers this with the seriousness that only six-year-olds can muster. “Because they’re brave and strong. Like my daddy would be if I had one.” My heart cracks clean in half. “Mia, sweetheart…” “I know I don’t have a daddy. That’s okay, Mama. But sometimes I pretend he’d be like a tiger. Powerful and protective. He’d fight the bad things and keep us safe.” My hand moves to the birthmark on my collarbone without conscious thought. Hidden beneath my collar, where no one can see, that heart-shapet spot that’s been there since birth. Seven years ago. A masquerade gala I had no desire to attend at first. Champagne and masks and a stranger who made me feel alive in ways I didn’t know were possible. Eyes that burned like fire. Hands that worshipped every inch of my skin like I was something precious. A voice that whispered praises like a prayer while he traced that birthmark with his tongue, calling it a lucky charm. I ran before he could wake. Before I could fall harder. Before I could tell him he’d changed my life forever in ways he’d never know. Somewhere in this city, that stranger is living his life—successful, powerful, probably married with a perfect family—while his daughter draws tigers and dreams of having a father strong enough to save her. He has no idea she exists. No idea she’s fighting for her life. No idea that every day she slips a little further away while he makes million-dollar deals and lives his perfect life. The stranger who gave me the most beautiful thing in my world. The stranger who never knew he had a daughter. Who is this stranger? And will she be able to meet him soon? 🤭 Read Read My Boss, My Babydaddy Now! 🍼❤️‍🔥

Her POV: I was just a music assistant trying to survive, crushed by debt, haunted by my brother’s mistakes, and drowning in secrets 😞. Then came the Blackwood brothers, Liam, Asher, and Finn. Billionaire bosses. Cold, magnetic, and completely off-limits 🔥. I thought I was invisible to them… until I wasn’t. Until I auctioned my virginity to save my brother. And they saw it. All of it 😳. Now, I’m stuck between desire and shame, power and submission, and the terrifying truth: I might not survive this without losing everything, including my heart ❤️‍🔥. Chapter 1: Jasmine’s POV ""Harlow!"" My manager’s voice cracked through the hallway like a gunshot, silencing every conversation within earshot. Heads turned. No one wanted to miss the show. He stormed toward me, his eyes blazing, and jabbed his phone inches from my face. On the screen: the email I’d sent barely twenty minutes ago. “Is this a joke? Please tell me this is a joke.” My throat tightened as I scanned the message. There it was, the mistake. I’d written 10:30 AM instead of 10:00. A thirty-minute error. Fuck. “It’s just a small–” I began. “A small what?” he snapped, cutting me off. “A small fuck-up with a C-level exec involved? Do you have any idea what you just did to the schedule? Jesus, Jasmine, are you even capable of doing this job without tripping over your own incompetence?” The words hit like a physical blow. Fury coiled tight in my chest, but I forced myself to remain calm. This wasn't about a typo, this was about reminding me of my place. ""I understand your concern,"" I replied, voice professionally neutral despite the storm inside me. ""I take full responsibility and will ensure it doesn't happen again."" He pulled out a thick stack of contracts, shoving them into my hands. ""Take these to Conference Room A. The Blackwoods are waiting!"" I gave a stiff nod and walked away, cheeks burning. It wasn't the first time someone had tried to put me in my place at Cadence Records. The thing is, I'm good at what I do. Exceptional, even. I navigate this chaos like I was born for it, juggling schedules, managing producers, keeping everything organized. I have a sharp ear for music and contribute to more projects than anyone realizes, but I'm invisible in the ways that matter. Just the girl who keeps the machine running.The moment I stepped into Conference Room A, the atmosphere shifted. Three men sat around that stupidly expensive table, and I immediately understood why my manager had been sweating bullets when he handed me these contracts. Liam Blackwood commanded the head of the table like he owned the building, which he actually did. Sleeves rolled up over forearms that belonged in a fucking gym advertisement, perpetual five-o'clock shadow that suggested he'd rather be anywhere but in a boardroom. When he glanced up, his green eyes held the kind of stare that made you wonder if he could see straight through your bullshit corporate smile to every dirty thought you'd never admit out loud. ""Good afternoon,"" I managed, sounding way more professional than I felt. ""I have the contracts you requested."" ""Thank you,"" Liam replied, his voice deep and smooth. ""Just set them down here."" Moving around the table felt like walking through quicksand. Every step is hyperaware, every breath calculated. I placed the copies in front of each man, and when Liam's fingers brushed mine—my brain short-circuited: Holy shit, he's gorgeous. Asher Blackwood sat to his right, and where Liam was a barely contained chaos, his younger brother was a polished control. Head of A&R, power radiated from his perfectly tailored suit, dark hair dark hair tousled in that ‘I woke up like this but actually spent twenty minutes with pomade’ way, and a jawline so sharp it could slice through my carefully constructed professional composure. His mouth lived in a permanent state of almost-scowling, like he was constantly annoyed by everyone's existence. ""Anything else we need to know?"" His voice was rougher than Liam's, gravel and smoke with an edge that sent shivers cascading down my spine like dominoes. ""Standard terms are highlighted on page three,"" I replied, fighting to ignore how his stare made me feel completely fucking exposed. Like he could see every fantasy I'd never voice.Then there was Finn Blackwood, sprawled back in his chair with the kind of casual confidence that suggested he'd never encountered a situation he couldn't charm, manipulate, or fuck his way through. Their cousin, but he fit into their power dynamic like he'd been molded for it. Tousled hair