All Chapters of Dirty Daddies Underground: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

Harper's POVNow, I’m stuck trying to scrape together what I can, paying down a debt that I didn’t create, haunted by a lie that’s easier for him to live with than the truth.Sometimes I try to remember what it was like before all this. I try to remember our relationship before the fire, before the debt, before my name became synonymous with guilt in his mouth. There were good days once, most days were good before the fire. I remember laughter in the kitchen, the soft heat of his hand on my back, I even remember the little promises he whispered at night. But even those memories feel poisoned now, like a rotten root growing flowers that are born dead and the sweetness in them is laced with something bitter, and the warmth has long since turned cold.I stay because I tell myself I have nowhere else to go, and maybe that's true. My mom stopped calling me years ago, long before the fire happened. That was how I ended up living with him. My friends disappeared one by one as well. Each one

Harper's POVThe first man is leaning against a concrete wall. He has his arms crossed over his chest and his shirt is open, with his sleeves rolled up to the elbows so it reveals the lean muscle and a scattering of tattoos along both forearms. He has a strong jaw, a lazy smirk, and deep green eyes that seem to look right through the screen. His jeans ride low on his hips, the V of his lower abdomen sharply defined and unapologetically visible.The second guy is seated on the edge of a bed, he has one arm resting behind him, and the other lifting a bottle of beer to his lips. He’s a bit broader than the first, with darker skin and a sleeve of ink stretching from his shoulder to his wrist. His hair is short and neat, and if I focus hard enough I can see the stubble on his chin. His abs are visible beneath an unbuttoned flannel, and his jeans, like the first, are hanging low, deliberately, enticingly low like it's an invitation to look.The third guy is different. He has a beard, that i

Harper's POVI glance down at myself, bare feet, old leggings stretched at the knees, a hoodie with a frayed cuff. My hair’s pulled back in a lazy knot, and I haven’t touched mascara in two days. I look like someone clinging to the edge of survival, not someone meant to be worshipped by three strangers with tailored suits and perfect teeth.I’m not pretty enough for this.Not soft enough. Not confident enough. Not enough, full stop.But that voice, the cruel one in my head, the one that sounds suspiciously like Mark, gets pushed back. I shove it down, past the doubt, past the ache in my chest.Because I need the money.That part isn’t up for debate.“Damn,” a voice says behind me, sharp and amused. “Didn’t think anyone would actually open that one.”I jump, twisting around. Lesley’s standing behind the couch, one hand on her hip, the other holding a half-empty mug of tea. She leans over to peer at the screen, lets out a low whistle.“What are you doing?” I ask, pulling the blanket hig

Harper's POVThe message continues.The_Triumvirate: To help you, here’s some information about us. We’re businessmen, professionals, each owning our own companies. We’re in our thirties and do require discretion. That means no sharing what happens with others. We can’t risk our private lives mixing with business. We’re looking for a baby girl who is willing to let us share her for one night while we spoil her. Typically, we play one-on-one. But occasionally, we come together... for the right lady.I reread it twice. Maybe three times.Businessmen. Professionals. So not just men who wear suits in their profile pictures, but ones who live that life, clients, meetings, reputations. They’re at least ten years older than me, maybe more. But that doesn’t surprise me. What does is the way they talk about it. Calm. Direct. No sleaze. No overcompensation.The fact they don’t do this often, that they only play together rarely, makes something in my chest ease. I’m not sure why. Maybe it makes

Harper's POVBehind me, I hear the floor creak.“It’s been two months,” Mark says, his voice light but already lined with judgment. He perches on the edge of the desk, arms crossed. “How much are you going to sell this one for?”I don’t want to answer, not really, but I make myself speak. “I don’t know. Five or six hundred, maybe.”He raises his eyebrows like I’ve just suggested selling lint wrapped in ribbon. “For two months of work?”I chew my lip and try not to flinch. “It’s not like I worked on it full-time. Maybe an hour or two a day. That’s around sixty hours, give or take.”“Sixty hours wasted,” he says, his tone sharper now, “when you could’ve been doing something that actually earns money.”My eyes drift back to the dress. “I enjoy it,” I whisper, not because I expect it to change his mind, but because it’s the truth and saying it aloud makes it real.He snorts, not laughing, just mocking. “Yeah, but you’re not good enough to charge much. Come on, Harper, let’s be honest. You