by Kara Chase
Before you get any ideas, know that it’s hardly my fault. Most men simply aren’t equipped to deal with a real woman, and they either freak out and meltdown, or they can’t help themselves and become a whipped shadow of who they used to be.
As you can imagine, that leaves Mark with a Sahara score on the Vivian-turn-on scale. And once a men’s score is that low...well, time for an execution.
I mean, a breakup. Sorry; sometimes I get carried away.
“Mark,” I say.
Without a word more, I look into his eyes. I don’t crack a smile, and I don’t move an inch. Before long, he hesitantly takes his seat at the table and only then do I sit across him.
“Is everything okay, babe?” he asks, his voice cracking a little.
His eyes are as large as plates, and I can almost see his heart racing underneath his shirt. He looks like a puppy on his first visit to the vet. It’s just...pathetic.
Now, don’t think I’m a heartless bitch. Yeah, I despise weakness, I won’t lie to you; the thing is, most weak men are also pathetic weasels.
Take Mark, for instance; he thinks I don’t know, but the asshole has cheated on me...and he paid for it.
Yup, some men need to go that low so that they can feel manly again.
“To start with, my name is Vivian Sweet. Not babe.”
My voice is as cold as ice, and that makes him sit up straight.
“What are you—”
“Read this, and sign it,” I tell him, taking a few documents out of my handbag and pushing them across the table.
In big bolded letters, the heading reads TERMINATION AGREEMENT.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” he mutters as he picks the papers up, his jaw dropping.
His hands are trembling, and his face looks ghostly white. To anyone looking, it must seem like Vivian Sweet has just handed someone a life sentence signed by the Supreme Court.
Yeah, I do have a reputation.
“Just read it and sign it, Mark. I don’t want to be here for long.”
As he starts leafing through the document, I lean back against my seat and look around the room.
As usual, the place is packed. Elbows are rubbing, shady deals are taking place, and million-dollar contracts are being agreed upon. And all that while a river of the most expensive wine and whisky money can buy keeps on flowing.
I let a slight smile dawn on my lips. It doesn’t matter what the Manhattan elite is up to—sooner or later, they all come knocking.
It’s the same with men, really. I’ve been through my share of relationships, you know, and it doesn’t matter how strong a man pretends to be: sooner or later, they all come knocking.
Too bad all men seem scared of a woman capable of standing on her own two feet.
“You BASTARD!” a woman screams from the other side of the restaurant.
Curious, I do what everyone is doing and turn around on my seat. I’ve heard there’s one asshole client always causing some drama in here every two weeks or so, but I’ve never actually witnessed it.
“I WILL NOT CALM DOWN! YOU LIED TO ME!” the woman continues screaming.
She has her back to me, and she’s blocking her date from view. Probably that mythical asshole. Judging by the slight pause between outbursts, the guy seems to be responding to her—but he must be doing it calmly, because I sure as hell can’t hear him.
All of a sudden, she stands up and throws a wine glass toward the guy she’s with.
“And that’s for saying thank you to FUCKING ME IN THE ASS!”
Oh, this is getting interesting. Even Mark has stopped reading the termination engagement, and he’s looking over my shoulders at the crazy couple battling it out.
For a moment, the woman seems as if she’s about to jump over the table and choke the shit out of the guy. Lucky for him, two waiters pop up out of nowhere and restrain her. After a string of f-bombs, she finally gives up and storms out of the restaurant.
As she leaves, I finally get a glimpse of the man at her table. Chiseled jaw, cocky smile, and a suit that seems like his second skin.
The perfect douchebag.
I don’t know what he did to that woman but, if I were in her shoes, his balls would be sitting inside my Fendi bag right now.
Suddenly, the head waiter approaches his table and hands him another suit coat to replace his ruined one.
What kind of asshole keeps a second suit at a restaurant? Seems like someone is really going for the gold at the Douchebag Olympics.
“Viv, babe...don’t let that be us,” I hear someone crying, and it takes me a second to realize that it’s Mark.
Oh, Christ. I hate it when men think that losing their spines will earn them the right to worm their way into a woman’s heart.
No, crying will not win you my heart. And it certainly won’t get you in my pants.
“That won’t be us, because you’re going to sign the agreement, and that’ll be the end of it,” I say.
“Babe, please...I know I haven’t been perfect, but...but...I love you, I love you so much.”
“Is that so?” I ask him.
By now, I’m already getting bored of this soap opera moment.
“Yes…I did something horrible, Vivian. Is this about that?”
“About what, Mark?”
“I...I had a...thing...with a woman.”
“By that, you mean you cheated on me with a Thai prostitute?”
Yup, that’s Mark. Isn’t he the sweetest of guys?
His face turns as red as the surface of Mars, and then he lowers his eyes to the floor. Just like a scolded puppy.
“It was...a moment of weakness,” he finally sobs, tears streaming down his face. “But after I did that, I realized how much I love you! You’re the world to me, Vivian!”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I sigh.
He gets nine points for being a douchebag, and then ten for being a drama queen.
Suddenly, my phone vibrates inside my bag. I reach for it and unlock it. It’s a text from my real estate broker, and the guy has some really good news for me.