that begged for fingers, shirt unbuttoned just enough to be borderline inappropriate, and that trademark smile—the kind that could talk nuns into strip clubs. No instruction to leave, so I stood there like an idiot, trapped in professional purgatory while they reviewed documents. But my eyes had developed a mind of their own, cataloging every detail despite every rational neuron screaming to look anywhere else. These weren't just my bosses—they were legends walking around in human suits. Powerful, successful, completely out of my twenty-five-years-old-virgin league in every conceivable way. Yet that didn't stop my brain from diving headfirst into dangerous, completely inappropriate territory. What would it feel like to run my fingers through Asher's hair? Mess up that controlled perfection? Would he lose that calculated composure if I pushed the right buttons? That man Liam—fuck, would that raw intensity translate into other areas? Those hands on my skin, that barely contained energy focused entirely on making me fall apart? And Finn... Jesus Christ. With that lazy smile and those knowing eyes, I could practically hear him whispering things that would make my toes curl. I was so lost in mental gymnastics that bordered on pornographic that I didn't realize how long I'd been staring, basically eye-fucking all three of them simultaneously, until Finn glanced up. He caught my gaze with laser precision, and that knowing glint in his eyes suggested he could read every single filthy thought racing through my head. ""See something you like?"" he asked, voice dropping to a register that bypassed my brain entirely and went straight to my nervous system. That trademark grin spread across his face like spilled sin while mortification crashed over me like a cold wave. My face flamed red, and I quickly looked away, mumbling something incoherent about needing to get back to work.""I should... the other contracts..."" I stammered, backing toward the door like a deer caught in headlights. I fled the room as fast as my heels would carry me, my heart pounding so hard I was sure they could hear it. Damn it, I was supposed to be professional, not fantasizing about my bosses like some schoolgirl with a crush. My phone buzzed in my pocket, jolting me back to reality. The caller ID showed my baby-brother’s name. ""Leo?"" I answered, stepping into an empty office for privacy. ""Jas..."" His voice was shaking, barely above a whisper. ""I messed up. I messed up really bad."" The air seemed to leave my lungs all at once. ""What do you mean? What happened?"" ""I thought I could fix it myself, but they wanted the money immediately. They're not waiting anymore."" ""Leo, slow down,"" I said, gripping the edge of a filing cabinet for support. ""What money? Who wants money?"" ""I borrowed it,"" he said, his voice cracking. ""I thought... I thought I could help… But now these people—"" ""How much?"" I whispered, dreading the answer. ""Thirty-seven thousand dollars."" The number hit me like a physical blow and I slumped against the wall, my knees suddenly weak. ""Leo, listen to me—"" ""Harlow!"" A sharp voice cut through the office, making me jump. One of the senior assistants was standing in the doorway, hands on her hips and an impatient expression on her face. ""I need those media contact sheets for the Morrison project. Where the fuck are they?"" Looking from the phone to the woman, I felt panic rising in my throat. I closed my eyes, torn between my professional responsibilities and my brother's terrified voice on the other end of the line. In the end, survival instinct won.I need this job more than ever now. ""Leo,"" I whispered urgently into the phone, ""I have to go. We'll talk about this at home tonight, okay?"" ""But Jas—"" ""Tonight,"" I said firmly, then hung up before I could change my mind. I slipped the phone back into my pocket and looked up at the assistant with a forced smile. ""The Morrison materials are on my desk. I'll get them for you right now."" As I walked back to my workstation, my legs felt unsteady. Everything around me looked the same, the familiar chaos of the office, the stacks of paperwork, the framed photos of Grammy winners on the walls, but it all felt suddenly fragile, like it could disappear at any moment. My hands were shaking as I reached for the contracts, and for the first time in my life, I understood what true desperation felt like. Where the hell am I going to find thirty-fucking-seven damned thousand dollars? What will hapen next? 🫣 Read Virgin dot com now! 🔥

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“She’s not just my assistant. She’s the mother of my child.” Zayden Wolfe was cold, controlled, and untouchable ❄️—until he found out I was the one who disappeared after our night together… and that I’d kept his daughter a secret 💔. I didn’t mean to lie. I was trying to protect her. But now? He wants answers. He wants revenge. He wants me 🖤. This wasn’t supposed to be love. It was supposed to be survival. But now that the truth is out, there’s no turning back 🔥. Chapter 1 POV Jocelyn “Shit, shit, SHIT—” The words tear from my throat like a battle cry. My heel catches the elevator threshold like it’s personally offended by my existence. I’m airborne for exactly two seconds. Papers explode from my death grip like the world’s saddest confetti. My coffee launches across pristine marble flooring that probably costs more per square foot than I make in a month. My dignity? Already dead and buried six feet under. I hit that floor like a meteor strike, and somewhere in the distance, I swear I hear the universe laughing. “Smooth, Jocelyn. Real fucking smooth.” I’m scrambling on hands and knees, chasing scattered documents across marble that’s so polished I can see my own mortified expression reflected back at me. This is it. This is how I lose the only job that could save Mia’s life—face-first on the 43rd floor of some corporate palace that screams money and intimidation from every surface. “Ma’am, are you—” “I’m fine!” The words snap out harder than I intended, but panic makes me sharp-edged. The secretary behind the massive desk looks like she’d rather call security than acknowledge my existence. Her nameplate gleams in gold letters: Patricia. “Just… me versus physics. Physics won, I guess.” I’m hauling myself upright, while my hands won’t stop shaking, and it has nothing to do with the fall. Twenty-six hours at the hospital watching your six-year-old fight cancer will do that to you. Sleep becomes optional when your kid’s life hangs in the balance. Patricia’s mouth twists like she’s tasting something particularly unpleasant. “Mr. Wolfe doesn’t tolerate—” “Disruptions. Crystal clear.” I straighten up, trying to look like a functioning adult instead of a tornado survivor. The mantra starts looping in my head like a broken record: ‘Don’t mess this up, Jocelyn. You can’t afford to.’ Triple salary. The words dance in my vision like a mirage. Enough for Mia’s treatment. Enough for the experimental therapy her doctors mentioned in hushed tones. Enough to maybe—maybe—keep my baby alive and healthy. If I don’t faceplant again in the next five minutes. “You’re the new assistant?” Patricia’s voice could freeze hell over and charge admission. “That’s me. Professional disaster, at your service.” The sarcasm slips out before I can stop it, but I’m past caring. A door slams behind Patricia’s desk, and the sound ricochets through the space like a gunshot. Then he walks out, like he owns the world. Broad shoulders that strain against a charcoal suit, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that should be illegal. Hair that’s somewhere between gold and ash, perfectly tousled in that way that takes either professional styling or incredible genetics. Phone pressed to his ear, voice cutting through the air like a blade: “I don’t give a damn what Shanghai thinks. Fire them. All of them. I want new contractors by morning.” Then he turns and those eyes hit me like a freight train carrying a cargo load of holy shit. Green like sea surface, like emeralds, like every cliché poets use when they’re trying to describe something indescribable. They’re sharp enough to cut glass and focused enough to dissect my soul in under three seconds. Jesus Christ, he's beautiful in that dangerous, untouchable way that makes smart girls do monumentally stupid things. There's something about him. Something that pulls at the edges of my memory like a half-forgotten dream. I know this face or maybe I've imagined it a thousand times. The way he carries himself, that particular tilt of his head, even his presence feels achingly familiar. The recognition hits like déjà vu mixed with pure, undiluted want. “You’re late.” He ends his call with military precision, sliding the phone into his pocket without breaking eye contact. “Sorry, traffic was—” “I don’t want excuses. I want results and discipline.” His voice hits different. Low, commanding, with an undertone that sends weird shivers down my spine for reasons I absolutely cannot and will not analyze right now. “Right. Results and discipline. Got it.” My own voice sounds foreign, breathless in a way that makes me want to kick myself. He’s already moving, all purpose and controlled energy. “Conference room. Cunningham files. Twenty minutes.” “Which Cunningham files?” He stops. Pivots. Those green eyes narrow to laser points that could probably bore holes through steel. “The ones you should have reviewed instead of whatever kept you looking like you went ten rounds with a blender and lost spectacularly.” Ouch. Direct hit to the ego. “I was at the hospital—” “Personal problems stay personal. This is business.” Cold bastard. Beautiful, intimidating, completely heartless bastard. The next eight hours are psychological torture disguised as employment. Every order delivered like I’m an incompetent child who can’t be trusted with safety scissors. He criticizes my filing system, my coffee-making skills, my ability to transfer calls without hanging up on people. Nothing I do meets his standards, which apparently exist somewhere in the stratosphere. But I need this job. Mia needs this job. So I swallow my pride, along with several creative profanities, and do whatever Zayden Wolfe demands. Even when my body keeps freaking out around him. Something about him sets my nerves on fire, but I can’t figure out why. Maybe it’s just intimidation. Rich, powerful men have that effect, right? The whole alpha predator thing that makes normal humans want to either flee or submit. Basic biology. Except it doesn’t feel basic. It feels complicated and messy and terrifying. At exactly five o’clock, I bolt from that building like it’s on fire and I’m the last person to notice. Straight to the hospital. Straight to Mia. Straight to the only thing that matters. She’s awake when I slip into her room, dark curls spread across the pillow like a halo. Those huge light-green eyes, that came from someone I try very hard not to think about, light up when she sees me. “Mama! Look what I drew!” Another tiger. Always tigers. This one is orange and black, with fierce eyes and powerful paws. She’s been drawing them for months now, ever since she started the new treatment. Tigers in every possible configuration—sleeping tigers, prowling tigers, tigers with cubs. “Why tigers, baby?” She considers this with the seriousness that only six-year-olds can muster. “Because they’re brave and strong. Like my daddy would be if I had one.” My heart cracks clean in half. “Mia, sweetheart…” “I know I don’t have a daddy. That’s okay, Mama. But sometimes I pretend he’d be like a tiger. Powerful and protective. He’d fight the bad things and keep us safe.” My hand moves to the birthmark on my collarbone without conscious thought. Hidden beneath my collar, where no one can see, that heart-shapet spot that’s been there since birth. Seven years ago. A masquerade gala I had no desire to attend at first. Champagne and masks and a stranger who made me feel alive in ways I didn’t know were possible. Eyes that burned like fire. Hands that worshipped every inch of my skin like I was something precious. A voice that whispered praises like a prayer while he traced that birthmark with his tongue, calling it a lucky charm. I ran before he could wake. Before I could fall harder. Before I could tell him he’d changed my life forever in ways he’d never know. Somewhere in this city, that