Chapter 4

Pierce.

The elevator doors slid shut and the moment Alexis was out of earshot, Zane let out a low whistle.

“Damn,” he muttered, turning toward me with an evil grin “I see why you haven’t fired her yet.”

I rolled my eyes, crossing the room and picking up the whiskey glass he’d left sweating on the counter. “I will. Very soon.”

“Sure you will,” he drawled, throwing himself onto the velvet couch. “Though… if you’re not going to fire her, I wouldn’t mind having her clean under my bed.” He faked a dramatic sneeze. “Been real dusty under there.”

I gave him a cold stare. “Get your own staff. You’re not hiring Alexis.”

He laughed like he’d been waiting for that exact answer. “Why? Because you like her?”

I let out a sharp laugh, the kind meant to cut. “I don’t like her. She’s petty. Disrespectful, loud, and she doesn’t know when to shut up.”

Zane smirked. “Still didn’t deny she makes things…interesting.”

“Zane.” I said. 

He sat up straighter, that mischievous spark lighting in his eyes—always a bad sign. “Alright, how about a little challenge?”

I raised a brow. “You know I never back down from a challenge.”

He grinned. “Exactly. If you can go seven days—just seven—without firing her, I’ll hand over my Malibu mansion, the one with the infinity pool and that ridiculous wine cellar. And the one in Miami. Plus the custom-made Patek Philippe you’ve been eyeing.”

I gulped. Especially at the custom made watch, he beat me to it. I swore I'd steal it when I find whichever vault he kept it. 

I narrowed my eyes. “And if I fire her?”

He clapped his hands. “Then I give her two million dollars out of my own pocket, take this entire building off your hands—plus the one in England—and you do a full press conference praising me for being the best man you've ever seen. With visuals. And probably confetti.”

I let the idea roll around in my mind. The challenge was stupid. Childish even. But something in me—call it ego, call it boredom, call it whatever—itched to win.

“She’s just a cleaner,” I said flatly. “This will be easy.”

Zane smirked again and poured himself another drink. “Famous last words, brother.”

~~~~~

Alexis.

I shut the door behind me and all but collapsed onto the bed, burying my face into the pillow before a sharp giggle escaped.

Eavesdropping really did pay off.

I rolled onto my back, eyes wide, heart pounding with a strange mix of disbelief and excitement. Two million dollars… All I had to do was get fired. And not just by anyone—by him. The cold-hearted, arrogant, ridiculously hot billionaire who thought he had the patience of a saint.

What a joke.

“Oh, Pierce Carter,” I murmured, grinning up at the ceiling, “you’re about to meet your match.”

That was a juicy amount. Enough to finally restart my life. No, upgrade it. Kevin had left me with nothing, humiliated me, stripped me of everything I’d worked for. I couldn’t practice law anymore—not with all the false fraud claims he pinned on me. My name was blacklisted in every damn firm.

But baking? Cooking? That had always been my peace. My joy.

I could open a bakery. No, a café. Something cozy, bold, and mine. I’d use Mom’s name. Or Dad’s. Kevin couldn’t taint them.

I might’ve fallen, but I was getting back up. And this time? I’d be wearing heels too expensive for his broke, lying ass to afford.

I need a plan to get fired. 

I sat up, rubbing my hands together. "Step one: push every one of Pierce Carter’s buttons. Two: cash in. Three: open the most fire café this city has ever seen. Four: become so successful that Kevin chokes on his own mediocrity."

Then I paused. The smile slowly faded.

He married her.

Kevin and Stephanie.

A day after our divorce was finalized.

The man didn’t even wait for the ink to dry. 

I pressed my lips together, that familiar sting of betrayal flickering in my chest—but it was duller now. Because he hadn’t broken me. He’d only lit a fire under me.

And now? I had two million reasons to be a menace.

Operation get fired was in motion by Pierce Carter is ready.

~~~~~

I showed up at the penthouse with my cleaning supplies in one hand and my dignity in the other—which was barely hanging on, considering I’d squeezed myself into a uniform two sizes too small and conveniently forgot a bra.

“Good morning, sir,” I sang as I stepped in, chest forward, hips swaying like I was walking a Victoria’s Secret runway instead of showing up to scrub toilets.

Pierce was at the counter, eyes on his tablet like he was solving world hunger. His gaze flicked up—and landed exactly where I wanted—my tatas. Then it snapped back to the screen like I was a mildly interesting ad he’d accidentally clicked on.

I stood there for a second longer, waiting for a choke, a stutter, anything. Nothing. The man didn’t even drool. I groaned under my breath. Was he made of stone?

Fine.

Plan B.

I headed to the laundry room and started tossing clothes into the washer with dramatic flair, humming something sexy under my breath. Then I saw it—the golden opportunity.

The washing machine door was open, and my brilliant brain whispered, get stuck. That one p**n meme had gone viral for a reason.

Half of my body was already in the machine when I tugged my head back and felt a sharp pull. Pain bloomed on the side of my scalp.

