SNEAK PEEK A HUNDRED CHALLENGES

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Welcome to

A HUNDRED CHALLENGES

November
PERSONAL / Final Entry

This is not a story with a happy ending. This is the autopsy of a disaster, and I’m here, dissecting it, trying to comprehend how I ended up like this—with my heart in pieces and my life in ruins. Everything spiraled out of control. My ghosts destroyed everything I had built, and betrayal stained everything I’d come to hold dear. 

My world collapsed, and I have no one to blame but myself. Now, I sit here in silence, waiting for the shadows of my past to hunt me.

I need to write this down to understand it--and I need to understand it before I burn these pages and leave it all behind once again. It seems like running away is my favorite mistake to make. How did I let it happen? Where did everything go wrong?

Maybe the beginning of the end started when I accepted Dominic Hertford's proposal. As the CEO of the country’s most influential media conglomerate, his offer was impossible to reject: leave my position as the head of the women’s section at The Daily Post and take the challenge of mentoring his good-for-nothing younger brother in developing a business strategy for Inspire-the most prestigious and influential magazine of all time, that also belonged to the family. In return, I'd earn a coveted position as one of Inspire's lead writers- a role that was a career-defining achievement reserved for writers of unparalleled renown and extensive track records. And, of course, one simply couldn't refuse the opportunity to work with the most legendary editor-in-chief of the world, Simone Hamilton. 

Or maybe everything fell apart when the heir in question decided to pave my road to paradise with fire, dedicating his days to making my life a living hell just because I’d been sent by his brother, and it was my job to take his vulgar, crude and catastrophically tasteless ideas and polish them into something remotely presentable.

We’re talking about Ashton Hertford: professional playboy. King OF VICE, and patron saint of irresponsibility. He was the least qualified person in the universe to lead a women's magazine, and soon, I realized it was my burden to be the damage control agent to his wrecking ball.

He drove me insane with his attitude, even from the other side of the screen. Since the oh-so-comfortable Ashton couldn't be bothered to leave Europe and grace our New York offices with his presence, we worked exclusively online. But distance didn’t diminish his ability to boil my blood like scorching oil.

Now that I think of it, there's a huge chance that my downfall began when, after six grueling months of work, I received an email from none other than Simone Hamilton herself announcing the board's approval of the business plan Mr. I'm-here-to-ruin-your-life and I had supposedly submitted. Except it wasn't the strategy we had agreed upon. The bastard had betrayed me, sending something entirely different--something contradictory, scandalous, and completely at odds with Inspire's traditionally polished and conservative identity.

But that wasn't the worst of it. Ashton had also transformed the company structure into an editorial version of The Hunger Games, abolishing all ranks--including the position I had been promised--and flattening the staff hierarchy, forcing all writers to compete against each other. The new proposition scored the articles and month by month, the lowest-scoring writers were supposed to be fired until the team whittled down from forty-nine to barely fifteen. If I had disliked Ashton Hertford before, from that moment on, I started hating him with every fiber of my being.

I hadn’t heard a word from Dominic Hertford about where this left me, so I simply followed the plan and joined Inspire.

Or maybe, probably, the true origin of the CATACLYSM could be traced back to when the architect of my misfortunes finally decided to grace us with his physical presence to launch Inspire's new phase. This condemned me to the daily torture of dealing with him in person on top of enduring Simone’s icy disdain and a magazine team that had devolved from a beacon of professionalism to a hive of quick, cheap, and commercial content.

Perhaps it was my writer’s block that chose the worst possible moment to strike, invading me like a wrecking storm. After trying every source of inspiration—novels, videos, online quotes, sex coaches, imagination, Pinterest boards, Spotify playlists, and my entire research protocol—I still couldn’t produce anything Simone would approve for presentation to the editorial team. With each rejected submission, I sank deeper into misery.

Although, if I’m being honest, I think my breaking point came that day. In the middle of my anguish, terrified of losing my career and the life I had painstakingly built, I made the most desperate and reckless decision of my life. I opened Pandora’s box, and...