stranger is living his life—successful, powerful, probably married with a perfect family—while his daughter draws tigers and dreams of having a father strong enough to save her. He has no idea she exists. No idea she’s fighting for her life. No idea that every day she slips a little further away while he makes million-dollar deals and lives his perfect life. The stranger who gave me the most beautiful thing in my world. The stranger who never knew he had a daughter. Chapter 2 POV Jocelyn “I can do this. I can fucking do this.” Day three at Wolfe Tower and I already look like death warmed over in a microwave that's been broken since 2019. My reflection in the elevator doors: a woman losing a cage match with corporate America. My inbox is a digital nightmare: 347 unread emails since yesterday evening. Each one marked with varying degrees of urgency that range from “mildly important” to “the building is literally on fire.” My eyes are bloodshot from staring at Mr. Wolfe's cryptic spreadsheets until 2 AM, trying to decode notes that might as well be hieroglyphics. But here's the thing keeping me vertical: I'm still here. Still breathing. Still employed. Still getting paid while my daughter fights for her life twenty blocks away. Patricia doesn't look up when I stumble past her pristine desk like a caffeine-powered zombie. "Still here? Thought you'd be gone after Day One." The words hit like a casual slap designed to look accidental. “Surprise. Sorry to disappoint, I’m annoyingly hard to kill.” She finally glances up, lips curling into that familiar sneer that I’m starting to recognize as her default expression. Like she’s perpetually smelling something unpleasant, and that something is me. "We'll see." Before I can tell her exactly where to shove her attitude, Mr. Wolfe's door creaks open like a horror movie sound effect. "Ms. Hartwell." Two words. Just two fucking words, and my entire nervous system goes DEFCON 1. My spine snaps straight, shoulders tense, every muscle preparing for fresh hell. "My calendar's been misaligned since Singapore. Correct it. Then brief me on the Johnson account. Ten minutes." Door slams. I'm staring at expensive wood grain while my brain processes the impossibility. Ten minutes to fix a calendar that looks like a jigsaw puzzle made of chaos and time zones that shouldn't exist. Brief him on Johnson—which involves either a merger, hostile takeover, or both simultaneously. Mind-reading apparently comes standard with my job description. “Fantastic,” I mutter, speed-walking to my deskю. “Just fucking fantastic.” By noon, I’m pretty sure my soul has vacated the premises. Probably in the Caribbean drinking fruity cocktails and laughing at my life choices. Twelve-page report compiled from sources that didn't exist until I created them? Check. Lunch meeting cancelled five minutes after confirmation, requiring apology calls to three executives who think I'm clinically insane? Check. Presentation reorganized for a client that materialized like corporate magic? Double check with existential crisis. Then comes the executive luncheon. Crown jewel of corporate torture. I'm balancing espresso shots like I'm defusing a bomb—which, given the collective net worth in this room, I basically am. Hands shaking from exhaustion, three energy drinks that were definitely a mistake, and constant low-level panic that's become my baseline emotional state. A boardroom full of men in suits costing more than my entire existence. They're discussing quarterly projections with the casual intensity of people planning world domination. Almost to the conference table when Patricia appears like a corporate ninja. Her shoulder bumps mine with precision screaming "accident" while being anything but. "Oops." The word drips fake innocence. Tray tilts. Time slows to that special catastrophic slow motion where your brain catalogs every way this could go wrong while being powerless to stop it. Cups clatter like a ceramic symphony of doom. Dark coffee arcs through air in perfect trajectory, defying gravity just long enough for me to appreciate its mathematical beauty. Lands squarely down some board member's ivory blazer that probably costs more than my annual salary. Silence. The horror-movie kind where everyone dies next. Every eye swings toward me like I've announced I'm carrying a bomb. Then they turn to Mr. Wolfe. He doesn't even blink or scowl. Just complete indifference, like I'm furniture that's fallen over. "Clean it up." Ice-cold voice, not cruel—that requires emotion, just indifferent. Somehow infinitely worse than screaming. I grab napkins with shaking hands, moving on autopilot while my brain processes complete social annihilation. The board member glaring like I've ruined his genetic line. Patricia watching with barely concealed glee. Mr. Wolfe's already moved on. Talking Shanghai numbers like nothing happened. Like I don't exist. Later, in the elevator, I'm jabbing the close button like it owes me money when a hand shoots through the gap with reflexes suggesting athletic training or really good genetics. Mr. Wolfe steps in and suddenly the elevator feels coffin-sized. He's close enough I can smell cedar and something indefinitely masculine that makes my brain go inappropriately fuzzy. "Do you always fold under pressure, Ms. Hartwell?" His voice is quiet. The dangerous kind of quiet that makes smart people very nervous. "I was multitasking between your four emergencies while trying not to have a complete breakdown," I snap, because self-preservation isn't my strength. He steps closer. Not threatening—something else entirely. Something that makes my pulse spike for reasons that have nothing to do with fear. “Interesting.” One word. But the way he says it, looking down at me with those green eyes that seem to see straight through my skull—it’s like he’s cataloging something. Filing away information. The elevator dings. He steps out like we were discussing the weather instead of… whatever the hell that was. “Good night, Ms. Hartwell.” That night, I’m sitting beside Mia’s hospital bed, watching her draw with chunky crayons. She’s focused with that intense concentration only kids achieve, tongue poking out as she perfects her tiger’s stripes. Then she does something that makes me freeze completely. She drums her fingers against the bedside table. Three precise taps, pause. Three more taps, like morse code to the universe. Exactly like Zayden does during meetings when he’s thinking. “Where did you learn that, baby?” She looks up, confused by the tension in my voice that I’m failing to hide. “Learn what, Mama?” “The finger thing. The tapping.” Mia shrugs with casual six-year-old indifference, already turning back to her drawing. “I don’t know. I just do it when I’m thinking hard.” Wanna know what happens next? 🤭 Read My Boss, My Babydaddy Now! 🍼❤️‍🔥

