Page 2 of Daddy Devious

Letting out a whoop of laughter, I jump up from my bed and spin one tight circle in my cramped bedroom-slash-living-room. My apartment doesn’t allow much room for dancing, but all that is about to change.

Because I’m a goddamnmillionaire.

Unfortunately, I’m a millionaire who has to leave for work in about ten minutes. I’m not naive enough to think those seven figures are going to last me very long, not in this economy. For the next few days at least, I need to go to work and pretend nothing has changed.

Pretend like I didn’t just steal a million freaking dollars from one of the largest corporations in the country. Possibly the world.

Go to work, do my job, try not to draw any attention to myself. And figure out an escape plan while I pray it takes at least a few months for the discrepancies to be found. If I’m really lucky, nobody will notice until the next quarterly audit in three months. The amounts I, ah,shifted aroundare small enough on their own not to be noticeable right away.

At least, that’s what I’m counting on.

My heart is still pounding as I hurry through my morning routine, throwing on the first clean outfit I come across so I can run out the door. I get another rush of adrenaline when I just barely squeeze myself onto the crowded subway before the doors close.

Even if I did just steal a considerable amount of money from Stone Industries, there’s no reason to compound my sins by being late. I haven’t been late to work a day in my life, and I’m not about to start now. Not when I’m so close to “retirement”.

The thought of leaving the grind of Corporate America has me fighting back a grin as I step off the third and final train of my commute and speed walk toward the office building where I’ve spent the last two years of my life.

Stone Industries, owned by the obscenely wealthy—and obscenely gorgeous—Maxwell Stone. I’ve never actually seen him in person, mind you, but his face is plastered all over Manhattan. Staring down at us like some sort of villainous overlord with perfect hair, piercing blue eyes, and a jawline that could cut glass.

“Morning, Harold!” I call to the guard at the front desk. “Guard” is a very generous term for a man who looks as though he was hired on when the building was erected in the early nineteen-hundreds. I have my doubts that if anything seriousever actually went down at Stone Industries he’d even be able to wield the taser strapped to his belt.

But Harold is as sweet as he is ancient, and just like every other day, he greets me with a smile. “Morning, Ms. Victoria.” He waits for the turnstile to register the scan of my badge and sends me off with a nod and a wave. “Have a good day, now.”

“It’s going to be thebestday. Bye, Harold!”

If Harold finds my exuberance alarming, it doesn’t show on his wizened face. I push through the turnstile and make a beeline for the elevators. More squeezing as I shuffle into the tiny metal box with what feels like a hundred other people but is, realistically, probably more like five. But I’ve never been a fan of small places, and even after two years of making this same commute every single working day, I still have to close my eyes and practice the breathing techniques I learned online to help regulate my nervous system.

Therapy would probably help more than a Google search, but the closest I can get to affording therapy is binge watching my favorite comfort shows on the streaming services I rotate through on a monthly basis. Who needs a therapist when you have the Gilmore Girls, anyway?

After three stops, the elevator empties, and I can finally breathe easily again. Just as I’ve worked up the courage to open my eyes, the elevator stops two floors too soon. The doors slide open, and I find myself face to face with none other than Maxwell Stone himself.

Holy shit.

Inside, I’m panicking. My heart is doing its damndest to beat right out of my chest and those easy breaths I’d been taking are a distant memory.

On the outside, I’m cool as a cucumber. At least, I hope I am. I offer Mr. Stone a smile and nod of greeting, then fix my attention to the glowing red numbers above the door.

“Good morning, Ms. Finch.”

Oh god, oh god, oh god. Maxwell Stone knows my name. Scratch that. He doesn’t just know my name, he knows myface.

Why the fuck does Maxwell Stone know my face?

“Oh, um, hi.” My voice is barely a squeak, and despite my best efforts to remain calm and collected, I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks. “I mean, good morning, Mr. Stone.”

A soft chuckle fills the elevator cab as it begins its ascent once more, and I risk a quick peek up at him through my lashes. Only to find him looking down at me, the corner of his mouth kicked up in an odd little smirk.

Maybe it’s not actually that odd. Maybe it’s just the fact that I’ve only ever seen him looking exactly like his last name—cold, hard, and immovable. Not once have I ever seen a picture of him smiling.

And because that smirk does look so foreign on his face, I find it far more disconcerting than if he’d marched onto the elevator and told me he knew all about my embezzling and the police were on their way to haul me to jail.

I jerk my gaze away from him, back to the numbers above the door, and again I hear that soft laugh. If I wasn’t on the verge of a panic attack, I might die of humiliation.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, the elevator stops on my floor. It’s another interminable wait for the doors to actually open, and when they do I make a break for it.

“Have a good day, Ms. Finch,” he calls after me, that stupid smirk still on his face as I spin around to stare at him. “I will be seeing you around.”

Then the doors slide shut with a soft whisper of sound, and he’s gone.

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