 

CHAPTER 1

 

Cat

 

I might choose violence today, after all.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Whatever his proposal was, my answer was no. No way in hell. No in bold, capital letters, and permanent ink. There was no way I’d entertain whatever harebrained idea Ashton Hertford was about to throw my way.

Nothing good could result from agreeing to anything he suggested for a hundred reasons, but the most important one was that anything coming from him was probably intent upon humiliating me in one way or another.

It was what he did with the most important project of my entire career.

Six months. I worked for six entire months, day in and day out. Risked my job. And for what? Nothing. Worse than nothing.

Inspire wasn’t girl talk; it was women empowering. It was fashion; it was art. It was serious badass journalism made by women about outstanding women for all the women in the world. It was a voice that spoke about things that mattered and changed the perception of women in society.

And he simply burned all that history with a single click.

His gaze locked on me, and my breathing hitched in my chest. I could feel his shameless eyes taking in every inch of my upper body because he was that kind of indecent scoundrel. The air thickened, but I kept furiously typing as I focused on my breathing in the hopes that he would eventually get bored and leave me alone.

But then he met my negative with another question—one meant to burn to ashes the little patience I had left. “Been avoiding me, Wildcat?”

There it was. The infuriating endearment.

Every time he said it I wanted to scratch his eyes out, but that would give him more reasons to call me Wildcat. 

I was better than that.

And I hadn’t been avoiding him.

I was just protecting us both from ending up starring in an episode of a true crime documentary on Netflix. Thanks to him, my everyday mantra was: Remember, assassinating co-workers does not look good on your résumé.

Except he wasn’t a co-worker. 

He was something like the heir to the media empire I worked for, but he was also nothing more than a temporary, chaotic parenthesis and the only unbearable part of my almost dream job.

“Avoiding you means you are significant enough, and you’re not. Just fuck off; I don’t have time for this.” I motioned for him to exit my small office, which felt ten times smaller with him standing there.

Ashton Hertford was… distracting. In the worst of ways. In an outrageous way. He riled my temper, numbed my senses, and made me lose my balance and focus all the time.

 

 

 

And no, it had nothing to do with his attractiveness. Because the bastard was attractive, I’d give him that. Correction: infuriatingly attractive. Impossibly tall, jaw-droppingly defined, and devilishly handsome, with a hint of disheveled rebel strike.

The rake looked like he was chiseled by gods—very lustful and greedy gods. Naughty ones, too. He was a drink made of bad decisions and daunting sins. The bad boy of every girl’s dreams. Tattooed arms, a pierced ear, naturally mussed dark hair. A powerful stubbled jaw that made you wonder how it would feel underneath your touch. Tempting as hell lips that conjured all kinds of unholy things. And if all that wasn’t enough, nature decided to bless the devil with dimples that could cause the most demure nun to ditch the veil.

It was a shame his inflated ego shadowed his pretty face. His unapologetic arrogance and unbothered recklessness turned my blood into boiling oil every time we worked together, and I lost any objectivity, turning into a blind, antithetical creature—something completely opposed to what I worked really hard to project: a raging volcano when I was supposed to be a steady mountain.

“If I’m not that significant, why aren’t you looking at me?”

And then there was the issue of his eyes. Those light sage green eyes framed by dark rings that were insanely magnetic. Those were the reasons why I wasn’t meeting his stare.

It wasn’t avoiding him, but those absurdly impressive eyes.

“Because ignoring you boosts my endorphin release. Now, if you please…” The way my voice came out didn’t sound unaffected at all, and that made me want to pierce his throat with my sharpest pencil.

However, to do that, I’d have to look at him, and I didn’t want to look at him. I was still mourning the accomplishments he destroyed. I was too mad, and my emotions were not particularly bleached.

The implementation of his business plan was mandatory. It didn’t depend on him, so there was absolutely no reason for him to actually come to the office. 

But right after he dropped his bomb, he showed up in flesh and bone, with his many feet of muscle, insufferable arrogance, and horribly hypnotizing eyes.

