Distractions and Invitations

Roman – First Person POV

The screen dimmed as the video call ended, leaving only my reflection in the glossy black of the laptop screen. I leaned back in my chair, the familiar creak breaking the quiet of the room. My office in the penthouse was just as I left it before Paris — minimal, clean, cold. A glass of untouched water sat beside the laptop, and the city outside the floor-to-ceiling windows moved like a dream in slow motion.

Another meeting finished. Another deal wrapped. Everything was moving the way it should.

And yet, my mind wasn’t where it needed to be.

I turned in my chair, letting my eyes wander to the skyline for a moment. I could hear Celeste’s voice in my head already, telling me to take a break, reminding me of my calendar. But none of that was why I couldn’t focus.

It was her.

VelvetMistress.

That red lace. Her legs crossed slowly, her voice low and deliberate, like silk sliding against skin. It had been only one night since her livestream. One night since I’d sat still in a dark jet, headphones in, watching her move like she had all the time in the world. She’d looked into the camera and asked her viewers who deserved her attention. I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. I tipped her five grand and logged off before I could do something even more impulsive.

Later, a notification had come through.

Want a private show?

I didn’t reply. I had meetings lined up back to back. My head was full of numbers and names and deadlines. She’d sent the offer, and I’d ignored it.

But now?

Now I was sitting here thinking about her mouth. About how she said kings deserved her time and peasants needed to pay up. About how she teased and teased and never stumbled over her words. Her confidence wasn’t forced. It was effortless. She didn’t perform like she needed anyone’s approval. She did it because she knew she could.

I shook the thoughts off and reached for the tablet Celeste had left on my desk. There were documents waiting, contract revisions, updates on the New York property we were acquiring. I swiped through a few before a knock came at the door.

“Come in,” I said.

It opened slowly.

The woman who stepped in walked like she wanted me to notice. Heels clicking too sharp, too slow. Her blouse unbuttoned just enough to be inappropriate, and a tray in her hands carrying a cup of tea I hadn’t asked for.

She leaned over just a little too slowly, setting the tray down on my desk like she expected me to say something, her perfume clinging to the air with that overly sweet vanilla scent I hated. Her fingers brushed the edge of the saucer like she wanted me to notice her nails, long and painted red, tapping lightly as if trying to pull my attention. I didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. I just watched her like I would any distraction that didn’t belong. She stood there a second too long, clearly waiting, like I was supposed to reward the effort with something more than silence. I didn’t. I could practically hear the thoughts running through her head, thinking this was her moment, that maybe she could be the one to soften the billionaire, that maybe all it would take was a smile and a blouse half-open. But I didn’t break character. I never did. I didn’t entertain girls who didn’t know the difference between seduction and desperation. It wasn’t just unprofessional. It was pathetic.

“Your tea, Mr. Astor,” she said sweetly, smiling in a way that didn’t reach her eyes.

I didn’t touch the tea.

“Button your shirt.”

She blinked, confused. “Sir?”

“You heard me. This isn’t a casting call.”

She fumbled with her buttons, mouth opening to stammer something that sounded like an apology.

“Leave the tea,” I said, not looking at her again. “And shut the door on your way out.”

The door clicked shut behind her, finally cutting off the trail of her perfume and the sound of those ridiculous heels scraping the floor. I leaned back in my chair and exhaled slowly, letting the silence settle again. My office felt cleaner without her in it. Lighter. I stared at the untouched cup of tea, still steaming, and pushed it to the edge of the desk like it offended me just by existing. I hated that type of energy—forced, rehearsed, predictable. She wasn’t the first to try it, and she wouldn’t be the last, but every time it happened, it grated at something deep in me. The assumption that I could be bought with a look or a touch, that men like me didn’t know the difference between hunger and performance. My mind drifted again, not to her, but to the one who didn’t try. VelvetMistress. That mask. That voice. She gave nothing for free and made you want to pay anyway. She didn’t beg for attention. She demanded it, and somehow, that made her unforgettable.

 I was going to have to talk to HR. Or Celeste would. I didn’t tolerate games in the workplace. Not those kinds.

I went back to my screen, trying to dive into the numbers again, but my concentration was still fractured.

The phone on the desk buzzed.

Jonathan.

Birthday dinner this Saturday. Don’t be a ghost or I’m telling everyone you cried during The Godfather.

A laugh escaped before I could stop it. Real. Unexpected. The timing was perfect. I hadn’t seen him in months.

Wouldn’t miss it I typed back.

He replied almost immediately.

Dress code is rich bastard casual. Don’t bring a date unless she looks like money.

I rolled my eyes and tossed the phone lightly on the desk.

My mind drifted again.

VelvetMistress.

That private show offer.

I hadn’t replied.

But she was still in my head.

And if I knew anything about women like her… she knew that already.