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2025-09-21 16:11:00I dropped my bag by the door, immediately hit by that familiar scent of home—vanilla candles, Chantelle's expensive shampoo, and the lingering ghost of last night's takeout.
Normally it's comforting. Today it felt like walking into an interrogation room disguised as an apartment. Chantelle was curled on the couch in full hermit mode—hoodie up, half-demolished bag of chips in her lap, hair doing that thing where it looks like she stuck her finger in an electrical socket. The moment she looked up, I knew I was fucked. "You're alive," she said, eyes narrowing like a detective who'd just cracked a case. "Fantastic. Because you need to explain why Dr. Vanelope showed up at our door asking where the hell you were." My brain short-circuited. "Wait, what?" "Yeah." She sat up, tossing the chips aside with the kind of dramatic flair that suggested she'd been rehearsing this moment. "Full-on power blazer, killer heels, professional
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Bend me over, Professor 150
POV Anaise The rooftop looks like someone threw up fairy lights and called it romantic. White lights everywhere, twinkling like stars that got lost and decided to crash our family drama instead.I’m standing here in a dress that costs more than my old rent, surrounded by Martinez and Coleman relatives who six months ago would’ve crossed the street to avoid each other. Now they’re all smiles and champagne glasses, former enemies playing nice because apparently one impossibly complicated love story was enough to broker world peace.Or at least corporate peace, which in our world is basically the same thing.“Fix your lipstick,” Mom whispers in my ear, because even during the most emotional moment of my life, Valentina Martinez cannot resist a touch-up opportunity.I’m about to tell her my lipstick is fine when Dad appears at my elbow. He’s been weirdly quiet all evening—none of his usual CEO commanding presence or strategic commentary. Jus
Bend me over, Professor 149
POV Alexander Sarah’s waiting for me in my office when I get back from the most revelatory dinner of my adult life, sitting in my chair like she owns the fucking place. Classic power move designed to establish dominance through spatial violation. Too bad I’m about to end her entire career and possibly her will to exist in corporate America.She’s positioned herself behind my desk with the calculated precision of someone who’s studied executive intimidation techniques, her perfectly manicured hands folded on the mahogany surface like she’s posing for a portrait titled “Assistant Who Definitely Didn’t Frame Anyone for Corporate Espionage.”The sight of her in my space, touching my things, breathing my air, makes something violent and primal rise in my chest. Because now I know. Thanks to Roberto Martinez’s very thorough private investigator, I know exactly what she’s been doing for months.I don’t bother sitting. Don’t waste time with pleasantries
Bend me over, Professor 148
POV Anaise I’m pacing this balcony like a caged fucking tiger, arms crossed so tight I might crack my own ribs, when Alexander follows me out here looking like a storm that’s barely held together by sheer willpower, expensive tailoring, and whatever’s left of his legendary self-control.My heart’s doing this insane drumbeat thing against my chest—part panic, part rage, part something I don’t want to name because naming it makes this whole clusterfuck even more complicated than it already is. The kind of complicated that involves feelings I’ve been shoving down for five years while pretending I didn’t notice the way he looked at me during board meetings.The night air should be cooling me down, but instead I feel like I’m about to spontaneously combust right here on Le Vieux Château’s pretentious balcony, leaving nothing but a pile of designer dress ash and unresolved sexual tension.“You’re Isabella Martinez?” His voice comes out hoarse
Bend me over, Professor 147
POV Alexander I hadn’t wanted to be there either.A dinner with Harold, some prestigious family whose name gets whispered in board meetings, and the mystery woman I’m being strong-armed into marrying? This whole thing feels like a slow-motion disaster wrapped in expensive linens and fake politeness.I’m nursing my scotch like it’s life support while Harold holds court with Roberto Martinez—two old war generals planning their next conquest over wagyu beef and decades-old grudges. They’re talking about market consolidation and strategic partnerships like they’re discussing the weather instead of my entire fucking future.“The merger will be seamless,” Harold’s saying, swirling his drink with the satisfaction of someone who’s never had to live with the consequences of his decisions. “Both companies benefit. Both families win.”Both families. Right. Because apparently I’m just another asset to be leveraged in whatever corporate chess game th
Bend me over, Professor 146
POV Anaise The gold-trimmed invitation’s been sitting on my dresser for three days like some kind of cursed artifact. Every time I walk past it, my stomach does this twisted little dance that feels like my internal organs are auditioning for Cirque du Soleil.*Dinner with your future husband. Saturday. 7:00 PM. Formal attire required.*Future husband. Like I’m some medieval princess being traded for livestock instead of a grown woman with opinions about who gets to touch my body for the next forty years.I’ve been staring at these words until they blur into meaningless shapes. My eyes are probably permanently damaged from the combination of rage-reading and stress-induced tears, but whatever. Add it to the list of shit this arrangement’s going to destroy.My stomach’s churning like a washing machine full of anxiety and leftover Chinese food. I don’t want to go. Don’t want to put on some performative outfit and smile like this is the fair
Bend me over, Professor 145
POV Alexander I’m looking at photos from a conference last year, and this is officially the most pathetic thing I’ve done since I fired the woman I’m obsessed with for crimes she didn’t commit while simultaneously destroying the last functioning piece of my emotional infrastructure.There she is. Anaise. Standing behind some venture capitalist who’s probably mansplaining blockchain technology or cryptocurrency or whatever buzzword bullshit passes for innovation these days, while she calculates his net worth down to the penny with the kind of mathematical precision that used to make me forget basic human functions like breathing and forming coherent sentences.She’s wearing that navy dress I remember—the one that made me forget how to form complete sentences during our morning meetings, the one that made me spill coffee on quarterly reports because apparently my motor skills shut down when confronted with the sight of her looking like competence wrapped in
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