Filed to story: Watch Out, I’m The Lady Boss (Eleanor & Sebastian) Book PDF Free
“I’m never marrying Shaw. Or any other sleazebag you dig up from your Rolodex of corporate creeps.”
Mum was utterly unfazed.
“You’ll fall in line. You always do.”
“You’ve already cost me my job. I don’t even live at home anymore. There’s nothing else you can take from me.”
Her smile was slow. Cold.
“Don’t be so sure. I can do plenty. You like your apartment, don’t you? Shame if your landlord suddenly decided your lease was void.”
My stomach dropped.
“And that best friend of yours… what’s her name? Yvaine? Her parents” little family business still depends on our supplier network. That could change. Fast.”
I stared at her, completely stunned.
“You wouldn’t.”
“Would you be willing to risk it?”
The way she said it, I knew-without a shred of doubt-that she meant every vile syllable.
Caroline Vance didn’t run a Fortune 500 company, but she did run my father like a high-end Roomba, and Daddy dearest was neck-deep in Skyline City’s business scene. If she wanted to destroy someone’s livelihood, all she had to do was give the word.
I didn’t have a choice. Not really. I couldn’t let Yvaine get caught in the crossfire of my family’s twisted drama. If someone had to go down, it wasn’t going to be her. (2)
So I went on the offensive.
“I can’t marry Shaw, because I’m already engaged,” I said, with the conviction of someone who absolutely wasn’t but desperately needed to be.
Mum actually blinked.
“You’re what?”
“Engaged,” I repeated, casually inspecting my nails like I wasn’t making this up on the spot.
“Met someone incredible. Very powerful. We’re getting married.”
Dad gave a little cough like he’d just woken up from a nap.
“That’s not possible. You were engaged to Daniel for years. You broke it off last week.”
“Well, it’s been a productive week,” I said, flashing my most deranged pageant smile.
“Turns out, I rebound very well.”
Mum narrowed her eyes.
“Who is he?”
“You’ll meet him soon enough,” I said, lifting my bag and stepping towards the door.
“I’ll bring him home for dinner sometime. And I promise, he’ll make your Leonard Shaw look like a budget haircut in a back alley barbershop.”
“Eleanor-“I left before she could start interrogating me.
Back at my flat, I flopped onto the sofa like a collapsing deck chair and groaned.
I was furious. Not just at Mum-though her high-handed, Machiavellian meddling had definitely earned her a prime spot on my personal hit list-but at myself. Because after all these years of therapy, wine, and telling myself I was immune to her manipulations… she still got under my skin like glitter in a carpet.
And now I’d gone and thrown a bloody fianc? into the mix like I was auditioning for a Hallmark Christmas special, minus the snow, the charm, or the actual fianc?. The woman would suss me out in three business days, max. Probably sooner if she skipped brunch.
I needed to make my little lie true. Somehow. I needed a man who oozed enough wealth and power to make my mum clutch her pearls and my dad reach for his investment portfolio. Someone untouchable. Impressive. Preferably with enough bite to make them both second-guess every smug word out of their mouths. 1
Too bad every eligible guy I knew who fit the bill was either married, morally bankrupt, or part of Daniel’s polo-playing inner circle.
“Shit,” I muttered, burying my face in a throw pillow.
Then, just as I was ready to spiral into a full-blown panic, a face floated into my brain.
I stopped outside his door, took a deep breath like I was about to skydive without a parachute, and knocked.
No going back now. Not unless I fancied throwing myself down the stairwell.
The door swung open almost immediately, leaving me zero time to panic or bolt.
There he was-in a suit. A proper one. Not the kind you wear for a Zoom meeting or to make your ex jealous on I*******m, but the sort that whispered “money” and “I don’t queue for anything, ever.”
He looked like he was on his way out.
Maybe a date.
Probably with someone tall, elegant, and dangerously immune to carbs.
Regret made a swift U-turn in my gut, and I took a tiny step back, already rethinking everything.
