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Lahat ng Kabanata ng Choked And Claimed By My Brother’s Best Friend : Kabanata 1 - Kabanata 10

151 Kabanata

1

Dearest Reader,This story is part of the Destroy Me, Daddy series — a collection of two standalone books connected by passion, power, and heartbreak. Each can be enjoyed on its own, yet together they reveal a deeper world of desire and redemption.I truly hope you enjoy my work and fall in love with every twist, burn, and breath along the way.—Josephine“Say it,” Alexander’s voice was a growl against my ear, rough and insistent, his hand gripping my thigh hard enough to leave marks.“I—fuck—” My protest melted into a moan as his fingers slid higher, pressing against the thin lace that barely covered me.“Say you want me.” His mouth traced my jaw, his tongue teasing the corner of my lips. “Say it, Josephine.”My back arched, body betraying me, heat pooling low and fast. “I want you.”His laugh was low, dangerous, triumphant. “Good girl.”He shoved the lace aside in one impatient motion and sank two fingers deep inside me. My gasp turned into a broken cry, nails clawing at his should

2

Josephine “Well, this should be interesting.”The voice cuts through my carefully rehearsed presentation like a hot knife through butter, and I already know this day is about to go sideways faster than my last relationship. I haven’t even gotten to slide two of my meticulously crafted merger presentation, and someone’s already betting against me.“Excuse me?” I turn toward the source—a silver-haired executive whose Rolex probably costs more than most people’s yearly salary.“Nothing, dear. Please, continue with your… strategy.”Dear.The condescension drips off his words like syrup off a stack of pancakes, and I’m already calculating how to destroy his entire existence with nothing but a PowerPoint transition and my razor-sharp tongue.But I smile instead. Because that’s what professionals do. We smile while plotting corporate murder.“Right. As I was saying—” I click to the first slide, my laser pointer steady despite the fact that my internal monologue is currently screaming profan

3

Alexander “Round three?”The blonde’s breath tickles my jaw as she traces patterns across my chest like she’s mapping territory. Her hand slides south, and honestly, my body’s voting yes even though my brain knows better.The brunette—hair looking like she stuck her finger in an electrical socket—laughs against my thigh, teeth grazing muscle. “Look at him. Still ready to go.”“My turn,” the blonde purrs, already shifting to straddle me. The brunette crawls up to press her mouth against my wrist, tongue doing things that should probably be illegal in several states.The sheets are twisted around our legs like silk restraints, morning light cutting through the floor-to-ceiling windows with the brutality of a hangover. There’s a lace bra hanging off the lamp like some kind of depraved Christmas ornament.“Give me a minute,” I say, catching the blonde’s hips before she can sink down.“A minute? That’s generous considering the show you put on against the window last night.” Her grin is pu

4

Josephine“Anyone but him.”The words ricochet through my skull like bullets in an echo chamber, and I’m pretty sure I’ve entered some kind of cosmic joke where the universe specifically designs scenarios to fuck with my mental health.I burst through the doors of Boardroom A like I’m storming the beaches of Normandy, except instead of liberating France, I’m about to have my soul crushed by Italian leather loafers and family dysfunction. My heels are practically drilling holes in the marble—click, click, click—a staccato rhythm that sounds suspiciously like my sanity snapping in real time.The floor-to-ceiling windows are doing that thing where they flood everything with golden hour light, probably because even the architecture is dramatic in this goddamn building. But all I can focus on is the Category 5 hurricane brewing in my chest cavity.Alexander Madrigal.Of all the spectacular disasters I could be managing on this fine Thursday morning—insider trading, tax evasion, accidentall

