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All Chapters of His Games, Her Rules: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

97 Chapters

One

ROBYN “Robyn, working a million shifts and avoiding the real world isn’t going to get you laid. You need to get out, have fun, and since today is my birthday, you officially have no excuse.” Monique’s voice is chirpy through my earbuds as she delivers her latest rant. I want to argue. To remind her—for the millionth time—that I’m fine just the way I am and that I don’t need a man. But I clamp my mouth shut instead. There’s no point. Because the moment I walk through the door, she’ll be waiting to remind me again that my s*x life is a tragedy. So instead, I go for the path of least resistance. “Sure thing, Mom. Loud and clear.” “You’re being sarcastic, aren’t you?” I smirk, already picturing her biting her nail like she always does when she’s amused. “Something like that.” “Robyn—” “Yeah, yeah. I need to get out and get laid. Got it. We’ll talk later.” I hang up before she can start another speech, exhaling as I shut my eyes for a second. Jesus, can y’all let me breathe?

Two

I sit inside my car, engine off, trying to catch my breath. My head rests against the seat, exhaustion weighing down on me. Too many shifts. Too much overtime. I feel like I’m barely holding myself together. But today is Monique’s birthday, and no matter how drained I am, I need to be there for her. With a deep breath, I unlock the car and step out, balancing the cake and my handbag in my right hand while holding her birthday present in my left. I nudge the car door shut with my foot and head toward the building. Inside the lobby, I offer a quick nod to the doorman before making my way to the elevator. As soon as the doors slide open, I step in, pressing my floor button. Leaning against the wall, I tap my foot impatiently, eager to get home. The elevator finally dings, and as I step out— Bam. I nearly crash into someone. “Shit,” I curse under my breath. “Oh—sorry,” a deep voice responds. I readjust my grip on the cake and look up to find Tyler standing in front of m

Three

“This is the venue?” I glance out the tinted window of Monique’s Maserati, eyeing the sleek yet understated building. “Yup.” She unfastens her seatbelt with a smirk. “Doesn’t look like it, right?” “Not at all.” “The real shit happens at the top.” She tilts her head toward the entrance, unlocking the doors. “Come on.” I exhale, pushing open my door and stepping out. The night air is crisp against my skin as I shut the door behind me, trying to balance my clutch under my armpit while tugging my dress down slightly. Tonight, I didn’t want to overdo it. I’m wearing a red corset dress—V-neck, spaghetti straps—paired with matching black heels and a black clutch. Classy. Simple. Monique, on the other hand, is glistening in dark blue sequins, her strapless mini-dress hugging her figure. She’s effortlessly stunning, her black heels wrapped neatly around her long, toned legs. A matching black bag completes the look, and her braids are twisted into a flawless bun. Damn, she looks go

Four

“Okay. Tell me everything again—word for word,” Monique demands Saturday morning. We’re both in our pajamas, curled up in the living room, but she’s standing like she’s about to deliver a TED Talk. After last night’s weird encounter with him, I’d texted her that I was leaving. I had to. I couldn’t stay another second with him on the other side of the room, watching me. His stare had heat. Heavy, consuming heat. There was nothing innocent about the way he looked at me. It wasn’t like Omar Kingston in a swoony old romance. No, this was darker. Possessive. And the woman clinging to his arm, whispering things I couldn’t hear but could definitely interpret, didn’t help. Monique had told me to leave without her—of course—which was code for “I’m hooking up with someone.” So I booked a ride, took two more shots, and left the party agitated as hell. “I already told you everything,” I mutter. “I’m not repeating myself.” “Okay,” she says, crossing her arms. “Let me break it down for you

Five

My lunch sits on the table—cold, limp, and sad-looking—as I scroll through article after article on my phone. All about Dominique Voss and his empire. There’s not much about his personal life—just that he’s thirty-two, born and raised in New York, with an Italian mother and a French-American father. I’ve skimmed at least a dozen articles, and nothing about his life stands out… except the part where he’s absurdly rich and owns a ridiculous number of properties across the country. I scroll through several photos—him in different custom-tailored suits that probably cost more than my rent for a year—and pause. How the hell is this man thirty-two? He looks twenty-eight. Not a single flaw on his face, not even in candids. And honestly? He looks better in real life than in photos. I’ll give him that. Still, the man never smiles—not even in pictures. There’s something simmering behind that stoic expression, something distant and unreadable. Secrets. Shadows. And for some twisted reason

