Table of Contents
Dedications
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
About the Authors
SPOILED
Written by
Erin Lee and Elizabeth Cash
Table of Contents
Dedications
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
About the Authors
Dedications
For every Cora and Micah out there determined to get what they want at all costs.
Play hard.
Chapter One
Cora
I let out yet another sigh as I stare at the nameless faces before me. Their black, grey, and navy suits all blend together and become one boring ass blur. This is my fourth meeting this week with these people, and it seems that none of them can comprehend just how replaceable they truly are. Like a fucking tissue. One pluck from the box and they are replaced with a new, fresh face that is just as smart and quick-witted. None of them have anything going for them. Mediocre lives and families. Shitty cars, knock-off suits, and small ass houses. If I had to guess, judging by how interested they are in whatever the guy up front is saying, I would say that coming here is the highlight of their day. Which is absolutely pathetic. I would feel bad if I actually gave a shit, but I don’t.
They're all useless. Each of them. Useless wastes of space hired by my brother to do his petty work which is too easy, even for them. But that seems to be too much for their small minds. Time seems to drag by as the guy on the other end of the table speaks about—I don’t even know what. I haven’t heard a word that he has said. I should be paying attention; I just would rather not. My mind is elsewhere. An unknown place, one unfamiliar and a tad scary, even for me. Getting to my feet, I drop the pen I have in my hand on the table and straighten my dark purple Gucci blouse and walk towards the door. All eyes are on me and one of them even has the audacity to clear his throat. I ignore the rude gesture, even though I’m being rather blatant myself, and continue towards the door. Just as my hand touches the silver handle that will allow me my freedom from this hellhole, a deep, husky voice stops me.
“Uh, Miss Graham? Where are you going?” Navy Blue Suit says.
I groan when I look at him. Sweat rolls down his wrinkled forehead, and his belly sticks out so far he probably can't even see his dick. His ring finger displays a shiny gold band, and I grimace. Who in their right mind would marry someone who doesn’t take care of themselves?
“We still have to discuss this week’s payroll and holiday bonuses.”
“You're boring me to fucking tears.”
With that, I walk out. I can hear the sound of jaws dropping over the sound of my heels clacking against the black tile floor. Black is my favorite color. Damn near everything I own is black, or some shade of it. Morbid, some would say, but the color to me feels like home. Dark, cold, sleek and sexy. Perfection. If someone can take the time to appreciate the true beauty in such a dark color, then they would know just how amazing it really is. Placing my middle finger on the glass barricade that now separates me from them, I glide it across the window as I walk by, my skin leaving ugly smudges. The cheap suit minions on the work floor part like the Red Sea as I walk by. At least these people know not to piss me off; that’s something small they have going for them.
When I get to my office, I shut the door and sigh. I seem to be doing that a lot lately, and it's annoying me to the point to where I want to crumple to the floor like silk does as it cascades down a slender body. I've never been so bored with my life before, and I don't understand it. I have everything a girl could ever want. Money, clothes, cars. Hell, I can walk out to any cubicle in this building and take my pick of any piece of dick out there, and they would be willing to fuck. I have several cars, so many clothes I make Norstrom’s look like Goodwill. My house is bigger than this part of the building. What more could I ask for? And just as that crosses my mind, Micah walks by my office. I bite my lower lip and clench my thighs. Something about Micah always frazzles me and leaves me breathless. A wet panty, drooling, breathless, hot ass mess.
As usual, he doesn’t even glance in my direction. Not even a nod or a wave. Prick. Micah isn't like the rest of the faculty here at Graham's Incorporated. He doesn’t go coo-coo for my cocoa puffs like the rest of the half-wits that aimlessly roam the floors, looking for something to do that will drive them up the social ladder. Micah doesn’t kiss my ass or shower me with the same old compliments that fall from the lips of those who surround me. He doesn’t bend over backward or pamper me, doing whatever work I tell him to. No. Micah has a select few people he interacts with, and unfortunately for me, I’m not one of them.
Micah actually ignores me, unless he needs something signed or whatever bullshit work related talk he spits out. He doesn’t fear me. He doesn’t melt against the wall when I walk by or smile at me like everyone else does. He barely even breathes in my direction. He is like Courage the Cowardly Dog facing the monster head on. The monster being me and by head on, I mean not at all. Luckily for me, being the CEO’s/founder’s little sister has its perks. One being that I have access to all employee files. I know more about Micah than he knows about himself. Because with the perk of having any employee file within reach, comes the perk of being able to run background checks and hire PI’s if needed. Money talks when you need shit to get done, and you don’t want to get your hands dirty doing it. I sigh, a-fucking-gain.
“Gah, Cora. Get a fucking grip.” I mutter to myself, getting even more irritated with each pitiful sigh that escapes me.