Her POV: I was just a music assistant trying to survive, crushed by debt, haunted by my brother’s mistakes, and drowning in secrets 😞. Then came the Blackwood brothers, Liam, Asher, and Finn. Billionaire bosses. Cold, magnetic, and completely off-limits 🔥. I thought I was invisible to them… until I wasn’t. Until I auctioned my virginity to save my brother. And they saw it. All of it 😳. Now, I’m stuck between desire and shame, power and submission, and the terrifying truth: I might not survive this without losing everything, including my heart ❤️‍🔥. Chapter 1: Jasmine’s POV "Harlow!" My manager’s voice cracked through the hallway like a gunshot, silencing every conversation within earshot. Heads turned. No one wanted to miss the show. He stormed toward me, his eyes blazing, and jabbed his phone inches from my face. On the screen: the email I’d sent barely twenty minutes ago. “Is this a joke? Please tell me this is a joke.” My throat tightened as I scanned the message. There it was, the mistake. I’d written 10:30 AM instead of 10:00. A thirty-minute error. Fuck. “It’s just a small–” I began. “A small what?” he snapped, cutting me off. “A small fuck-up with a C-level exec involved? Do you have any idea what you just did to the schedule? Jesus, Jasmine, are you even capable of doing this job without tripping over your own incompetence?” The words hit like a physical blow. Fury coiled tight in my chest, but I forced myself to remain calm. This wasn't about a typo, this was about reminding me of my place. "I understand your concern," I replied, voice professionally neutral despite the storm inside me. "I take full responsibility and will ensure it doesn't happen again." He pulled out a thick stack of contracts, shoving them into my hands. "Take these to Conference Room A. The Blackwoods are waiting!" I gave a stiff nod and walked away, cheeks burning. It wasn't the first time someone had tried to put me in my place at Cadence Records. The thing is, I'm good at what I do. Exceptional, even. I navigate this chaos like I was born for it, juggling schedules, managing producers, keeping everything organized. I have a sharp ear for music and contribute to more projects than anyone realizes, but I'm invisible in the ways that matter. Just the girl who keeps the machine running.The moment I stepped into Conference Room A, the atmosphere shifted. Three men sat around that stupidly expensive table, and I immediately understood why my manager had been sweating bullets when he handed me these contracts. Liam Blackwood commanded the head of the table like he owned the building, which he actually did. Sleeves rolled up over forearms that belonged in a fucking gym advertisement, perpetual five-o'clock shadow that suggested he'd rather be anywhere but in a boardroom. When he glanced up, his green eyes held the kind of stare that made you wonder if he could see straight through your bullshit corporate smile to every dirty thought you'd never admit out loud. "Good afternoon," I managed, sounding way more professional than I felt. "I have the contracts you requested." "Thank you," Liam replied, his voice deep and smooth. "Just set them down here." Moving around the table felt like walking through quicksand. Every step is hyperaware, every breath calculated. I placed the copies in front of each man, and when Liam's fingers brushed mine—my brain short-circuited: Holy shit, he's gorgeous. Asher Blackwood sat to his right, and where Liam was a barely contained chaos, his younger brother was a polished control. Head of A&R, power radiated from his perfectly tailored suit, dark hair dark hair tousled in that ‘I woke up like this but actually spent twenty minutes with pomade’ way, and a jawline so sharp it could slice through my carefully constructed professional composure. His mouth lived in a permanent state of almost-scowling, like he was constantly annoyed by everyone's existence. "Anything else we need to know?" His voice was rougher than Liam's, gravel and smoke with an edge that sent shivers cascading down my spine like dominoes. "Standard terms are highlighted on page three," I replied, fighting to ignore how his stare made me feel completely fucking exposed. Like he could see every fantasy I'd never voice.Then there was Finn Blackwood, sprawled back in his chair with the kind of casual confidence that suggested he'd never encountered a situation he couldn't charm, manipulate, or fuck his way through. Their cousin, but he fit into their power dynamic like he'd been molded for it. Tousled hair that begged for fingers, shirt unbuttoned just enough to be borderline inappropriate, and that trademark smile—the kind that could talk nuns into strip clubs. No instruction to leave, so I stood there like an idiot, trapped in professional purgatory while they reviewed documents. But my eyes had developed a mind of their own, cataloging every detail despite every rational neuron screaming to look anywhere else. These weren't just my bosses—they were legends walking around in human suits. Powerful, successful, completely out of my twenty-five-years-old-virgin league in every conceivable way. Yet that didn't stop my brain from diving headfirst into dangerous, completely inappropriate territory. What would it feel like to run my fingers through Asher's hair? Mess up that controlled perfection? Would he lose that calculated composure if I pushed the right buttons? That man Liam—fuck, would that raw intensity translate into other areas? Those hands on my skin, that barely contained energy focused entirely on making me fall apart? And