But then he gestured for me to wait. He was on the phone, looking very much like a man who closed deals before breakfast. He held up a hand, mouthed “one second”, then pointed inside.
I stepped into his flat, trying not to look too nosy while absolutely snooping.
It was about the same size and layout as mine, but the vibe was all different.
Where mine screamed “early-twenties chaos with a side of IKEA regrets”, his felt sleek. Understated. Expensive in that annoying way where you knew each item had a brand name that required a six-month waitlist and a blood oath.
Still, it didn’t feel lived-in. No clutter, no mess, no personality. More hotel suite than home.
Either he’d just moved in like I suspected, or he barely slept here. Which, fair enough. He didn’t look like the type who needed more than four hours of sleep or any kind of throw cushion.
Before I could finish my impromptu Cribs tour, he ended the call and turned to me, eyebrow raised in question.
Right. Time to stop gawping.
I pulled out the cheque I’d written and held it out.
“For the shirt,” I said.
“The one I sort of shredded during our, uh, you know… last time.”
He looked at the cheque.
“I don’t need it.”
“I know. But I do. Need to give it, I mean.” I set it on his glass coffee table.
He didn’t reply. And I suddenly had absolutely no idea what to do with my limbs. My arms were weird. My legs were traitors. The silence swelled between us like a balloon full of awkward.
Then he moved closer.
Just a step. Barely even that. But it was enough.
“What’s the real reason you came?”
I froze. Every muscle in my body tensed.
Being this close, I was forcibly reminded of just how tall he was-and how much he radiated that very specific, very male sort of danger. That raw, unfiltered, primal energy that made my instincts twitch like I was standing in front of something wild and untamed.
He wasn’t doing anything. Just leaning in, breathing the same air. But my pulse was suddenly doing parkour in my neck and my mouth was dry.
It wasn’t fear, not exactly. It was that same instinctual thrill you’d get if you were face to face with a leopard in the wild-well- fed, maybe, but still looking at you like it hadn’t ruled out dessert.
Even if there was glass between you and the claws, your body still clocked that you were in the presence of a predator.
My palms were sweating. My knees had opinions about gravity. My fight-or-flight response was going through a full-blown crisis.
All because this man, this maybe-dangerous, possibly-rich, definitely-hot neighbour was looking at me.
And here I was about to pitch the world’s most deranged idea: fake marriage. Casual pretend engagement.
Just your everyday “hey, can you be my incredibly powerful and slightly terrifying fianc? so my parents will stop trying to marry me off to the highest bidder?”
Yeah. No way this was going to come across as anything but completely unhinged.
To stall, I said, “You mentioned a proposal that time… back at the hotel? I didn’t really catch the details.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“That’s funny. Because I seem to remember I’m the one asking the questions right now, and you still haven’t answered me.”
Right. That.
My mouth opened, and before I could stop myself, the words just… spilled out.
“I want to marry you.”
There was a beat of silence. Then he blinked.
“I mean-not really marry you,” I added in a rush, the dam well and truly broken now.
“I mean yes, technically, but not romantically. It’s fake. A cover. A bluff. A strategic performance. My parents-okay, my mum-has basically gone full villain mode and is trying to auction me off to some obscenely wealthy fifty-year-old who owns like, half the shipping industry and is on the hunt for Wife Number Five, and if I don’t show up with someone even richer and more terrifying, she’s going to force me into some grotesque merger of souls and assets. I’ve got three days to conjure up a billionaire fianc? with serious scary-man energy, and the list of available candidates is currently: you.”
I finally paused to breathe, chest heaving like I’d just finished a sprint, which, emotionally speaking, I had.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t laugh. Didn’t call building security. Just studied me for a second like I was a crossword puzzle that had started solving itself.
And then he nodded.
“Alright,” he said.
I blinked at him.
“Sorry-what?”
“Okay,” he repeated, like this sort of thing happened to him all the time.