Choked And Claimed By My Brother’s Best Friend

Josephine “Well, this should be interesting.”The voice cuts through my carefully rehearsed presentation like a hot knife through butter, and I already know this day is about to go sideways faster than my last relationship. I haven’t even gotten to slide two of my meticulously crafted merger presentation, and someone’s already betting against me.“Excuse me?” I turn toward the source—a silver-haired executive whose Rolex probably costs more than most people’s yearly salary.“Nothing, dear. Please, continue with your… strategy.”Dear.The condescension drips off his words like syrup off a stack of pancakes, and I’m already calculating how to destroy his entire existence with nothing but a PowerPoint transition and my razor-sharp tongue.But I smile instead. Because that’s what professionals do. We smile while plotting corporate murder.“Right. As I was saying—” I click to the first slide, my laser pointer steady despite the fact that my internal monologue is currently screaming profan

Josephine“Anyone but him.”The words ricochet through my skull like bullets in an echo chamber, and I’m pretty sure I’ve entered some kind of cosmic joke where the universe specifically designs scenarios to fuck with my mental health.I burst through the doors of Boardroom A like I’m storming the beaches of Normandy, except instead of liberating France, I’m about to have my soul crushed by Italian leather loafers and family dysfunction. My heels are practically drilling holes in the marble—click, click, click—a staccato rhythm that sounds suspiciously like my sanity snapping in real time.The floor-to-ceiling windows are doing that thing where they flood everything with golden hour light, probably because even the architecture is dramatic in this goddamn building. But all I can focus on is the Category 5 hurricane brewing in my chest cavity.Alexander Madrigal.Of all the spectacular disasters I could be managing on this fine Thursday morning—insider trading, tax evasion, accidentall

Alexander The duffel bag sits on my bed like a judgment, canvas and zippers mocking everything I used to be.I stare at it, arms crossed, jaw locked tight enough to crack molars. This piece of shit luggage—probably bought by some assistant who got fired three scandals ago—represents the spectacular crater my life has become.It’s the first time in approximately forever that I’ve had to pack my own clothes. No personal shoppers, no wardrobe consultants, no army of people paid ridiculous money to know the difference between Tom Ford and toilet paper. Just me, two hands, and a pile of designer fabric that suddenly feels like expensive evidence of my failures.Six months, Alexander. Prove you’re not a complete waste of DNA or stay in Tuscany permanently.My father’s words loop in my brain like a death sentence disguised as motivation.And now I’m being relocated to some corporate-owned purgatory like a deposed dictator under house arrest. Babysat—actually fucking babysat—by the one woman

Josephine I slam my laptop shut so hard the sound ricochets off the kitchen walls like a gunshot. “How the fuck am I supposed to salvage this disaster?” The words escape before my brain can filter them, raw and acidic. My fingers drum against the marble countertop with the frantic energy of someone whose entire career is currently circling the drain. My head feels like it’s hosting a death metal concert while my thoughts try to organize the clusterfuck I’ve inherited. Three hours of staring at crisis management protocols, media damage control strategies, and legal precedents involving organized crime families, and I’m still drowning. That’s when he makes his entrance. Naturally. Alexander strolls into my kitchen like he’s modeling for some perverted home improvement catalog. Shirtless. Smug. Muscles that look like they were carved by a Renaissance artist with serious anger management issues. He’s wearing nothing but a towel that’s hanging so low on his hips it’s practic

Alexander “Well, well. Look who came down to play.”The elevator doors slide open and there he is—the Bratva asshole lounging against the marble wall like he owns the building. Smug bastard’s examining his nails like threatening people is just another Tuesday night activity.I cross the lobby in three strides and grab him by his thousand-dollar lapels.“You think you can show up at her door?” I slam him against the wall hard enough to rattle his teeth.His smirk doesn’t even twitch. “That was the point, prince. Message delivered.”I punch him. Square in the jaw. The impact shoots up my arm like lightning, and his head snaps back with a satisfying crack against the marble.But the motherfucker just straightens his tie like I flicked lint off his jacket.“Temper, temper.” He spits blood onto the pristine floor. “Your father never taught you manners?”Security comes running—two rent-a-cops shouting into radios like they’re coordinating a military op