Chapter 2

Billie.

"Not only are you a crazy driver, but you're also a stalker! You followed me here. Creep!" I snarled, crossing my arms like I had just caught him red-handed in a crime drama.

"I'm not a stalker, you annoying little gremlin. This is my house. The real question is—why the hell are you here?" He shot back, his teal eyes narrowing.

I paused. Blinked. Then glanced around at the marble floors, fancy chandeliers, and the massive panoramic windows overlooking the city. Oh no.

In traffic, I had barely gotten a good look at him, but standing here now, a few feet away, I realized something terrifying—this man wasn't just good-looking; he was dangerously, ruin-your-life, sell-your-soul hot. Tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of face sculpted by the gods for no reason other than to make normal people question their self-worth.

I recovered quickly. "As you can see, I'm here to work. Now shoo before my boss arrives. I'll deal with you later, creep."

He arched an eyebrow. Why is he looking at me like he owns the place? There's no way someone like him is actually rich. Trust fund baby, maybe. Mafia prince, more likely.

"Did you just call me a creep? You're the one in my house."

I scoffed and mimicked his deep voice mockingly, "You're the one in my house." Then I narrowed my eyes and gasped dramatically. "Oh my God, you followed me just so you could peek under my skirt, didn't you? Pervert! I knew it! You probably have binoculars hidden somewhere. Gross. I need to leave before you start sniffing my hair or something."

Before he could respond, I strutted past him and into the elevator, flipping my hair for extra emphasis.

It was my first day, and I was feeling lucky. New job, fresh start, good vibes—then this creep had to show up, claiming to live here. He was ruining my good mood, and I wasn't about to let that slide.

Time to call reinforcements.

"Mrs. Smith, we have an intruder in the penthouse," I announced confidently. "We need backup."

She didn't even hesitate. Within minutes, I was marching back into the penthouse with Mrs. Smith and two burly security guards in tow, feeling very powerful.

The "stalker creep" sat on the couch, completely relaxed, scrolling through his tablet like he was the King of England.

"That's him," I pointed an accusing finger. "That's the creep who barged in and claimed this is his house!"

The room fell eerily silent.

Then, something very strange happened. Mrs. Smith and the security guards turned pale. Like, ghostly, see-through pale.

And then… they bowed.

Bowed.

At him.

Wait. WAIT.

This couldn't be happening.

I slowly turned back to "stalker creep," whose smirk was now the kind that said, "I own your soul now."

Oh.

Oh no.

I just accused my new boss of being a perverted stalker.

And there was no undoing it.

"Mrs. Smith, is this the new mannerless staff who has absolutely no idea who I am?" The so-called creep—now very much confirmed to be not a creep—said with the casual arrogance of a man who probably had private jets and an unnecessarily expensive watch collection.

I froze.

Mrs. Smith, looking like she was on the verge of fainting, quickly bowed her head. "My sincerest apologies, Mr. Knight. She's new and just started recently. I'll reprimand her immediately."

Mr. Knight.

MR. KNIGHT?!

As in Knight Industries? The owner of this ridiculously expensive penthouse? The CEO of the company that hired me? The very man I just called a stalker, pervert, and creep to his face?

I'm going to die. Right here. My heart is going to explode, and they'll have to scrape my remains off the penthouse floor.

"Very well," he sighed, dismissively waving a hand. "Take her out of my sight."

I gasped.

OH. SHIT.

I insulted my boss. On my very first day. At his penthouse.

I've prayed to every god I could think of for a job, and now I'm about to be jobless before my first paycheck even clears.

Mrs. Smith, looking both apologetic and severely disappointed in my life choices, dragged me away for a very long, soul-crushing lecture. I barely heard a word. My career was flashing before my eyes.

At home, I screamed into my pillow so hard that my neighbors probably thought I was being murdered.

This wasn't fair.

I did the rituals. I didn't step on sidewalk cracks. I threw salt over my shoulder. Why is the universe like this?

Resigned to my fate, I grabbed my laptop and started frantically applying to other jobs while waiting for the inevitable "Do Not Report to Work Ever Again" email.

I waited.

And waited.

And… nothing.

No email. No call. No security escorting me out of the building before I could even return.

