Get Out!

In the sweaty, tangled aftermath of their physical intimacy, the heavy, unmistakable scent of sex hung thick in the air of the dim bedroom. Brianna lay beside Derek, their naked bodies still slick with a fresh sheen of sweat from their vigorous fucking. Derek’s semi-flaccid penis rested carelessly against her bare thigh, but Brianna’s mind was already miles away from the physical pleasure they had just shared. Lazily, she traced slow, deliberate circles on Derek’s bare chest, her sharp acrylic nails lightly scratching his skin. She pulled her silken nightgown up, the thin fabric clinging to her damp skin, and her tone rapidly shifted from seductive to sharply demanding.

"I told you to work on those ownership papers," Brianna pressed forcefully, her eyes narrowing as she looked up at him. "What happened to that? We need to formally secure the wood furniture showroom and the rest of the assets."

Derek visibly hesitated, the relaxed afterglow instantly vanishing from his face. A flicker of genuine fear crossed his features. He sat up slightly, nervously rubbing his heavily tattooed left arm. He was not a particularly tall man, standing barely five-foot-eight, but he usually carried himself with a cocky swagger. Right now, however, that swagger was entirely gone.

"Geez, Brianna. Stop. Okay? I am trying," Derek muttered, his face twisting into a grimace. "I just have to work out the transactions carefully. You don't understand the legal risk here. She can prove at any time in court that she transferred the initial money into my account. The original business registrations are all legally bound in her name. What if she comes up with a lawsuit against us? We might lose absolutely everything."

"Oh, come on, Derek," Brianna scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Seriously? You are trying? She is penniless and can't even afford a basic lawyer. She is not coming after us anytime soon."

"Babes! I know her," Derek warned, his voice dropping an octave in sheer seriousness. He leaned forward, snapping his fingers sharply to emphasize his point. "She is a very strong woman. She won't sit idly on her ass and wait for her hard-earned assets to let go just like that."

The unexpected, genuine compliment directed at her step-sister instantly flared Brianna's deep-rooted, toxic insecurities. The very mention of Clara possessing any sort of admirable quality made her blood boil.

"She is strong? Woah!" Brianna demanded, her voice rising in shrill, explosive indignation as she pushed herself up against the headboard. "And who am I? A weakling? Is that what you think of me?"

Realizing his fatal error, Derek quickly scrambled to placate her. Panic flashed in his eyes as he rushed to undo the damage. "No, no. Sweetheart. Please. You are beautiful. A hundred times more beautiful than her. You are everything I always wanted, sweetheart!"

Desperate to thoroughly distract her, Derek moved his hands to the thin straps of her silken nightgown. With practiced ease, he slipped the fabric completely off her shoulders, fully exposing her bare breasts to the cool air of the bedroom. He showered her with desperate praises, his hands roaming her naked flesh to remind her of his absolute devotion.

Thoroughly mollified by the intense physical attention, Brianna’s pouting lips began to quiver with a sick, twisted happiness. She reveled in her dark triumph. This was exactly what she had always dreamed of. She had successfully, systematically taken everything Clara had ever dared to claim as her own. Clara’s pristine apartment, Clara’s supposed new job at Kensington International, and her childhood fiancé—all of it now belonged to Brianna. She had utterly destroyed her sister, and the victory tasted incredibly sweet.

Elsewhere, in the tiny, cramped apartment, Clara’s world had just been violently shattered. The initial, paralyzing panic of realizing the man in her apartment was a complete stranger rapidly and violently morphed into pure, unadulterated fury. The phone lay forgotten on the hardwood floorboards. Armed with a sudden, massive surge of adrenaline, Clara marched aggressively toward the bedroom to confront the towering fraud living inside her home.

She didn't hesitate. She violently pushed the bedroom door open, the wood banging loudly against the wall. She caught him just as he was sitting on the edge of her bed, whispering covertly into his sleek, expensive phone.

"Prepare the one beside the suite," the man murmured into the receiver, his deep voice carrying a tone of absolute, unquestionable authority.

