Vivian Holman despised the thought of working alongside Michael Salvatore, yet she had to admit he was right—Moretti needed another public face to weather this scandal. The company's nosediving stocks had finally steadied, and in the last week not a single investor had pulled out. Abroad, Moretti Homes still carried its polished reputation. Even so, Vivian feared Vincent would end up dismantling the empire without lifting a finger.
For God's sake, why was he tying himself to a woman drowning in suspicion? Vivian had assumed Vincent only wanted a one-night distraction—something to ease the weight on Hudson's shoulders. That, she could have excused. But flaunting the girl publicly and even giving her a position? That was reckless. Like throwing gasoline onto open flames, it was an explosion waiting to happen.
She exhaled heavily as she stepped into Vincent's office, briefly forgetting he no longer occupied it. The sight of Michael lounging in the armchair, rocking back and forth, jolted her. She forced a smile and advanced.
"Michael." Her tone was measured, trying to conceal her dislike, though it slipped through anyway.
"When exactly were you planning to tell me Vincent was being sued?" His voice struck like a whip.
Vivian blinked, taken aback by the bluntness. "It wasn't my place to say."
"Bullshit, Vivian. You run your mouth about anything and everything in this building, and the one time it actually matters, you bite your tongue?" His words exploded across the room.
"Calm down, Michael. Vincent is already handling it. What we—" she crossed to the cabinet of secured files, pulling free a stack of folders—"need to do is make certain there isn't a single document showing a twenty percent transfer of the company to Tracy." She laid the folders flat on the desk.
Michael's eyes narrowed. "And if one is found?" He held the silence like a blade.
Vivian's gaze sharpened with mischief. "Found what?" she asked coolly, her shoulders dropping as though she'd just slipped free of an exhausting role.
The two of them burst into laughter.
"You deserve an Oscar for everything you pull," Michael said, pushing up from the chair and striding toward her.
Vivian shot with a teasing laugh "Oh really" She cooed. "What can I say. It comes with being the most awesome secretary in the country."
She threw her arms around Michael's shoulders. The man sank into the table in a sitting posture. His long arms circling her tiny waist. He grabbed the soft flesh of her butt cheeks and squeezed hard.
"Ahhh." Vivian moaned softly. "You're being naughty." She whispered. Her breath hot on his ears.
Michael's hands slid over her ass, slowly down to her thighs. He yanked her skirt up. She moaned from expectation.
His finger disappeared under. It traced the thin fabric of her panties. Instantly her p*ssy became wet. She grabbed fist full of his jacket and threw her head back. She bit into her lip gently. "Ahhh" a moan escaped her throat.
The sound she made stirred fire in Michael. His body sprang up. He pinned her into the table. He ripped the panties off and his hands grabbed fist full the soft flesh of her ass. She giggled playfully.
His face planted into it. His tongue softly wetting the pink lips of her honey pot. She moaned loudly. Her heart racing.
She felt his tongue penetrate her. Her knees bulged at the surge of ecstacy. Her heart fluttered and she grabbed the table. Slushy sounds filled the room as his wet mouth devoured her down there. It felt like forever, hot, intense then it stopped.
She heard him unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants. She turned gently and sank to her knees. She smiled seductively.
He waved his long shaft before her. She had seen it countless times, but the sheer length of it always caught her breath.
A man of his age should be under performing, but it was the hard opposite. He was rock solid. Veins bulging on the shaft. She kissed the tip, and her mouth swallowed the first few inches of it. She gagged as it reached her throat.
His hands grabbed her hair and pulled her face in. She grabbed his thighs for support and moaned as he thrusted into her oral cavity swiftly. This was her hobby, taking his manhood like candy.
This was how they first met. Her memories stirred as the act transpired. It was her 6th year at Moretti, she had finally been prompted to secretary. From how the complex was laid she could see both Vincent's and Michael's offices from her desk.
Michael ogled her curves. At first she found it disgusting but slowly her dark fantasies got the better of her. One night when she worked late, she thought she was alone so she poured herself a glass of red wine and danced to an old school tape of Vincent's.
That was when she felt huge hands circle her waist. She looked over her shoulder to see Michael, and instead of pushing him away, her desires took over. She sank to her knees and devoured his manhood till he had the man shaking from intense orgasm.
Those memories were shoved aside as Michael pushed the entire length of his shaft down her throat. She gagged, coughed and her body shuddered. When her mouth was free she smiled happily. Her eyes tearing up. Michael yanked her off her knees and planted her into the table once more.
She gripped the edges and waited. Her heart fluttered at the thought. He thrust into her. The force slammed her into the table "ahhhh." She moaned sweetly.
He started to move his waist, soft strokes at first—then swift ones that she matched with the movement of her own waist. Pleasure erupted and filled her heart, sulking up to her head. For a moment everything blurred and she could hear nothing but the sound of his deep grunts, their skins slapping together 'Plat plat' and the loud sound of her moaning.
"Harder." She moaned. The thrusting seized. He flipped her onto her back and thrust into her again. She bit into her lips "harder."
His breath ragged. The strokes increased its intensity. And then— together they moaned atop their voices as they collapsed to the table, the sheer bliss of orgasm swallowed them.
***
I'm caught between two worlds: a vicious man I've been warned against, yet who holds me with a tenderness as soft as clouds. I bask in it—your arms keep my demons away. I want to be yours. But you're the devil, and I'm just a girl drawn to all the wrong things.
Music drifted through the condo—Halsey Mendez, Jennifer's favorite artist. The track was The Dangers in My Heart, her therapy whenever things spiraled. At first, it had only been that—therapy. The softness of the lyrics, the way Halsey's voice carried, calmed her nerves. But now it felt different. The words weren't just soothing; they were hers. She carried Halsey's fears as if they were her own. It was like holding a burning torch and daring to play with it.