Seems like my night can still end on a high note.
Mark is still blabbering something, but my mind is already someplace else. I stand up and sling my handbag over my shoulder.
“Just get that signed and send it to my office,” I tell him, and then I turn on my heels to leave.
“What the—?” I start as I feel something clutching at the hem of my dress. I turn around to see Mark on his knees, sobbing like a little girl and grabbing my dress.
“Please, Vivian! I’ll do anything, anything at all!”
Pursing my lips, I stop myself from kicking him in the balls. But then I think of his five-inch cock and his string of poor performances between the sheets, and I realize that I don’t want to have anything to do with his balls anymore.
“Let go.”
“No!” he sobs, louder now.
I swear to God, if he decides to make a scene, I’ll give him the slapping of a lifetime.
With both hands on my hips, I look around the room for some assistance. Luckily, the head waiter has already picked up what’s happening, and he quickly makes his way toward me.
“Seems like you have some experience with these kind of...situations,” I tell him, casually waving my hand at Mark.
Judging by the way he handled things with the hysterical woman from before, I’d say the head waiter is more than capable of handling a hysterical Mark.
“I do, Miss Sweet,” he tells me, all business-like, and then turns to Mark. “Sir, no begging allowed in the premises.”
Ouch, that had to hurt. I like his style.
“What?” Mark asks, looking up at the waiter completely dumbfounded.
“I...I’m not begging,” he continues, wiping the tears from his face with the back of his hand. “I just need a second. Where’s the restroom?”
“That way.”
Nonchalantly, the waiter points to the ladies room.
&nb
sp; I almost lose it at that. I actually have to do an effort not to laugh out loud. Mark is acting like a bitch, so he’s being treated accordingly.
I love it.
“Thank you,” I mouth at the waiter before leaving, and he just nods at me in return.
Strutting my way out of the restaurant, I have already forgotten about Mark. I have a meeting I need to get to.
A very important meeting.
Chapter Three
Lucien
“Mr. Parker!”
“In the flesh,” I say, grinning at the cute receptionist.
“I hope you’re not working after-hours because of me,” I tell her, even though I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what’s happening.
Caswell & Barnes might be the top real estate agency in the country, but I’m important enough to keep everyone in here working overtime.
“Oh, don’t worry at all. I’m happy to do it,” she chirps happily, never taking her sweet almond eyes from mine. She’s a cute one—high cheekbones, discrete makeup, and dark hair that cascades down her shoulders.
Her tapered waist seems like the perfect fit for my hands and for a moment, I can’t stop myself from imagining how it would feel like to slide my cock between those plump lips of hers.
What can I say? I’m a restless motherfucker. I might have just dumped my latest fling, but I’m more than ready to move on to the next one conquest.
“Mrs. Caswell is already waiting for you in his office,” the cute receptionist continues, and then she stands up and walks around her desk.
Her pencil skirt is a perfect fucking fit for her ass, and I have to do a mighty fucking effort to control my cock. Sometimes I feel like it has a life of its own.
“Lead the way.”
I follow after her, careful to take in the perfect curves of her ass as she walks in front of me. As she opens the door leading to Jonie Caswell’s office and steps to the side, I notice that she’s popped open the top button on her blouse, allowing me to take a peek at her perfect cleavage.
Fuck—too bad I’m here on business. If I weren’t…well, let’s just say I know exactly what I’d be doing in the next two hours.
“Lucien! So glad to see you this late,” Jonie exclaims, closing the distance between me and her faster than I can take a deep breath.
Before I know it, she’s shaking my hand eagerly.
“You sure must be glad,” I tell her with a cocked eyebrow. “You’re about to make a shit ton of money.”
Then, I just flash her a grin. She might be taking a few millions out off my pocket, but I’m getting something far better in return.
Jonie laughs and leans back, sitting her ass on the edge of her desk.
I take a look at Jonie. She’s been my real estate agent for the longest time, helping me keep an eye on this deal. She’s about three inches shorter than I am, despite being a few years older. Right now, she’s wearing a tight white pencil skirt to match a cream blazer.
It dawns on me that she actually looks pretty hot. Wavy blonde hair falls down her chest, perked up by a pair of good titties. And the pencil skirt’s short enough to give me a glimpse of her skin.
Damn.
“Well, I’d say it’s a good deal for the two of us, wouldn’t you say?” Jonie says, walking back behind her desk. “Besides, you’ll be part of the history books.”
“I thought I already was,” I laugh, my eyes dropping to see the fine contours her skin showcased by the designer clothes.
I reach inside my jacket pocket and bring out a check. I set it on the table, lowering myself down on a seat across Jonie. There’s a gold embroidered pen set on the table, and I grab it, getting ready to close the deal.
“One hundred seventeen million, right?” I say.
“Correct,” she tells me as I fill in the check with the down payment value and sign it.
I slide the check towards Jonie. She grabs it, lifts it up chest level, and flicks it with a finger. Her eyes glance past the check and lands with mine.
“Congratulations, Mr. Parker. As of now, you’re the owner of the most expensive apartment ever sold in New York City,” she says with self-satisfied grin.