I sighed in relief. Maybe—just maybe—I hadn't been fired yet.

Then, I checked my purse.

My phone was missing.

Which meant I hadn't actually been receiving any notifications.

Which meant there could be an email of doom waiting for me right now.

Panic mode: REACTIVATED.

~~~~~~

Lexus.

"No one would ever guess this place hosted a full-blown rager. Whoever cleaned up deserves a medal." Dane whistled as he strolled in that evening, looking way too pleased with himself.

"That was the first and last party you will ever throw in here," I snapped. "I had to book a hotel because of that disaster. Next time, throw your circus at your own place."

Dane smirked. "You know your birthday's coming up—"

"No. Absolutely not. No parties. Not even mine. Got it?" I cut him off.

He raised his hands in surrender, but I saw the wheels turning in his head.

Then, an obnoxious, high-pitched ringtone blared through the apartment like a dying goat.

"Turn off your phone before I launch it off the balcony," I groaned.

Dane frowned. "That's not mine. My ringtone is you yelling at nothing."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Yeah, I recorded you mid-rant and set it as my ringtone. Very effective, by the way."

I had no words. Just sheer, unfiltered regret that I allowed this man into my life.

But the sound kept going, vibrating somewhere in the apartment like a possessed alarm clock. I followed it and, tucked inside one of the shelves, found a purple-cased phone vibrating for dear life.

"Is it yours?" Dane asked.

I scoffed. "No, but I have a feeling it belongs to a certain pest that graced us with her presence this morning."

The screen lit up. Someone named "Stinky Pants" was calling.

I nearly lost it.

This menace actually named someone Stinky Pants. Respect.

I almost laughed, but I refused to let Dane have the satisfaction of witnessing my moment of weakness.

The elevator dinged, and in walked the little menace herself, still in her uniform. Her eyes immediately locked onto the phone in my hand.

"Hey, guys! So I left my phone here, and I'd like it back. Looks like you found it." She sauntered over with all the confidence of someone who hadn't just accused me of being a stalker hours ago.

I held out the phone, only to lift it above my head the second she reached for it.

"Hey! Give it back!" She huffed, jumping up to grab it.

"What if I don't?" I mused, thoroughly enjoying myself.

She glared, pouting. Actually pouting.

"Stop making me jump! It has my alarm on it!" she whined, then suddenly gasped.

Oh no. Here we go.

"You're making me jump so you can watch my boobs and ass bounce, aren't you?! You sick pervert!"

My tongue clicked.

"The only pervert here is Dane," I deadpanned.

Behind her, Dane stood, very clearly not defending himself. In fact, he looked like he was actively appreciating the scene before him.

Disgusting.

I sighed and handed the phone over before this escalated into something that would make headlines. She snatched it back and stomped toward the elevator.

As soon as the doors shut behind her, Dane turned to glare at me.

"Why did you give it back so soon?"

"Go to hell, Dane."

"Lexy, you just don't have luck with women, do you?" Dane smirked, swirling his drink.

I scowled, knocking back a gulp of whiskey. "Can you believe that little pest had the nerve to tell me to get out of my own house? Then she called security on me—said I was a stalker who followed her to her workplace."

Dane threw his head back, laughing like this was the best thing he'd ever heard.

I instantly regretted telling him.

"So that's your new housekeeper? Damn. She's kinda hot, though. Have you seen how good she looks in that uniform?" He whistled. "Feisty too. I think you've met your match, buddy."

I glared. "I hate her already. I don't even know who the hell hired that woman."

Dane settled into the seat across from me, his grin downright wicked. "Let's make this interesting. I'll bet you—stay for one week without firing her."

"One week?" I scoffed.

"Yep. Just seven days. You've fired five housekeepers in a row, man. Your patience is nonexistent. Let's put it to the test."

I raised an eyebrow. "And what exactly are the stakes?"

His smirk widened. "If you win, I'll hand over my custom-made Maserati, my villa in Italy, and my beach house in Miami."

Now that caught my attention. "And if I lose?"

"I'll give her a million bucks and leak your snoring videos to your little fan club. You know those girls would absolutely lose their minds."

I clenched my jaw. The Maserati. The villa. The beach house.

One week. Easy.

There's no way I'm losing this bet.