Page 3 of Forbidden Boss (Manhattan Billionaires)

And now I was stuck in a room with a giant glass cock filled with pink perfume.

One of many dicks that had done me wrong lately.

Grimacing at the pink phallus, I admitted the truth: It was the loss of my job that had really hurt. I’d been working for a vintage clothing store as a manager and buyer. I’d go out and purchase all kinds of treasures, then care for them and put them for sale in our store. Looking back on it in the weeks of unemployment that followed, I realized that the owner had taken advantage of me for a long time.

I had started as a sales associate and quickly started taking on tasks outside of my job description. Much of the time I spent trawling through online consignment shops and thrift stores was unpaid. I told myself I enjoyed the activity—and didn’t I want the shop to be as good as it could be?

But the truth was, I should have been paid for that time. I should havedemandedto be paid for that time. Instead, I drank in the empty promises of a promotion that included health insurance, dental, and a 401k match that would see me through my golden years, and the reimbursement of the school fees I’d incurred for upskilling.

What a bunch of bull.

I’d been a placeholder. A convenient person who went above and beyond because she thought she was appreciated, but really, she was a chump. Maybe that’s what I should’ve put on my resume to get people to hire me. Nikita Jordan: Will go above and beyond for free because she was, in fact, born yesterday.

A knock at the door drew my attention.

“Hello?” I called out.

“Locksmith,” an older man’s voice proclaimed. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll get you out.”

My shoulders dropped in relief. “Thank you.” I moved toward the table and crossed my arms to wait for the locksmith to do his thing.

But instead of the door opening and sweet relief flooding my veins, I stared at the dull gray metal of the door and listened to the old man’s frustrated grunts.

I moved closer. “Is everything okay?”

“Lock won’t budge. Have to take it apart.”

I jumped back when there was a bang on the door.

“Stupid thing,” the old man grumbled.

Then, another voice. This one younger and more commanding. “Why isn’t this door open? What’s the holdup?”

“Buddy, I’m trying here,” the locksmith protested.

“Try harder,” the other man said, danger laced through his words.

“Sir, he only just arrived,” I heard Ophelia simper from a little farther away.

And I understood. The second man was Rome Blakely, billionaire, entrepreneur, and dick-loving advertising mogul. My gaze narrowed on the steel door, then shifted to the pink penis.

I’m not sure what came over me then. It was some kind of deep, seismic shift in the very core of me. I’d been tossed aside by so many people so many times recently—and not so recently—and I was sick of it. Facing down the end of my employment, I discovered that this arrogant man being rude to a poor locksmith was pushing me closer and closer to the edge.

Blakely said, derision dripping from his voice, “How hard could it be to get a simple lock open?”

The locksmith said nothing, and the silence on the other side of the door turned oppressive.

My boss’s boss’s boss said, “Well?”

And I couldn’t take it anymore. Who was he, to treat this nice, grumpy, old locksmith like he was dirt under his shoe? I didn’t see Rome Blakely picking up the tools to get me out of here. And besides, I was about to get fired anyway! It was just another injustice in a long line of injustices delivered by men who were far wealthier and more privileged than me.

And I was sick of it. “Back off, Blakely,” I snapped. “He’s just trying to do his job.”

The silence thickened, but I was filled with too much righteous fury to let it bother me. I crossed my arms and glared at the door. “Well?” I said, echoing his rudeness.

“And who do we have hiding on the other side of this door?” he finally said, voice slithering through the gaps around the door toward me.

“Like you care,” I responded. “Just let this guy do his job and get out of the way.”

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