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

6

Alexander The duffel bag sits on my bed like a judgment, canvas and zippers mocking everything I used to be.I stare at it, arms crossed, jaw locked tight enough to crack molars. This piece of shit luggage—probably bought by some assistant who got fired three scandals ago—represents the spectacular crater my life has become.It’s the first time in approximately forever that I’ve had to pack my own clothes. No personal shoppers, no wardrobe consultants, no army of people paid ridiculous money to know the difference between Tom Ford and toilet paper. Just me, two hands, and a pile of designer fabric that suddenly feels like expensive evidence of my failures.Six months, Alexander. Prove you’re not a complete waste of DNA or stay in Tuscany permanently.My father’s words loop in my brain like a death sentence disguised as motivation.And now I’m being relocated to some corporate-owned purgatory like a deposed dictator under house arrest. Babysat—actually fucking babysat—by the one woman

7

Alexander “Welcome to your new prison, inmate.”Josephine’s voice cuts through the sterile apartment air like a blade wrapped in silk. She’s blocking the doorway like a very attractive, very pissed-off security guard, and I’m pretty sure she’s mentally calculating how many different ways she can make my life hell.“Prison?” I step inside, letting my duffel bag hit her pristine marble floor with a satisfying thud. “This place screams ‘luxury rehabilitation center for rich boys with impulse control issues.’”Her apartment is exactly what I expected—cool grays and whites, furniture that probably costs more than most people’s cars, and that subtle feminine scent that makes my brain do stupid things. Everything’s curated, controlled, perfect.I’m chaos in Italian leather, and she’s a hurricane masquerading as interior design.“Which room’s mine, warden?” I drag the word out just to watch her jaw tighten.She pivots with military precision. “Let’s establish some ground rules.”“Oh, please

8

Josephine I slam my laptop shut so hard the sound ricochets off the kitchen walls like a gunshot. “How the fuck am I supposed to salvage this disaster?” The words escape before my brain can filter them, raw and acidic. My fingers drum against the marble countertop with the frantic energy of someone whose entire career is currently circling the drain. My head feels like it’s hosting a death metal concert while my thoughts try to organize the clusterfuck I’ve inherited. Three hours of staring at crisis management protocols, media damage control strategies, and legal precedents involving organized crime families, and I’m still drowning. That’s when he makes his entrance. Naturally. Alexander strolls into my kitchen like he’s modeling for some perverted home improvement catalog. Shirtless. Smug. Muscles that look like they were carved by a Renaissance artist with serious anger management issues. He’s wearing nothing but a towel that’s hanging so low on his hips it’s practic

9

Josephine Later that night, we’re sitting across from each other like opponents in the world’s most expensive chess match. My laptop glows between stacks of PR schedules and crisis management protocols, casting shadows that make everything look more dramatic than it needs to be.Which is saying something, considering I’m trapped in corporate purgatory with a half-naked Italian who treats life like it’s his personal entertainment system.Alexander’s sprawled in his chair like he’s auditioning for a furniture commercial. Still shirtless. Still smug. Still watching me with those eyes that seem to catalog every micro-expression I make.“You’re expected at the children’s foundation gala Friday.” I don’t look up from my screen because looking up means acknowledging his everything. “Shake hands, take photos, say words that won’t require legal intervention.”“Charming the masses. Classic.” His voice carries that lazy amusement that makes me want to throw things. “Should

10

Alexander “Well, well. Look who came down to play.”The elevator doors slide open and there he is—the Bratva asshole lounging against the marble wall like he owns the building. Smug bastard’s examining his nails like threatening people is just another Tuesday night activity.I cross the lobby in three strides and grab him by his thousand-dollar lapels.“You think you can show up at her door?” I slam him against the wall hard enough to rattle his teeth.His smirk doesn’t even twitch. “That was the point, prince. Message delivered.”I punch him. Square in the jaw. The impact shoots up my arm like lightning, and his head snaps back with a satisfying crack against the marble.But the motherfucker just straightens his tie like I flicked lint off his jacket.“Temper, temper.” He spits blood onto the pristine floor. “Your father never taught you manners?”Security comes running—two rent-a-cops shouting into radios like they’re coordinating a military op

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