Finn... Jesus Christ. With that lazy smile and those knowing eyes, I could practically hear him whispering things that would make my toes curl. I was so lost in mental gymnastics that bordered on pornographic that I didn't realize how long I'd been staring, basically eye-fucking all three of them simultaneously, until Finn glanced up. He caught my gaze with laser precision, and that knowing glint in his eyes suggested he could read every single filthy thought racing through my head. "See something you like?" he asked, voice dropping to a register that bypassed my brain entirely and went straight to my nervous system. That trademark grin spread across his face like spilled sin while mortification crashed over me like a cold wave. My face flamed red, and I quickly looked away, mumbling something incoherent about needing to get back to work."I should... the other contracts..." I stammered, backing toward the door like a deer caught in headlights. I fled the room as fast as my heels would carry me, my heart pounding so hard I was sure they could hear it. Damn it, I was supposed to be professional, not fantasizing about my bosses like some schoolgirl with a crush. My phone buzzed in my pocket, jolting me back to reality. The caller ID showed my baby-brother’s name. "Leo?" I answered, stepping into an empty office for privacy. "Jas..." His voice was shaking, barely above a whisper. "I messed up. I messed up really bad." The air seemed to leave my lungs all at once. "What do you mean? What happened?" "I thought I could fix it myself, but they wanted the money immediately. They're not waiting anymore." "Leo, slow down," I said, gripping the edge of a filing cabinet for support. "What money? Who wants money?" "I borrowed it," he said, his voice cracking. "I thought... I thought I could help… But now these people—" "How much?" I whispered, dreading the answer. "Thirty-seven thousand dollars." The number hit me like a physical blow and I slumped against the wall, my knees suddenly weak. "Leo, listen to me—" "Harlow!" A sharp voice cut through the office, making me jump. One of the senior assistants was standing in the doorway, hands on her hips and an impatient expression on her face. "I need those media contact sheets for the Morrison project. Where the fuck are they?" Looking from the phone to the woman, I felt panic rising in my throat. I closed my eyes, torn between my professional responsibilities and my brother's terrified voice on the other end of the line. In the end, survival instinct won.I need this job more than ever now. "Leo," I whispered urgently into the phone, "I have to go. We'll talk about this at home tonight, okay?" "But Jas—" "Tonight," I said firmly, then hung up before I could change my mind. I slipped the phone back into my pocket and looked up at the assistant with a forced smile. "The Morrison materials are on my desk. I'll get them for you right now." As I walked back to my workstation, my legs felt unsteady. Everything around me looked the same, the familiar chaos of the office, the stacks of paperwork, the framed photos of Grammy winners on the walls, but it all felt suddenly fragile, like it could disappear at any moment. My hands were shaking as I reached for the contracts, and for the first time in my life, I understood what true desperation felt like. Where the hell am I going to find thirty-fucking-seven damned thousand dollars? What will hapen next? 🫣 Read Virgin dot com now! 🔥

“You’ll forget her soon,” she whispered. He didn’t answer. He tossed me aside for strategy. Humiliated me. Replaced me 💔. But when I put on my father's ring, Dorian’s ring, Matteo’s hands started to shake 🖤😏. He thought I was weak, disposable. But now the Verrellis know who I am. And my name makes them tremble 👑. I’m not here to cry over a lost husband. I’m here to watch my enemies burn ❤️‍🔥. Chapter 1 Serafina “Matteo, please.” My voice cracks like I’m some desperate teenager instead of a grown woman in a designer gown. “Just… look at me. Really look at me.” He doesn’t even glance up from adjusting his platinum cufflinks—the ones I bought him for our first anniversary. His dark hair is perfectly styled, not a strand out of place, because God forbid Matteo Verrelli looks anything less than immaculate. Sharp jaw, those cold gray eyes that used to make my stomach flip, now they just make me nauseous. He’s all sharp angles and expensive suits, like he was carved from marble by some twisted artist who forgot to add a soul. “I’m busy, Serafina.” His voice is flat, dismissive. Like I’m the help asking for a raise. “When aren’t you busy?” I’m standing in our bedroom—correction, his bedroom that I happen to sleep in—wearing this ridiculous emerald silk dress that cost more than most people’s cars. The color brings out my dark eyes, makes my olive skin glow. At least, that’s what I used to think. Now I feel like I’m playing dress-up in someone else’s life. “I love you.” The words tumble out like a confession, desperate and pathetic. “I know this marriage started as… business, but I love you. I have for two years now, and I just need to know if there’s any part of you that could—” “No.” One word. Two letters. Complete annihilation. “No.” He straightens his tie, checks his Rolex. “We have an arrangement, Serafina. Don’t complicate it with… feelings.” Feelings. Like love is some inconvenient side effect I caught from drinking the wrong water. The family dinner that night is a masterclass in psychological warfare. Viviana sits at the head of the table like a queen presiding over an execution, her perfectly coiffed silver hair catching the candlelight. She’s been sharpening her claws on me for three years, and tonight she’s going for the throat. Viviana Verrelli—born Viviana Rossi, daughter of a minor tobacco baron—clawed her way into this family forty years ago by being prettier and more ruthless than anyone else. She’s spent decades perfecting the art of destroying other women while maintaining her saintly facade. Started with Matteo’s father’s first wife, who mysteriously developed a “drinking problem” and died in a car accident. Then moved on to systematically eliminating every female threat to her position. I’m just the