I know what will cheer me up. Reaching beside my desk, I dig into my black Kate Spade handbag and pull out the shiny, silver clasp wallet. I've had this thing since I was in high school and it has saved my ass one too many times from being dragged out of class for having contraband. I hated school, but I forced myself to go so I could get the education I needed to help my brother grow this business. I’m not dumb by any means. But education of any kind that doesn’t involve money signs can suck my clit because it's not worth it. My brother and I weren’t handed money growing up, contrary to what others may think. The so-called silver spoon people assume we grew up with had to be earned because our stricter than a drill Sargent parents said, “You aren’t a charity case, earn your worth.”
And so we did. We earned every penny, every dime, and every dollar. We started saving when we were in middle school because we knew one day we would have an empire behind us that we created.
Opening the wallet, I pull out a joint and light
it. Inhaling deeply, the familiar burn works its way down my throat and into my lungs. I close my eyes and lean my head back, enjoying the sensation that helps me forget when I need it most.
“Are you seriously getting high right now?” Derek says, stepping into my office unannounced, as always.
Derek Graham, A.K.A, the CEO and founder himself. My big brother. Always intruding in my life when and where he doesn’t need to.
“I am.” I reply, exhaling, watching the smoke billow out of lungs and back into the room.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, big brother?”
“You walked out of another meeting.”
His voice is calm, devoid of anger, yet stern. This is his “I am the boss” mode. I laugh.
“Jesus, Derek. Do they really need me for payroll and holiday bonus bullshit? Or are they too stupid to handle that shit themselves? It’s basic math with simple numbers.”
There goes my high.
“You are the head of my finance department. So, yes. Yes they do need you.” He says, taking the joint from between my fingers and putting it between his lips. “You don’t always have to be such a bitch, Cora. We didn’t build this company with brute force and attitude.”
A light smile dances on my lips as I watch my brother inhale and exhale. I sit straight, looking at him deadly serious.
“Are you seriously getting high right now?” I say, mocking his tone.
“You damn right I am.”
We both laugh. We look a lot alike, Derek and I. Yet we have so many differences. While my hair is pitch black and curly, his is dirty blonde and purposely shaggy. He sits right on the cusp of six foot, while I am on the shorter side, barely coming on at five-foot-two. His eyes are as blue as the Caribbean Sea while mine are whiskey brown. The rest of our appearance is just a spitting image of our father. One of the unwanted blessings we both share.
A knock catches our attention. And instead of stubbing out the illegal drug wrapped in watermelon flavored paper, Derek just turns and stares at the Micah, who, in turn, is glaring at the both of us. Through the musky scented cloud, and for the first time ever, I see his eyes. Dark brown. Beautiful.
“Can I help you?” Derek says, handing me the joint back. I barely catch it between my fingers because I am so caught up in Micah’s close proximity.
“I need Miss Graham to sign the bank forms for this term.”
He steps further into my space and the closer he gets, the tighter my thighs seems to clench. I would tear this man to fucking pieces like a fat kid in a candy store that was given permission to devour whatever he wanted.
“Cora?” Derek says, snapping his fingers and redirecting my train of thought.
“Riiiight.” I cough, “Hand them here, then, I will have Charles bring them back to you if I can’t.”
He drops the file on my desk and walks out without even saying thank you. If it were any other person, I would fire him before the manila folder even hit my mahogany desk. But he isn’t just any person. He is Micah. The man has a build like a lumberjack, towering over Derek by at least three inches and bulky. Whoever tailors his suits needs a raise. They fit him perfectly in all the right places. And while his body screams professional linebacker, his face says devilish and impure. He is the epitome of my definition of perfect.
I want Micah. I want him bad.
“As much as I would like to sit around with you and watch your eye fuck him, I have a job to do.” Derek says, getting to his feet and pats my back. “See you later at Carol’s fundraiser?” I nod as he walks out, closing the door behind him.
Our mother, Carol, throws big fundraising parties for whatever charity she feels is worthy of her hard earned money. I say her hard earned when in reality it’s my father’s hard earned money. He has always been the main breadwinner for our family. Before Derek and I moved out and created what we did, he worked his way up the food chain in his firm and now owns half of the company he works for. We were taught numbers at a young age because that’s all my father knew and wanted to talk about. My mother would sit there and stare at him with dead eyes and a forced smile, acting as interested as she could. Derek and I just listened because kids always listened to their parent's stories, boring or not.
Another sigh escapes my lips as the ever numbing silence burns my ears. I used to enjoy this. Sitting all high and mighty in my office, watching all the fear-filled eyes steal glances into my domain. Into my Queendom. I used to love having these people grovel at my feet and tell me I’m beautiful. It does nothing for me now.
I need more out of life. So much more.
I want more! So damn much more.