Vincent's image cut into her thoughts. Her breath grew shallow, and she collapsed onto her bed. To her disbelief, her hands began to move over her own body—gently, purposefully, in the right places. It was supposed to feel good, supposed to be enough when she touched herself. But time was cruel. The memory of men's haunting faces lingered—men who had only desired her for the pocket change they flaunted.
She sat up abruptly and shut the music off. Silence swallowed the room. She had waited, expecting to see a broadcast of Vincent tearing through reporters like a beast. But four days had passed. No broadcast. No call. Only silence. Maybe he had finally grown tired of her. The thought gnawed at her.
And always, when she thought of Vincent, Voss appeared in her mind as well. They felt like two sides of a coin she couldn't let go of—one always breaking her, the other always shielding her.
She exhaled hard. What more could possibly happen? Her reputation was already unraveling in front of the world. Voss's threats were more real now, and the only man who had shown a flicker of care had vanished for four days, right after saving her.
She pulled open a drawer and withdrew the yellow file.
Her eyes scanned the contract once more before she picked up her phone. Without hesitation, she dialed. It rang once. By the second, it was answered.
"Felicity Lourdes' office. How may we help you?" The receptionist's voice was crisp, rehearsed.
Jennifer hesitated. "I have an appointment with her," she murmured.
"Your name, ma'am?" The voice was polite. Jennifer's chest tightened as she whispered, "Jennifer Lawrence." Silence followed. She heard pages flipping, then the receptionist returned in a rush.
"I'll connect you right away. Please hold." The line went quiet. When it came alive again, Jennifer knew the voice instantly.
"Jennifer! And here I was thinking my day couldn't get any better." Felicity's joy spilled through the receiver.
Jennifer bit her lip, blurting quickly, "Is that offer still up?" Her voice wavered, heavy with doubt.
"Of course, darling. It's still up." Even through the phone, Jennifer could tell Felicity had stood.
"When can I come by?"
"I can send someone immediately, if you like."
Jennifer accepted politely before ending the call. She had bathed that morning and saw no reason to do it again. A quick touch-up in the mirror, a blue sleeveless summer dress, strapped sandals—and she was ready.
Barely fifteen minutes later, a car horn sounded outside. She peered through the window.
Downstairs, the driver opened the door with a bow. "Ma'am, Madam Lourdes asked me to bring you," he said smoothly. She nodded and slipped into the back seat.
Soon, they pulled into the lobby of Veloura Models. Felicity Lourdes was already waiting at the vast glass doors. As Jennifer approached, she was surprised by Felicity's warm hug.
"With a face like yours, I understand why men like Solomon needed seven hundred wives," Felicity teased.
Jennifer's cheeks burned. Felicity smiled at her blush. Good. If they blush, they can crush, she thought. "Come." She led the way inside, Jennifer trailing close behind.
The first step into the building felt like tumbling into Wonderland. The lobby buzzed with dozens of workers, none idle—some sketching designs, others bent over sewing machines, still others rolling out luxurious fabrics. Jennifer realized then that Felicity wasn't only a modeling mogul; she ran her own fashion brand as well.
Felicity stopped before a mannequin and gestured.
"This," she pointed to a sleeveless, jewel-encrusted knee-length gown, "is the piece that slapped Louis Vuitton and Versace at last year's show." Her pride was unmistakable.
Her expression dimmed. "Sadly, Abigail—my top model—was diagnosed with stage three cancer." The words carried quiet resignation.
The elevator carried them upward. More people, more dresses.
"All the young women who've auditioned these past eight months failed to give me what I needed. They think it's about replacing Abigail, but it isn't." She turned to Jennifer. "What I want is fire. Untapped potential. Eyes that tell a thousand stories." She chuckled. "It's never just about curves or skin tone."
Jennifer nodded as though she understood.
"Every tailored piece tells a story. A model's job is to narrate that story with her body. Fashion is its own language." Her hand trailed across violet linen.
"Good work, Cassandra," she praised one of the designers. The girl beamed, cheeks coloring. "Thank you, ma'am."
Felicity gestured to the gown. "And what do you call this piece?"
Jennifer studied it. The fabric flowed over one shoulder, leaving the other bare, the hem sweeping the opposite direction, forming an elegant S. The designer adjusted her glasses, hugging her notepad to her chest. "Widow's Wail," she said, pride flickering across her lips.
"Widow's Wail," Felicity repeated with flair. She turned to Jennifer, waiting for her response. Jennifer saw it instantly—the gown was like two eyes crying, its opposing lines flowing like tears. The name fit, heavy with emotion.
They moved on, Cassandra now part of the tour. In the west wing, chaos reigned—lines of gowns, voices overlapping, measuring tapes flashing.
"Someone get me Cookie!" Felicity called. At once the room hushed. From behind a rack stepped a thin man with slicked-back hair, tight jeans cinched by a jeweled belt, a body-hugging leather jacket, and so many rings he could rival Frodo. His hips swayed as he walked.
"Madam Lourdes," he greeted, his voice softer and more feminine than his appearance.
Then his eyes landed on Jennifer. He gasped. "Oh my God. Iz zis zhe garrrrl!"
He tiptoed to her, touching her hair, her hands, her jawline with delight.
Jennifer stiffened, glancing nervously at Felicity, who nodded reassuringly.
"Vhen do ve starrrt?" Cookie demanded, turning back to Felicity, impatience seeping through.
Felicity looked at Jennifer once more, waiting for her answer.
Jennifer's thoughts darted to Voss and Tracy—the ones bent on ruining her—and then to Vincent, who had saved her without asking for anything in return. If this was a way to repay him, then she would give it her all.
Her gaze locked with Felicity's, and she nodded softly.