The CEO’s FORBIDDEN CONTRACT

I still remember the taste of him.

Not just his mouth the sweetness of champagne and sin, the weight of his stare when it pinned me against the velvet walls of that Paris hotel suite. The rough drag of his knuckles down my spine. The ache in my thighs. The warning in his voice when he said I wouldn't forget him.

God help me, I haven't.

That was two years ago. One reckless night. One mistake I promised myself I'd bury. He'd vanished by morning, and I swore I'd never chase shadows again. I didn't know then that Damien Valerius never lets go of what's his. I only found that out the moment I walked into the glass tower that bore his name and unknowingly stepped back into his trap.

But before that I was broke. Not a sad Instagram caption kind of broke. I'm talking landlord-banging-on-the-door, ramen-three-times-a-day, selling-my-last-designer-bag kind of broke and still I didn't regret quitting my last job. No amount of money could justify working under a man who thought "being professional" meant grabbing my waist at staff parties and brushing his dick against me while explaining spreadsheets.

So I walked out, head held high, bank account nearly empty and that's when the email came.