Fuck. That feels good to hear.
In case you didn’t know, the most expensive apartment in New York City was located at One57—or should I say, the former most expensive apartment in New York City— and was sold by a hundred million dollars to some tech guy.
Now, that chump has the second most expensive apartment in town. And you know what they say about being second, right?
They’re just the first of the last.
Located at the Trident, the new Manhattan tower built with the elite of the elite in mind, my new penthouse apartment has two stories and over ten thousand square-feet.
In fact, I don’t even think it’s fair to call it an apartment. The fucking thing is a palace, and it’s located in the most exclusive part of New York City—where else but Billionaire’s Row, right on 57th street?
Fuck, I can’t wait to christen the place properly.
Perhaps with Jonie’s hot receptionist?
Or maybe even Jonie herself…
But now that I think of it, I’ve known her for too long. She’s basically a mother to me, with all the shit she’s provided—like my new fucking castle of an apartment for one.
“Where’s Jonathan?” I ask Jonie, looking around.
I’m actually surprised Jonathan Barnes, the other element of the real-estate dynamic duo, isn’t here to receive me. I just bought a penthouse for a hundred and seventeen million dollars, and I only get one of the senior partners?
What the fuck?
“Closing some deal, I take it,” Jonie simply shrugs, giving me an apologetic smile. “I’ve tried to let him know you were coming in, but I couldn’t—”
“Ah, fuck it. Not that it matters,” I say, cutting him short with a wave of my hand.
Who cares about that anyway? The important thing is I just got myself a place capable of instantly melting the panties of any woman I take there. Not that I need any fucking help with that, thank you very much.
“Keys?” I say.
Nonchalantly, Jonie retrieves a velvet box from inside a drawer behind her desk.
“There you go,” she says, handing me the box.
Taken aback, I open it to find the keys inside.
Shit, I’m more than willing to wager that this box cost more than what the average New Yorker makes in a month.
Ah, well, the perks of being a god amongst mortals.
“Well, if that’s all,” I say, getting up.
I offer my hand, and Jonie takes it and winks at me.
“Enjoy the Trident, Lucien,” she says.
She has a I-just-made-a-shit-ton-of-money smirk on her face and really—can you blame the girl?
“Oh, I fully intend to, Jonie,” I say, throwing her a smirk just as devious as hers.
I’ve been after this fucking penthouse even when the Trident was still in the works, and now that I have the keys for it on my hand, I can’t stop thinking about the glorious amount of pussy I’m going to destroy inside it.
As I walk through the Caswell & Barnes offices towards the door, the brunette receptionist throws me a sweet but embarrassed smile. For a fraction of a second, I consider bringing her with me to check out the new apartment, but then I shut that idea down.
This is something I’ve been trying to achieve for quite some time now, and I want to savor the moment by myself. Perhaps with a thousand-dollar glass of whisky in my hand.
Anyway, if later on I feel inclined, I can always head back out and prowl the bars for some pussy. Shouldn’t be that time consuming, at least for a guy like me.
What?
You think I’m an arrogant asshole?
You know what?
You’re probably fucking right.
Maybe I’m arrogant, and maybe I’m an asshole.
But the thing is, women love me for it. They love it so much that more ofte
n than not, they’re down on their knees before I even had the chance to ask them their name.
Hell, if you met me on the street, you’d fucking want me. I swear to fucking God. You wouldn’t bat an eye when I invited you to my new condo. You’d be on your knees, polishing my fucking knob as I played with your titties.
And if you think that I get all this pussy just because I’m a fucking rich bastard, well, think again. I could be fucking broke and living inside a fucking cardboard crumpled box, and I’d still get more pussy than anyone can conceive.
You see, babe, it’s all about the attitude...and I got plenty of it.
As I leave the Caswell & Barnes office building, I make a beeline straight for my Aston. I sit behind the wheel and, in just a few seconds, I’m cruising through the streets feeling like the king of the world.
It doesn’t take long before I see the silhouette of the Trident rising in the distance, the night lights reflected on its paneled glass surface.
It’s a fucking beauty of engineering—that much I can tell you.
By the time I get there, I hop out of the Aston and simply leave the engine running. The valet rushes to meet me, and greets me with a nod. I haven’t even formally moved in but if you’re driving an expensive piece of machinery, you can bet your last dollar that you belong in a building like the fucking Trident.
Besides, I figure Jonie has already called in to inform these guys who’s moving in.
Great. One less thing for me to worry about.
Truth be told, I’m so fucking excited as I get inside the elevator. Securing the deed for this condo has been hard as shit, and I can’t wait to actually slide my keys in the lock and claim it as my own.
I unlock the elevator panel with my magnetic key card, and thankfully, the ride to the eighty-ninth floor goes faster than I anticipated.
I breathe in deeply as I step onto the marble hall, and then I go straight for the door. As I reach for the key and finally unlock the massive double doors, I feel like a fucking little kid unwrapping his presents on Christmas morning.
“Hello, home,” I say as I walk through the doorway, taking a deep breath and allowing all this million-dollar rarified air to fill my lungs.
I close my eyes, savoring the moment, and that’s when I hear a voice cutting through my mental fog.
