Page 1 of His Naughty Girl

CHAPTER 1

Andrea

I knew the ad that popped up in my social feed was too good to be true. Everyone said you couldn’t trust Selecta. Especially this newre-trainingprogram.

City life isn’t working for you, is it? You’re not alone, and help is only a click away! Selecta has a subsidy program that will work for you. Schedule an appointment today at a Selecta re-training office.

I had just lost yet another shit job for arriving to my shift ten minutes late for the second time. The first time, sure, I had spent too long watching my favorite scene fromBrigadoonfor the five hundredth time while I sipped my coffee. Me and movie musicals—I took the L on that one. This last time, though, it hadn’t been my fault! The fucking train had broken down.

The thought of looking again, of finding another horrible job that would barely pay the rent in the apartment I shared with three other women…

I clicked.

The re-training office in one of the grimier suburbs had the too-familiar red SELECTA logo above the door, along with a much more cheerful bluere-training!emblazoned across the bottom of the crimson block letters.

I pushed open the heavy glass door, my heart pounding as I stepped into the sterile, air-conditioned lobby. The faint scent of lemon cleaner tickled my nose. A bored-looking receptionist barely glanced up from her screen as I approached.

“Andrea Jacobsen, for Mrs. Tompkins,” I said, my voice wavering slightly.

She nodded toward a row of uncomfortable-looking chairs. “Have a seat. She’ll be with you shortly.”

I perched on the edge of a chair, my legs bouncing nervously. The clock on the wall ticked away the minutes, each second feeling like an eternity. Just as I was considering bolting for the door, a sharp voice cut through the silence.

“Miss Jacobsen?”

I looked up to see a stern-faced woman in her mid-fifties, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her crisp navy suit practically screamedcorporate executive. This had to be Mrs. Tompkins.

“Y-yes, that’s me,” I stammered, scrambling to my feet.

She beckoned me with a perfectly manicured hand. “This way, please.”

I followed her down a long hallway, my heels noisy on the polished floor. Mrs. Tompkins ushered me into a small office, gesturing for me to take a seat across from her imposing mahogany desk.

“Now then,” she began, her cold gaze making me squirm, “let’s get started, shall we? I’ll need you to grant access to your social media accounts for our data crawler.”

My stomach dropped. “All of them?” I asked weakly.

Mrs. Tompkins’s thin lips curved into what might have been a smile. “Yes, dear. It’s a standard part of our evaluation process. Just scan this code and our software will do the rest.”

With trembling fingers, I pulled out my phone and pointed it at the complex matrix of dots she had pointed to, on the back of her monitor.

Grant access?asked the pop-up on my screen. As I tappedYes, heat crept up my neck and into my cheeks. God, what would she find? Those drunken graduation party photos? The late-night rants about my exes?

“I… there might be some embarrassing stuff in there,” I mumbled, unable to meet her eyes.

Mrs. Tompkins waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, don’t worry about that, dear. We’ve seen it all before. This is purely for data-analysis purposes.”

I nodded, unconvinced. Mrs. Tompkins’s eyes flickered across her computer screen, occasionally making small ‘hmm’ noises that sent shivers down my spine. What was she seeing? What conclusions was she drawing?

After what felt like hours but was in fact only a minute or so, Mrs. Tompkins looked up from her screen, her expression unreadable. “Well, Miss Jacobsen,” she said, folding her hands on the desk. “I believe we have quite a lot to discuss.”

She leaned back in her chair, the leather creaking softly. Her eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, fixed on me. “I see you’ve had two boyfriends.”

My heart skipped a beat. How could she possibly have already figured that out, so precisely, from my social media feed?

“Tell me,” Mrs. Tompkins continued, her voice cool and clinical, “did you engage in sexual activities with either of them? And I mean any kind of sexual activity—oral, anal, anything at all.”

The blush that had been simmering beneath my skin now exploded across my face, a crimson tide I could feel creeping down my neck. The air in the room suddenly felt thick, oppressive. I squirmed in my seat, the fake leather squeaking beneath me.

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