latest in a long line of casualties. “Serafina, cara,” she begins, voice dripping with fake sweetness, “perhaps you should see Dr. Martinelli again. About your… fertility issues.” The words hit like a slap. “I don’t have fertility issues.” “Then why,” Bianca chimes in, twirling her pasta like she’s discussing the weather, “haven’t you given us an heir? Three years is plenty of time, don’t you think?” Bianca Verrelli—twenty-eight, Matteo’s younger sister, and living proof that privilege can create monsters. She’s got everything handed to her on a silver platter but still needs to destroy other people for sport. Looks like she stepped off a Milan runway—all sharp cheekbones and predatory grace, dark hair swept into a perfect chignon. She moves like she owns every room she enters, which technically she does since Daddy owns half of northern Italy. Her specialty is psychological warfare disguised as sisterly concern. She’s the one who “accidentally” invited Matteo’s ex-girlfriend to our wedding anniversary dinner. The one who “forgot” to tell me about the dress code at family events, leaving me underdressed and humiliated. The one who spreads rumors about my “instability” to anyone who’ll listen. “Maybe she’s not trying hard enough,” Bianca rumbles from her chair, not even looking up from her wine. “In our family, wives always understood their duties.” My face burns. “I understand my duties perfectly.” “Do you?” Viviana’s smile could freeze hell. “Because from where I sit, you’ve been quite the disappointment. No children, no connections of value, no skills beyond looking pretty at parties.” “I graduated summa cum laude from—” “From a state school,” Bianca interrupts with a laugh. “How… quaint.” Matteo says nothing. Just cuts his veal like we’re discussing the weather instead of dissecting my worth as a human being. “Perhaps,” Viviana continues, “it’s time to reconsider this arrangement. The Costello girl from Naples is quite lovely, and her father owns—” “Enough.” Matteo’s voice cuts through the tension. “Serafina and I will handle our marriage privately.” My heart does this stupid little flutter of hope. Maybe he does care. Maybe— “Actually,” he continues, setting down his knife, “I’d like to have dinner with you tomorrow night. Just us. We need to talk.” I spend the entire next day in a pathetic state of hope. Maybe this is it. Maybe he’s finally going to fight for us. I get my hair done, buy a new dress—red silk that hugs every curve—and actually let myself believe that three years of marriage might mean something. The restaurant is perfect. Intimate. Candlelit. The kind of place where proposals happen and marriages get saved. “You look beautiful,” Matteo says when I arrive, and for a moment, I see the man I fell in love with. “Thank you.” I slide into the booth, heart hammering. “This is nice. It’s been so long since we—” “Serafina, there’s someone I want you to meet.” The words hit me like ice water. “What?” That’s when she appears. Tall, blonde, absolutely stunning in that effortless way that screams Russian aristocracy. She’s wearing a simple black dress that probably costs more than my car, and she moves like she owns the world. “This is Anastasia Vetrov,” Matteo says, standing to kiss her cheek. “Anastasia, my wife, Serafina.” Wife. He says it like it’s a job title he’s about to eliminate. “Pleasure,” Anastasia purrs in accented English, extending a perfectly manicured hand. “Matteo has told me so much about you.” I stare at her hand like it’s a snake. “Has he?” “Please, sit.” Matteo gestures to the chair across from me. “We have a lot to discuss.” “I thought this was dinner for two,” I manage. “It is,” he says. “For two people who matter.” The cruelty of it steals my breath. “Serafina,” Anastasia says, settling into her chair like she belongs there, “I want you to know I have nothing but respect for what you’ve done for the Verrelli family.” “What I’ve done?” “Your service,” she continues smoothly. “Three years of loyalty. It’s admirable.” Service. Like I’m the goddamn help. “But now,” Matteo says, reaching across the table to take Anastasia’s hand, “it’s time for the family to move forward. Anastasia brings connections we need. Political power. Financial backing.” “What are you saying?” But I know. God help me, I already know. “I’m saying our arrangement has served its purpose.” His voice is matter-of-fact, like he’s discussing a business merger. “The papers are already drawn up. You’ll be well compensated, of course.” “Compensated?” The word comes out strangled. “I’m getting married, Serafina. To someone who can actually help this family grow.” The restaurant spins around me. “But I’m your wife.” His gaze sharpens. “You still are. And now Anastasia will be too.” Will Serafina just agree to this? 🫢 Read My Husband Asked For A Second Wife Now! ❤️‍🔥💍

Her POV: I was the good wife. Three years, no scandal, no heir, no voice 💔. Then he brought her to dinner, tall, blonde, perfect, and called her his second wife 🫢. I smiled while they destroyed me. But I’m not some quiet pawn in their game. Because what Matteo forgot is who I really am: a Dorian by blood, a queen by birth, and a storm no one saw coming 🌪️. He wanted a new bride. What he got… was war 👑🔥. Chapter 1 Serafina “Matteo, please.” My voice cracks like I’m some desperate teenager instead of a grown woman in a designer gown. “Just… look at me. Really look at me.” He doesn’t even glance up from adjusting his platinum cufflinks—the ones I bought him for our first anniversary. His dark hair is perfectly styled, not a strand out of place, because God forbid Matteo Verrelli looks anything less than immaculate. Sharp jaw, those cold gray eyes that used to make my stomach flip, now they just make me nauseous. He’s all sharp angles and expensive suits, like he was carved from marble by some twisted artist who forgot to add a soul. “I’m busy, Serafina.” His voice is flat, dismissive. Like I’m the help asking for a raise. “When aren’t you busy?” I’m standing in our bedroom—correction, his bedroom that I happen to sleep in—wearing this ridiculous emerald silk dress that cost more than most people’s cars. The color brings out my dark eyes, makes my olive skin glow. At