Six

One thing Saint José’s staff knows how to do surprisingly well? Throw a good hospital party. Since I started working here, they’ve hosted at least five—for charity, new departments, board appointments, anniversaries… you name it. This is only my second one. The first was forgettable. This one? I already regret showing up. For a girl who used to live an extravagant, high-society life, parties like this feel… dull. Actually, most parties do—unless we’re talking about weekend club nights with my girls, loud music, cheap shots, and off-key karaoke. That I can do. But this? This is just: Talk. Drink. Laugh at dry jokes. More talking. A little awkward flirting. Pretend you’re having the time of your life. I push my hair to one side, letting the waves fall down my shoulder as I half-listen to Noah. He’s mid-rant about some hospital drama, and Monique is eating it up, smiling and laughing like she’s front row at a comedy club. Tiwa’s off to the side, glued to her phone, rapid-tex

Seven

The air outside is sharp against my skin. I rub my palms up and down my arms as I stare down the road. Cars line the curb and fill the parking lot, their headlights cutting through the evening gloom. I had to step out. I needed air—real air. If I’d stayed inside one more minute, I might’ve lost it. Caused a scene. Maybe even embarrassed myself. I still can’t wrap my head around it. Dominique Voss is inside. Inside, smiling, shaking hands, giving speeches. Saint José’s newest shareholder. How the hell is that my life? After that party Monique dragged me to, I thought I’d never see him again. I hoped I’d never see him again. But no. Life’s got jokes. He just walked right back in like he owns my story—like he’s here to rewrite the whole damn thing. Why won’t he just go away? “Red looks good on you.” The voice makes my stomach tighten. I turn. And there he is. Standing a few feet away. Cool. Composed. Ocean-blue eyes locked on me like he’s already won somethin

Eight

“Okay,” Monique says as we drive home that night, “can I now officially say Dominique Voss definitely wants to fuck you?” She’s behind the wheel—because I’m too annoyed, too exhausted, and too mentally fried to drive. I’ve been groaning, sighing, and cursing under my breath since we left the hospital. He’s in my head. Dominique fucking Voss has planted himself like a weed and I want him out. “Please don’t say the F-word,” I mutter, slumping against the passenger-side window. “It’s gross.” Monique snorts. “You say the F-word more than I do, Mother Mary.” I roll my eyes but can’t help the tiny smile that pulls at my lips. “He’s disgusting,” I say quietly, watching the nightlife blur past my window. “How so?” “How could he want sex from me… in exchange for the car I hit?” I grimace. It sounds even more messed up out loud. “So you are admitting you hit his car?” Monique grins. I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “You’re annoying.” “I try,” she says, smirking. “But

Nine

“Hey, honey bunch. I don’t think I’ll be able to come home tonight. Be safe and don’t miss me too much. Kisses.” I sit on the bench outside St. José, listening to Monique’s voicemail—the one she left while I was neck-deep in work. I roll my eyes but smile. Monique told me a few weeks ago that she’d met a guy at the gym. She thought he was hot. Showed me his picture. I thought he looked… okay. Maybe a Casanova. I didn’t say that out loud, of course. He’s too good-looking for his own good, and yeah, that’s usually a red flag. But last week, he finally asked her out—and she jumped at the chance. It’s not my place to tell her Mr. Hot-and-Gorgeous isn’t the one. She’ll figure that out herself. Eventually. Monique’s always believed in love. She’s always wanted to find the guy, the perfect one. But the men she chooses? Never match the dream. There was a time I told her to take a break from dating, from the endless cycle of disappointment. She told me none of it was serious, so what

Ten

DOMINIQUE “Aren’t we going to address the elephant in the room?” Camilla turns in her seat, arms folded and eyes full of judgment. “And what elephant would that be?” “Dom, come on. You know exactly what I’m talking about.” Oh, I know. I just don’t feel like talking about it—with her, of all people. I shoot her a look, eyebrows slightly furrowed, my gaze sweeping over her face. Camilla’s the mirror image of our mother—brown eyes, olive skin, chestnut hair—and petite to a fault. She may look soft, but she’s as stubborn as they come. “You two looked like you were about to start throwing punches,” she adds, referring to Robyn. “You going to drop it, or am I going to be forced to ignore you?” “God, you’re such an asshole,” she mutters, shaking her head. I smirk. “Why are you in New York anyway? Shouldn’t you be in LA planning that wedding of yours?” When Camilla showed up a few months back with a diamond ring and a man in tow, we were all stunned. None of us thought she’

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