And as Micah walks by my office again, I know exactly what I’m going to pursue. Something I’ve never had, but always wanted, ever since he first walked into my department.
Micah. You poor, ignorant soul. Don’t you know I always get what I want?
Chapter Two
Micah
If I could sit in traffic one second longer, I just might shit myself with excitement. Every fucking day it’s the same damn thing. I fiddle with the knob to my XM radio. I never did learn to change the channels with the steering wheel controls. I’m not one for instruction manuals or even taking directions. But now, in stand-still highway gridlock, I consider digging through the glove compartment to learn how.
It would give me something to do. Anything would be better than another day of the same old, same old. All things would be better than thinking about her.
I’m not fooled. I’ve seen her kind before. Hell, I came from one of them. Michael Daniel Duclos—son of Matthew and Jennifer, the town slut who dragged my father into a financial hole so wide I had to major in finance to attempt to fix it.
Everything about my life boils right back down to my mother’s sleazy plan to trick my father into marriage. It was a trap he fell into happily, asking zero questions about my paternity and the guy he caught in their bed two weeks after he proposed with three month’s rent worth of princess cut ring. I’ve heard about it so many times that I can repeat the story in my sleep. Some nights, I do. It’s the beginning of a nightmare that has defined my life, so far.
I’ll never say I wasn’t warned. I know all about women like Cora—what they want, how they get it, and what it takes to keep them off. If I can just stay focused on myself, I won’t get lost. At least, that’s the plan.
Right now, I’d settle for any sort of plan that didn’t involve another twelve-hour day of crunching meaningless-to-me numbers. Back in grad school, when I was pursuing my degree, I thought it might be enjoyable—Micah Duclos, MBA, financial wealth investor.
Wrong.
As erroneous as Jennifer saying the words “forever” or “I do.” Mistaken, like any shot I had at the Ivy League the way my teacher’s promised back in high school. To be honest, my job is anything but pleasurable. In fact, it’s downright stressful.
When you’re playing with monopoly money or the five grand grant from TD Bank North in a college investment club, then, yes, it’s a heck of a lot of fun. I once managed to turn $500 into $20,000 playing penny stocks in the 2014 legalization of pot stock explosion. That was something. And it was exactly how I expected my career to be.
The problem is, when the money’s real and the economy isn’t working in your favor, investors turn on you fast. They blame us rookies for unexpected market crashes. We walk the line, between the bells, of promotions or pink slips. Exciting? Yes. Fun? Hell, no.
Fuck, no, even—like the kind I’d throw in Cora’s face if she even dared walk by me with that “can’t touch me” look in her eyes, flipping her long black hair and blinking way too many times. I don’t care whose sister she is. I never have and won’t start now. It wasn’t my choice for the firms to merge.
I don’t know what it is about me that makes people underestimate me. It might be my roots. They may sense that I’m the bastard child of a woman who can’t even be sure if the guy who raised me is my biological father. Maybe they can smell the le
gacy of big mistakes, naiveté and one-too-many “secrets for Mommy” all over me. It’s just a thing they do.
My boss, two positions down from Her Highness, double checks my ledgers, making me file extra reports to be certain I’ve made the right investments. I haven’t been off on an analysis in three years. Still, he watches me; like a vulture on prey waiting for me to slip up.
The only friend I have, a guy named Brady who I roomed with in college at Campbell University before he dropped out, still calls me on Thursdays just to be sure I made it home from the bar okay. Really dude? It’s only been five years. Still, he thinks I can’t manage on my own.
And don’t get me started on my folks. When Mom’s not off maxing out my father’s credit cards, she’s busy yapping at me—like I’m still twenty-years-old.
“But you’ll always be my baby, Mikey,” she coos at me.
I hate when she calls me that and mostly don’t respond. Cora isn’t any different than the rest of them. I know she watches me, but she assumes I’m too stupid to catch on. Nope. Wrong letter. Grab a vowel maybe. Try again, sweetheart.
I sigh, moving my Lexus up six inches closer to the bumper of the guy ahead of me. From what I can tell, he’s older, with salt and pepper hair which is exactly where mine will be heading if this keeps up. His bumper sticker, which reads “Support the NRA,” tells me to lay off. The last thing I need is some redneck getting pissed off and shooting at me. I have enough problems.
Tonight is my parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary. My job is to show up on time, pretend everything is fine, and keep Mom’s boyfriend as far away from my father as possible. Classy, right? I know.
I remind myself to stop at the state liquor store after work. There’s no way I’ll make it through my half-blind grandmother’s three hundred questions about why I don’t have a girlfriend without a good buzz. And I don’t even want to think about my mother, who will whisper behind my back that she thinks I’m gay. Or the six aunts who will miss that my parents haven’t even looked at each other and instead will spend the night reassuring me that they have gay friends and are “accepting” of any decision I make.
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