Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 31800 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 159(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31800 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 159(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
You can be honest without being mean, you know?
Doesn’t matter if the other person deserves it.
My whole life, people have always said I’m nice.
And that I’m a good girl.
But ever since praying to God, all I’ve been seeing of myself lately is how I can be so much nicer.
And yet I choose not to be nicer...because if the world’s already fine with it, why bother changing?
If I’m not going to be canceled over it, and no one can ever see my mean thoughts, why should I feel bad about it?
I know what you’re thinking.
It’s so weird, right?
I prayed to God about being friend-zoned, but instead of telling me something about Vaughn, all I hear from Him is His gentle advice about how I can be better.
And speaking of better...
I bite back a sigh while hitting the Backspace key several times to delete the previous headline and give it another spin.
Predators in Business: A Closer Look at Corporate Power Plays
I know it’s bland.
But at least it’s not mean.
I go on working until my phone buzzes with its usual alarm, reminding me to do a little stretch and refocus my eyes on something twenty feet away. My stomach lets out a little growl at the same time, and mm...
I do still have some leftover lasagna in the pantry. Maybe I can reheat it for the fifth time—
Riiiing.
The sound of my work phone ringing jolts me in my seat.
Riiiing.
Who knew this thing was still working?
Riiiing.
It’s never a good thing when your work phone rings, and my heart hammers against my chest as I answer the phone.
“HR Communications, Scarlette speaking.”
A pause.
Then a voice pours through the receiver like expensive whiskey—smooth, silky, and strongly accented.
“Miss Hood.”
My spine snaps straight, the sound causing an inexplicable heat to rush through my veins before sliding lower to pool in places I’ve never felt this kind of warmth before. I press my thighs together on instinct, shocked at my body’s immediate response to just two words from a stranger.
I swallow. “Yes? Who is this?”
“This is Lykan Qahiri.”
I nearly fall out of my chair.
Lykan Qahiri?
The one I was just writing about?
The one whose corporate takeovers I compared to a wolf devouring innocent businesses?
That can’t be right.
“Are you still there, Miss Hood?”
That voice again. Like rough velvet. Like being awakened to sensations I never knew existed until this very moment.
“Yes,” I manage. “I’m here. I just wasn’t expecting...you,” I finish lamely.
“No, I imagine you weren’t.”
I glance at my computer screen in horror. At the half-finished newsletter with its thinly veiled attack on his business practices. The one where I specifically called out his downtown project as “predatory opportunism masquerading as urban renewal.”
Please God.
I know Lykan Qahiri is a lot of things.
But let him not be a hacker who knows what I’m writing.
Because if he was, then I’m doomed.
And fired.
Calm down, Scar!
My fingers tighten around the receiver. “How can I help you, Sheikh Qahiri?”
“As of ten minutes ago, I acquired Vista Lending.”
I blink. Then blink again, waiting for the punchline.
Calm down.
Anytime now, he’s going to tell me this is a prank.
“And the building you’re sitting in, in case that matters.”
What in the world is happening?
“You...I...” What do I even say to that? “Congra—”
My new boss (or boss’s boss?) doesn’t even let me finish.
“I’m calling because what you’re currently working on has caught my attention.”
Okay, seriously.
Somebody kill me.
NOW.
“Corporate wolves versus sharks, isn’t it?”
My stomach drops through the floor.
Actually, forget about finding someone to kill me...since I’m already dead.
Completely, utterly dead.
“I—that was just a draft,” I stammer, frantically clicking to close the document. “It’s not—”
“I expect you in my office in five minutes, Miss Hood.”
“Your office?” My voice comes out half-strangled. “But I don’t even know where—”
“Top floor. End of the hall.” He cuts me off, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Five minutes.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone.
The same phone that just delivered what might be the most humiliating professional moment of my entire career.
And yet...
And yet my skin still feels too tight. My face is still burning. My thighs are still pressed together like I’m trying to contain something embarrassing and unwanted.
Because apparently my body thinks getting fired by the most intimidating man in Manhattan is...exciting?
Five minutes, he said.
I grab my phone, my notebook, debate whether to bring my purse, decide against it because I’ll probably be escorted out by security anyway, and sprint for the elevator.
As the doors close, I catch my reflection in the mirrored wall. Flushed cheeks. Wide eyes. A strand of auburn hair has escaped my normally neat ponytail, the deep red contrasting vividly against my pale skin.
I look exactly like what I am: Little Red, racing straight into the wolf’s den.
Scarlette
I’ve never actually been chased by a bear, but I imagine this is what it feels like.
Heart battering against my ribs. Lungs burning. A primal certainty that something large and dangerous is about to devour me whole.