least, that’s what I used to think. Now I feel like I’m playing dress-up in someone else’s life. “I love you.” The words tumble out like a confession, desperate and pathetic. “I know this marriage started as… business, but I love you. I have for two years now, and I just need to know if there’s any part of you that could—” “No.” One word. Two letters. Complete annihilation. “No.” He straightens his tie, checks his Rolex. “We have an arrangement, Serafina. Don’t complicate it with… feelings.” Feelings. Like love is some inconvenient side effect I caught from drinking the wrong water. The family dinner that night is a masterclass in psychological warfare. Viviana sits at the head of the table like a queen presiding over an execution, her perfectly coiffed silver hair catching the candlelight. She’s been sharpening her claws on me for three years, and tonight she’s going for the throat. Viviana Verrelli—born Viviana Rossi, daughter of a minor tobacco baron—clawed her way into this family forty years ago by being prettier and more ruthless than anyone else. She’s spent decades perfecting the art of destroying other women while maintaining her saintly facade. Started with Matteo’s father’s first wife, who mysteriously developed a “drinking problem” and died in a car accident. Then moved on to systematically eliminating every female threat to her position. I’m just the latest in a long line of casualties. “Serafina, cara,” she begins, voice dripping with fake sweetness, “perhaps you should see Dr. Martinelli again. About your… fertility issues.” The words hit like a slap. “I don’t have fertility issues.” “Then why,” Bianca chimes in, twirling her pasta like she’s discussing the weather, “haven’t you given us an heir? Three years is plenty of time, don’t you think?” Bianca Verrelli—twenty-eight, Matteo’s younger sister, and living proof that privilege can create monsters. She’s got everything handed to her on a silver platter but still needs to destroy other people for sport. Looks like she stepped off a Milan runway—all sharp cheekbones and predatory grace, dark hair swept into a perfect chignon. She moves like she owns every room she enters, which technically she does since Daddy owns half of northern Italy. Her specialty is psychological warfare disguised as sisterly concern. She’s the one who “accidentally” invited Matteo’s ex-girlfriend to our wedding anniversary dinner. The one who “forgot” to tell me about the dress code at family events, leaving me underdressed and humiliated. The one who spreads rumors about my “instability” to anyone who’ll listen. “Maybe she’s not trying hard enough,” Bianca rumbles from her chair, not even looking up from her wine. “In our family, wives always understood their duties.” My face burns. “I understand my duties perfectly.” “Do you?” Viviana’s smile could freeze hell. “Because from where I sit, you’ve been quite the disappointment. No children, no connections of value, no skills beyond looking pretty at parties.” “I graduated summa cum laude from—” “From a state school,” Bianca interrupts with a laugh. “How… quaint.” Matteo says nothing. Just cuts his veal like we’re discussing the weather instead of dissecting my worth as a human being. “Perhaps,” Viviana continues, “it’s time to reconsider this arrangement. The Costello girl from Naples is quite lovely, and her father owns—” “Enough.” Matteo’s voice cuts through the tension. “Serafina and I will handle our marriage privately.” My heart does this stupid little flutter of hope. Maybe he does care. Maybe— “Actually,” he continues, setting down his knife, “I’d like to have dinner with you tomorrow night. Just us. We need to talk.” I spend the entire next day in a pathetic state of hope. Maybe this is it. Maybe he’s finally going to fight for us. I get my hair done, buy a new dress—red silk that hugs every curve—and actually let myself believe that three years of marriage might mean something. The restaurant is perfect. Intimate. Candlelit. The kind of place where proposals happen and marriages get saved. “You look beautiful,” Matteo says when I arrive, and for a moment, I see the man I fell in love with. “Thank you.” I slide into the booth, heart hammering. “This is nice. It’s been so long since we—” “Serafina, there’s someone I want you to meet.” The words hit me like ice water. “What?” That’s when she appears. Tall, blonde, absolutely stunning in that effortless way that screams Russian aristocracy. She’s wearing a simple black dress that probably costs more than my car, and she moves like she owns the world. “This is Anastasia Vetrov,” Matteo says, standing to kiss her cheek. “Anastasia, my wife, Serafina.” Wife. He says it like it’s a job title he’s about to eliminate. “Pleasure,” Anastasia purrs in accented English, extending a perfectly manicured hand. “Matteo has told me so much about you.” I stare at her hand like it’s a snake. “Has he?” “Please, sit.” Matteo gestures to the chair across from me. “We have a lot to discuss.” “I thought this was dinner for two,” I manage. “It is,” he says. “For two people who matter.” The cruelty of it steals my breath. “Serafina,” Anastasia says, settling into her chair like she belongs there, “I want you to know I have nothing but respect for what you’ve done for the Verrelli family.” “What I’ve done?” “Your service,” she continues smoothly. “Three years of loyalty. It’s admirable.” Service. Like I’m the goddamn help. “But now,” Matteo says, reaching across the table to take Anastasia’s hand, “it’s time for the family to move forward. Anastasia brings connections we need. Political power. Financial backing.” “What are you saying?” But I know. God help me, I already know. “I’m saying our arrangement has served its purpose.” His voice is matter-of-fact, like he’s discussing a business merger. “The papers are already drawn up. You’ll be well compensated, of course.” “Compensated?” The word comes out strangled. “I’m getting married, Serafina. To someone who can actually help this family grow.” The restaurant spins around me. “But I’m your wife.” His gaze sharpens. “You still are. And now Anastasia will be too.” Will Serafina just agree to this? 🫢 Read My Husband Asked For A Second Wife Now! ❤️‍🔥💍