Lahat ng Kabanata ng Hockey Star by Day, Oil Mogul by night: Kabanata 31 - Kabanata 40

SCARLETT“Arise and shine, my sweetie pie!!” A high-pitched voice pulls me from the depths of sleep.My eyes flutter open and I blink into the semi-darkness, trying to figure out where the hell I am. And what is going on. A second later, it all starts coming back.Last night… Getting spanked by Harlan. Sucking his cock. Coming apart on his fingers while moaning like a wanton, sex-starved slut.Heat crawls up my cheek. I bury my face further into the feather-soft pillow, letting out a loud groan.How will I face Harlan today after everything we did last night?“Sweetie pie! Are you up?!” The voice filters into my consciousness once again and I jolt upright, sending the silky sheets sailing to the floor.Chiara.I try to get off the bed and instantly wince at the soreness between my legs.Pausing to steady my breathing, I finally glance around the room, blinking in awe at the blatant display of wealth.Floor-to-ceiling windows decorate the glittering Vancouver skyline, while a massi

SCARLETTTo call the Rousseau Mansion “grand” would be a gross understatement.It sits behind a black wrought-iron gate so tall, the building itself cannot be spotted from the outside.Beyond the gates stretches a curved driveway of pale stone, wide enough for three cars side by side. The garden is nothing short of perfection, with carefully curated flowerbeds blooming in perfect patterns. It’s like stepping into another world. A world where money is very capable of solving all your problems. There are men in black suits everywhere. I count about ten of them patrolling the grounds when the car finally rolls to a stop. They’re pretending not to watch, but I can feel their eyes on us. And see the bulge of weapons beneath their fancy suits. “Was the president invited? I ask as one of the men pulls open my door. “What’s with all the security?”Harlan shakes his head.“If my father’s brothers are here, then the movers and shakers of America’s economy are inside that house. They don't g

SCARLETT“… Harlan’s fiancée…”For a moment, the ground seems to tilt beneath my feet.I feel my heart hammer against my ribcage, threatening to beat out of my chest any second now.The next few seconds are painfully silent, and somehow that makes everything worse. No one disagrees with Vivienne.I turn to Harlan and realize his attention is no longer on Stephanie.He’s watching me closely now, as if trying to gauge my reaction.The men seem uncomfortable about the whole thing, but the women are practically beaming, like they’ve already picked the perfect bride for the Rousseau heir.I feel my cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. Then anger sneaks in, coiling through my veins like a spitting snake. Just as I open my mouth to speak, little bursts of laughter ripple through the room.“Oh, look at her face!” Rose, Benjamin Rousseau’s wife, gasps out between laughs, practically doubled over.“Vivienne, you went too far. The poor girl looks like she’s about to have a heart attack,” Estell

SCARLETT“Let my driver take you home,” Mr. Rousseau offers, his eyes gleaming with triumph.A thousand thoughts crash through my head as I stare down at the cheque.But I force them away.Because whatever this thing between Harlan and me is, it was never built on love. It’s contractual. Temporary. Nothing more.I reminded him of that more than once.And he reminded me too, the second he agreed to Stephanie’s request without hesitation.“Scarlett, can you hear me?” Mr. Rousseau’s voice snaps me from my reverie.I stuff the cheque in my bag and give him a tight smile. “No, thank you. I’ll go back with Harlan.”Something cold creeps into his expression, “My driver will take you home. And until you’ve made your decision, I think it’s best you keep your distance from Harlan. I don’t want him influencing your decision.”I barely suppress the urge to roll my eyes. “I am not an air-head, Mr. Rousseau. I’m very capable of making my own decisions and standing by them.”The man doesn’t look co

SCARLETT THE NEXT DAY… Harlan did not contact me throughout last night. I left the Rousseau mansion almost fourteen hours ago, and I haven’t received a single call or text from him. I guess he’s too busy with Stephanie. The thought alone fills my throat with bile. I promised myself that I wasn’t going to think about him at all, but throughout the night, I was wide awake, torturing my poor brain with images of that kiss, wondering if he was bed with her. The nerve of him to ask me to stay away from Drake while he was all cuddled up with his childhood sweetheart. The fucking nerve. I arrive at Sterling Intercontinental Hotel at exactly 8 PM. Just like every other five-star hotel, it glows with quiet luxury. Golden chandeliers shimmer against the dark marble floors, and waiters in perfectly pressed uniforms drift between tables like ghosts. The air smells faintly of butter, wine and expensive perfume. Even the soft clink of crystal glasses sounds rich. “Liorah,”