Oh crap.

I was actually stuck.

My hair clip—those expensive ones I bought to feel rich for once—had latched onto something metal inside.

“PIERCE!” I yelled, panic creeping in. “PIERCE CARTER, GET IN HERE!”

I heard slow footsteps approach. 

“Let me guess…” he said, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, amusement dancing in those steel-gray eyes. “You’re stuck. In the washing machine.”

“Obviously,” I gritted out, trying to yank myself free. No luck. “My hair’s caught on something. Help.”

He stared for a long beat before smirking. “Yeah, no. I’ve seen enough p**n to know where this is going. Sorry, creep, I’m not your stepbrother.”

My face flushed. “This isn’t a p**n move! I’m actually stuck, you perverted skyscraper!”

He laughed!—then grabbed a pair of scissors from a drawer. “Hold still, your highness.”

Snip.

A few strands floated to the ground.

“There. Freedom. You’ll live. Apply some cow dung, it’ll grow back thicker,” he added with a grin as he turned away.

I sat there, stunned. That silly billionaire had just chopped my hair and insulted me in the same breath.

Also, those weren’t even real strands, they were clip-ins! My fake stuck plan failed and I lost good money on those.

Ugh.

But I wasn’t giving up. Pierce Carter was going down, even if I had to stage a full-on poltergeist haunting.

~~~~~~~

I was scrubbing the already-spotless marble counters in the penthouse kitchen when I heard the fridge open behind me.

I “accidentally” dropped a spoon. It clattered on the tiles and, with divine mischief on my side, slid perfectly under the fridge.

How convenient.

I bent down slowly, lowering myself to my knees, making sure to arch my back with Oscar-worthy precision. My skirt hiked up—good. It was meant to. No panties today. Risky? Absolutely. But two million was on the line. I wasn’t about to play this safe.

I’d even placed a little pocket mirror under the island counter earlier, angled just right to catch his reaction.

This was the moment.

I reached for the spoon, stretching, swaying ever so slightly, peeking to the side to catch him in the act.

But the fridge door was closed. And then silence.

I blinked.

“What the…?”

I scrambled up, brushed my skirt down, and stormed over to the living room. It was empty.

That man had vanished like a damn ghost.

I stomped back to the kitchen, picked up the cursed spoon, and flung it straight into the trash.

“This man must be an android,” I muttered. “Emotionless, sexless, stone-cold android.”

Seriously, who doesn’t react to a full bare view at seven in the morning? I could’ve walked in wearing whipped cream and stilettos and he’d probably just ask me to mop the floor when I’m done.

He was either the strongest man alive… or the most frustrating.

Either way, tomorrow needed a new plan. A more menacing plot. 

He will fire me.

Eventually.

~~~~~

Pierce.

She thinks I didn’t notice.

I was staring at my tablet, sure—but not mindlessly. The private investigator I hired didn’t leave much out. Alexis Castro Jean: divorced, blacklisted in law thanks to some messy fraud allegations—fake ones, it seems. No boyfriend. No criminal record. No red flags.

Except one.

She’s dangerously hot.

The kind of hot that makes you rethink logic, contracts, and the concept of professionalism.

Curves that looked hand-sculpted. A chest that begged for attention, hips made for temptation, and an ass so perfectly shaped it had to be divine punishment. That fake copper hair of hers? Shouldn’t work—but it does. Too well.

Still, something about her bugged me. She felt... familiar. Like I’d seen her somewhere before. Maybe in another life—maybe in one of my damn dreams.

Then she walked in. The devil in a tight uniform and a smile way too wide to be innocent.

My eyes dropped.

Her nipples were right there, sharp and obvious under that fabric. No bra. She wanted me to look, and I did. For a second longer than I should have.

Something twitched.

No, not the damn bulb.

I acted cool, like I hadn’t noticed a thing. But I had. 

And then the washing machine scene—God. She really went for it. Half her body wedged in there, ass in the air like it was straight out of the internet’s favorite category. Said she was stuck. Said her hair was caught.

Please.

I’ve seen enough late-night entertainment to know where that storyline leads. I played along—cut the strand loose, made a joke. She didn’t laugh.

She pouted.

But then came the real show.

She dropped a spoon in the kitchen—like that wasn’t staged—and bent down right as I reached into the fridge. Her ass in the air again, skirt riding up just enough. Not wearing panties. Of course.

I wasn’t supposed to look.

But I did.

She had a damn mirror on the floor watching to see if I was watching.

Bold little thing.

A peek of something I’d been trying not to think about since yesterday was in full display. It was smooth, pink glistening. My jaw clenched. That scent—sweet, cranberries—hit me like a drug. I wondered to myself, what sound would she m

ake if I licked it or rather dipped my tongue inside that warmth. 

I walked out before I could do something stupid.

In the bathroom, I heard her grunt in frustration. Yeah, she was pissed.

She thought she failed.

She didn’t.

She got into my head. She just doesn’t know it yet.