Clara didn't understand what he was talking about, and she didn't care. "Who are you talking to?" she viciously demanded, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

The man jumped slightly at her unexpected presence. "I will talk to you later," he said quickly, disconnecting the call and tossing his phone casually onto the bed. He stood up, hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his tailored jeans, a wide, easy smile spreading across his incredibly handsome face. "I was talking to a friend. So, how about we have dinner somewhere nice? It will be on me. And then after your first salary, you are treating me with a bomb dinner somewhere fancy." He took a step forward, playfully attempting to poke his finger against her chest.

Clara swatted his hand away fiercely. "You did not answer me, Arthur. Or whoever you are. Who were you talking to?"

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck in a painfully unconvincing display of casualness. "I... I was talking to someone who works in this demanding modeling agency..."

The lie was clearly fabricated, falling incredibly flat in the tense air of the bedroom. The realization hit Clara like a brutal physical blow to the stomach: this man playing 'Arthur' was a complete, utter fraud. And worst of all, as her eyes rapidly scanned his towering frame, the broadness of his shoulders, and the raw, masculine energy he exuded with every breath, the terrifying truth settled in. He was definitely, absolutely not gay.

The sudden, intrusive memory of the delicious, electric shivers his intense gaze had caused her mere hours ago washed over her skin. It made her physically back away in sheer revulsion.

"Whoever you are… Stop right there!" she warned, her voice shaking with uncontainable rage as she continued to step backward, refusing to break eye contact.

"Don't be scared of me, sugar," he coaxed gently. His deep voice dropped an octave, dripping with a smooth velvet tone as he attempted to step closer. He raised both of his large hands in a gesture of surrender. "Clara, I can explain!"

"You liar!"

"Clara, please, just let me explain." He reached out, trying to gently hold her hands, but Clara utterly refused to listen to another word of his poisonous lies. She violently shoved his hands away.

"OUT!" she screamed, the sheer force of her betrayal fueling her muscles.

"What? Listen, Clara—"

"I SAID... OUT!"

Fuelled by pure, blinding fury, she lunged forward and grabbed him roughly by the collar of his expensive, tailored shirt. Her small hands twisted the crisp fabric tightly. Using her entire body weight, she aggressively dragged the stunned, entirely unresisting billionaire toward the hallway. He could have easily overpowered her with a single arm, but he simply let her pull him, genuine shock painting his sharp features. She hauled him across the living room and shoved him forcefully out into the corridor.

"Well! Lock the door then!" he muttered under his breath, straightening his ruined collar before scurrying away down the hallway without a single backward glance.

Clara slammed the door shut, the loud crack echoing in the empty apartment. "Rascal," she whispered viciously against the closed door, fiercely fighting back a sudden onslaught of stinging tears that threatened to spill over her eyelashes. She slid the deadbolt into place, her chest heaving with heavy, ragged breaths.

Desperate for any distraction from the handsome devil she had just violently kicked out of her fragile life, Clara threw herself headfirst into her dazzling new reality at Kensington International the very next day. She arrived at the towering corporate headquarters, her nerves buzzing with a mix of leftover adrenaline and eager anticipation.

Vice President Nolan Pierce, a sharply dressed and thoroughly professional man, personally guided her through the stunning, expansive corridors of the twentieth floor.

"This is your office, Clara. I hope you will like it," Nolan said smoothly, gesturing toward a massive space decorated in an elegant color scheme of soft grey and light blue. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking, panoramic view of the bustling city below. "The twentieth floor comprises higher management and the CEO’s offices. There is also a special meeting room reserved only for top-notch meetings. Soon you will meet our CEO too. Vance Kensington is a massive fan of hardworking people."

Clara kept looking around, completely and utterly impressed by the sheer scale of the luxury. She discreetly tugged at the waistband of her loose pants, hoping nobody would notice how poorly they fit. She had lost a dangerous amount of weight from staying hungry for long hours while Derek and Brianna drained her accounts. But that nightmare was finally over.

