THE DEVIL’S CHOKEHOLD

“Yes, Mr. Brown. I’ll have it on your desk first thing in the morning,” I said into the phone before dropping it with a loud bang.

God, I hate today.

I’ve been working late all week, and the stress was catching up to me. I desperately needed a break before I crashed out.

I grabbed my Birkin and my keys, rushing out of the office toward the parking lot. But first, I had to endure pretending to be nice to my coworkers in the elevator.

Fuck, give me a break!

I forced a smile as I stepped inside. Thankfully, it was late, and there were only four of us in the elevator: Mr. Thomas, the office’s self-proclaimed playboy who was always trying to get into the pants of every new staff member, and two interns.

“Don’t worry, darling. I’ll bring you some fresh homemade pastries tomorrow,” Mrs. Bayerns said sweetly. She was the senior partner of the firm—affectionate, chubby, and always trying to smother everyone in kindness.

“Thank you, Mrs. Bayerns,” I replied with a polite smile, but before I could decline, she had already pulled me into a hug.

“There you go. Have a wonderful night and sweet dreams,” she said.

“You too,” I replied, stepping out of her embrace as soon as the elevator doors opened and hurrying to my car.

As soon as I sat down, I heaved a sigh of relief. I needed a drink and some good music, but I was still in my mid-length, curve-hugging pencil skirt and that white blouse—too stiff, too office-ready. I glanced in the rearview mirror, my reflection a picture of sharp professionalism.

Not tonight.

I tugged at the collar of the blouse, unbuttoning the top two buttons to expose a hint of cleavage—classy, but seductive enough for what I had in mind. My bangs stayed perfectly in place, framing my face, but the updo had to go. I pulled the pins out and ran my fingers through my hair, letting it fall into soft waves around my shoulders.

I kept my bayonette glasses on—they were part of the look, after all. Reaching down, I adjusted the garter belt underneath my skirt, making sure the delicate lace peeked out just slightly from the top of my black stockings. Finally, I slipped on my Louboutin heels, the iconic red soles catching the faint glow of the car’s interior light.

I lit up a joint as I drove, one of my guilty pleasures. Don’t judge me—not that I’d care if you did.

Before stepping out of the car, I grabbed my favorite perfume, Vanilla Reverie 28 by Ezzensa, and sprayed it liberally to mask the faint scent of smoke. Then I stepped out, the picture of a single Italian woman in New York, ready to make the night hers.

I walked straight to the bartender. “A margarita,” I said.

“One for me too,” the man next to me chimed in. “Hi, I’m Collins. Nice to meet you.”

His breath hit me like a truck—stale and horrendous. I winced before I could stop myself.

“What? Do you have a problem with me?” he asked, noticing my expression.

Fuck! Why can’t I ever hide my irritation?

“No, I’ll just leave,” I said, suddenly remembering why I hated bars. I should have gone to a five-star restaurant, but no, I had to “blend in.”

I got back into my car and started the ignition. From the corner of my eye, I saw him walking toward my window.

“Hey! I was just trying to get to know you. Did I offend you?”

Oh, God. I was supposed to pick up a guy for sex tonight, but how can I when the majority of men are just like him?

I ignored him and drove off. In my side mirror, I saw him throw his drink at my car. Stupid bastard. I was in no mood to care, so I just kept driving until I got home.

I stepped out of the car hurriedly, tossing the keys to my home security guard so he could park it. My brother had insisted on buying me a house, and although I’d compromised on the idea of being flanked by guards, I’d agreed to keep at least one on the property. Besides, the estate was tightly secured, so it worked out.

Once inside, I rushed to my bedroom and kicked off my heels. I opened my wardrobe, grabbed my vibrator, and sprinted back to lock my bedroom door.

Lying on the bed, I let the toy do its work. I hadn’t used it—or had sex—in months, so it didn’t take long before I was arching my back and screaming as I came.

I lay there, relaxed but not quite satisfied. I was just about to go again when the doorbell rang.

Whoever it was had just made my enemies list.

Grumbling, I left my bedroom and made my way to the door, still in my work-bar outfit.

When I opened it, I was greeted by a face I hated more than anything.

“Hi.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?”