5

Josephine

“You know, princess, most women would pay good money to have me in their bed.”

The words hit the boardroom like a molotov cocktail thrown into a library. Alexander’s voice is pure silk wrapped around a switchblade, and I’m pretty sure my blood pressure just achieved orbit around Mars.

Every head in the room swivels toward us like we’re the main event at a particularly depraved circus. My father doesn’t even look up from his notes, which tells me exactly how fucked this situation has become.

One night. One spectacular, life-altering mistake. And now I’m supposed to babysit the man who almost ruined me?

The universe clearly has a sick sense of humor.

“Well, isn’t this a delicious twist of fate?” Alexander continues, eyes dancing with the kind of mischief that gets people arrested or divorced. “You sure you can handle me, princess?”

I clench my fists so hard my nails are probably drawing blood. My voice comes out low and deadly. “You should be more concerned about whether you can handle me.”

The heat crawling up my neck isn’t embarrassment—it’s pure, undiluted rage mixed with the kind of panic that makes smart people do incredibly stupid things. My pride and professionalism are being slowly strangled by a name I swore I’d never say out loud again.

Alexander fucking Madrigal. The human embodiment of every bad decision I’ve ever made, now sitting across from me like he owns the goddamn building.

Which, technically, he does. On paper.

I pivot toward my father like I’m executing a military maneuver. “This is a catastrophically bad idea. There are approximately seventeen different conflicts of interest here. We need to assign someone else. Anyone else. A trained monkey would be preferable.”

My father finally deigns to lift his gaze from his precious notes, expression as readable as ancient Sanskrit. “You’re the most qualified person for this assignment.”

No room for negotiation. No discussion. Just a verdict handed down like Moses delivering the fucking Ten Commandments.

And the bastard’s right. That’s what makes this whole situation feel like swallowing glass while tap dancing.

I nod once, the motion so stiff I probably look like a malfunctioning robot. “Fine.”

But I swear on my expensive education and my mother’s grave, if Alexander so much as breathes in my direction wrong, I’m going to do something that’ll require legal representation.

Alexander leans back in his chair like this is all mildly entertaining rather than a potential death sentence. “So what’s the play here? You want me to disappear? Go underground? Hide in some sketchy safe house eating gas station sandwiches until this blows over?”

Enzo’s voice could freeze hell. “You’re not going anywhere.”

That tone from the Madrigal patriarch? That’s the setup for something genuinely brutal. I’ve heard that tone before, usually right before someone’s entire existence gets reorganized.

Valesquez folds his hands with the precision of a funeral director. “You’ve been financially severed, remember? You can’t afford luxuries like choice.”

The room goes quiet enough to hear dust settling.

Alexander laughs like someone just told him his favorite restaurant is closing. “Wait. You’re actually serious about this?”

Valesquez doesn’t crack so much as a muscle. “We’re not risking a billion-dollar merger to subsidize your lifestyle.”

“But I—”

Enzo’s glare could probably be weaponized by the military.

My father shuffles papers like he’s dealing cards at the world’s most depressing poker game. “We’ve arranged temporary housing. Company property. Secure. Discrete.”

He delivers the next part like he’s suggesting we grab coffee.

“You’ll be staying with Josephine.”

I’m pretty sure my soul just filed for divorce from my body.

“What in the actual fuck? Absolutely fucking not.”

My father doesn’t even blink. “It’s the optimal solution. Alexander remains protected, you maintain proximity for crisis management, and most importantly, media attention is minimized.”

“Optimal solution?” My voice climbs several octaves. “You’re handing me a live grenade and asking me to use it as a stress ball. Why can’t he stay with Dimitri?”

Dimitri clears his throat like he’s announcing his own funeral. “My place is off-limits. Cleo’s pregnant, and the doctor said stress could trigger complications.”

Valesquez is already shaking his head before I finish looking at him. “Not happening.”

I turn back to my father, voice dropping to that register that usually makes people reconsider their life choices. “You expect me to cohabitate with him? You genuinely think this represents our best option? That I should just play professional babysitter while he transforms my apartment into a fraternity house?”

I whip around to face Alexander. “What exactly do you do all day besides consume oxygen and occupy space that could be used by productive members of society?”

Alexander clutches his chest in mock devastation. “Right in the feelings. Brutal.”

My father exhales like he’s explaining quantum physics to a toddler. “You’re not a babysitter. You’re a crisis management specialist. And this crisis belongs to you now. Besides, you’re both functioning adults. I have complete confidence in your ability to maintain professional boundaries.”

Professional boundaries? I’ve seen that man naked. I know what he looks like when he—

No. Not going there. That way lies madness and poor decision-making.

Alexander’s smirk could probably power a small city. “This is starting to sound genuinely entertaining.”

I cross my arms and exhale hard enough to fog windows in the next building. “Fine. But ground rules. If I discover stripper glitter on my kitchen counter, or if you attempt to install any kind of pole apparatus in my living room, you’re out the door faster than you can spell ‘eviction notice.’ And you can find someone else to salvage your sorry existence.”

Alexander’s eyebrow arches with the precision of someone who’s mastered the art of being insufferable. “No promises, roomie.”

My eyes narrow to laser slits. “Let me be crystal clear. You bring one woman—one single female human being—into that apartment, and I will personally introduce your anatomy to my office supplies. Stapler. Your dick. Wall. In that exact sequence.”

His grin widens like I just offered him Christmas morning. “Kinky. Do you welcome all houseguests with such warmth?”

“You are not a guest. You are a professional obligation. A liability. A walking headache with good genetics.”

He settles deeper into his chair like he’s claiming a throne, flashing that smirk that makes me want to commit acts of violence with office equipment. “Looking forward to it, roommate.”

The rest of the room shifts into logistics mode, moving through contingency plans and media strategies like this arrangement is perfectly normal instead of completely deranged.

But I stay frozen, locked in silent warfare across the mahogany table.

For one flickering moment, Alexander’s performance cracks. The smirk fades just enough to reveal something underneath—something exhausted. Hollow. Authentically human.

And damn it all to hell, I wish I hadn’t seen it.