"By the way, Clara. How soon can you shift here?" Nolan’s voice suddenly sliced through her swirling thoughts.

"Here?" Clara blinked, her mind momentarily blanking. Did they want her to stay twenty-four-seven in the office building? She was a natural workaholic; she could manage sleeping on a couch if it meant keeping this incredible job.

"Yeah. This building is essentially a hotel. Remember? Owned by Kensington International," Nolan explained casually, walking toward the large mahogany desk. "We offer extreme luxury hotel accommodations to our high-profile executive employees. Our CEO occupies the penthouse. Then there is the executive floor where I reside along with two other key employees."

Clara’s jaw practically hit the floor. Was she going to own a luxurious hotel suite? "So, will I reside on the executive floor?" she asked, looking at him questioningly. But when Nolan immediately started shaking his head, a flush of deep embarrassment heated her cheeks. She thought she had grossly overstepped her boundaries. "I am so sorry, Nolan. Of course, why would I get the executive floor? Obviously, there should be another standard floor for the regular workers."

She sounded entirely apologetic, ready to accept a broom closet if they offered it. But she was completely taken aback when Nolan dropped a massive bombshell.

"No, Clara," Nolan informed her smoothly, keeping an incredibly straight face. "Yours will be beside the penthouse."

Clara froze, her breath catching in her throat. "What? What do you mean? Will I be staying with the CEO?"

"No... No... Of course not!" Nolan chuckled, waving his hand dismissively. "He will be sharing the exclusive top floor directly with you, but you will get complete, absolute privacy. Yours is the adjacent suite. Besides, officially, your reporting will be direct to the CEO once he returns. Right now, he is in Manhattan, looking after our head office."

Before Clara could even begin to process the sheer magnitude of sharing a private floor with the elusive Vance Kensington, Nolan continued his generous assault.

"I will be here tomorrow at nine, Nolan," Clara managed to stammer out, trying to sound professional.

Nolan surprised her yet again by firmly shaking his head. "Give your official joining after one full week, Clara. Take the time off. Bring your stuff. Get comfortably settled into your new residential suite. Go and shop for a proper office wardrobe. We will give you a staggering fifty-percent salary advance right away specifically earmarked for this purpose."

Nolan stopped talking, waiting for a response. Clara simply stood there, open-mouthed, utterly paralyzed by shock. She wasn't entirely certain she had heard him correctly.

"Umm. Okay. I... I did not know that you facilitate your staff so much," she whispered, a nervous, breathy laugh escaping her lips.

Overwhelmed to the absolute point of tears by this surreal, unbelievable stroke of luck and the company's extreme, unparalleled generosity, Clara felt deeply in her core that her unsaid, desperate prayers had finally been answered.

"Why won’t we? Our employees are deeply important to us!" Nolan gave her his absolute best, reassuring smile. He was an undeniably handsome man, perfectly groomed and polite, but her traitorous mind immediately supplied a stark comparison: he was absolutely nothing like Arthur.

Alone in her grand, newly assigned office after Nolan finally departed, Clara walked over to the massive glass window. She pressed her cool forehead against the pane, looking out over the city. Yet, instead of focusing on the magnificent skyline or her overwhelming corporate triumph, she found herself struggling violently to banish the lingering, intoxicating thought of the imposter. The memory of his broad chest, his deep, rumbling voice calling her 'sugar,' and the spicy scent of his expensive cologne clung to her senses. It terrified her to realize she was fighting far more violently to erase 'Arthur' from her mind than she ever did with the agonizing memory of Derek's decade-long betrayal.

Pushing the intrusive, highly confusing thoughts aside, Clara forced herself to focus on the immediate reality. There was one lingering, dangerous concern she absolutely had to address before she officially signed her soul over to Kensington International. She turned away from the window and quickly caught up with Nolan just as he was stepping out into the main corridor.

"Nolan, wait. I need to tell you something," she admitted hesitantly, nervously twisting her fingers together in front of her. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the potential fallout. "I have a sister who works here. I hope your company policy will not have any problem if two sisters are working for it?"