It was like a freezing bucket of icy water. Scratch that; it was like acid running through my veins and a very thick and heavy cloud casting shadows over my days.

I should’ve seen it coming. I should’ve prevented what he did.

It was one of the most irksome details. The price of putting up with him for half a year was mine, and now there was no prize to be claimed unless I won the upcoming one-year-long race, and I was to blame.

Nothing. My bet for something better had been reduced to nothing, and my whole career was teetering on a precipice.

I had no future outside this building. I couldn’t risk it.

“Care to know what I think, Wildcat?”

“Roses are red, violets are blue, I don't give a fuck about you. Does that answer your question, Hertford?”

“I think I make you nervous.”

And those six words were enough to make my composure crumble.

I didn’t blink as my eyes snapped to his, my teeth grinding against each other, my heartbeat drumming a battle song in my ears. Not only because of how much he exasperated me but also because, yes, I was staring right into those unsettling, otherworldly eyes.

They were dazzling.

For a weak moment, I got what all the fuss was about.

No, I didn’t. Damn, I did. Objectively speaking, of course.

He had the whole office divided. Some secretly loved him, others openly loathed him. All of them soaked their panties thinking about him. The only one who didn’t seem to fall for his infuriating fucking smoky charm was Simone. But I was half convinced she wasn’t human, so it didn’t count.

I’d lie if I said my heart didn’t skip a beat the first time I saw his face on my screen. It happened during the videoconference of our introduction, with too many witnesses to count. Yes, he unbalanced my axis and said something out of place that I didn’t even register because I was processing his fucking gorgeous face. And because I would never show that kind of weakness to anyone, I answered soberly.

Correction: I answered bitterly. 

Anyway, from that first episode onwards, our never-ending war took place.

The story of our mutual dislike was simple: he knew his brother had sent me to play the umbrella to his storm, so he decided to make my life impossible. I, on the other hand, had tried really hard not to antagonize him, but it was as if we were two planets meant to collide. It was hate at first sight.

It was as if he were a dog that found a bone and wouldn’t let go. His next moves were creatively naming me Wildcat—after Caterina Wilder—and seizing every opportunity to make me as uncomfortable as humanly possible.

The more he tried, the more I fired back. Hence our constant battles, ongoing mocking taunts, and sharp replies. It seemed that swallowing my opinion in front of him was one of my incapacities. He set my temper ablaze by merely breathing.

Not only was he a storm on my horizon, constantly wrecking me with its gusts of wind, but it was also a devastating hurricane to the little that was left of the old Inspire.

So yes, he made me nervous, but for entirely different reasons than the ones he was suggesting. Correction: not nervous, murderous.

“And I think you should stop coming to the office. Clearly, you’re not used to working. The shocking load or responsibility of warming your chair seems to be making you delusional.”

Damn him! The task was so easy. We could’ve done this in such a smooth way, but stirring his brother’s anger seemed to be his priority.

Now, I would be forced to compete with almost fifty writers to earn my place, and Inspire’s fate was walking the wire.

All this shit was my fault. I had one job, to supervise him. And I failed. Now, everyone was suffering the consequences, and I was being punished by having to work under the same roof with him.

It was so much easier to ignore him when he was just that: an insufferable face on a screen. He’d drive me mad during our online meetings, but when I closed my notebook and reminded myself to visualize the prize, I managed to pretend he didn’t exist. Having him in inked skin and hard muscle right in front of me was another story altogether. It irked me beyond sanity.

And as I stared at my personal torture and reminder of my failure, I wondered what the hell I was thinking when I agreed to this.

The dim lights of the late-night shift made him look like a forbidden fantasy—captivating and secret.

If it were possible, I hated him even more for it. The spiteful creature's mindfuckery was maddening.

His arms were crossed over his chest, and the fabric of his shirt stretched over his muscles, a thin silver chain disappearing beneath it.

Did he have to be that fit? I forced my eyes to go back to his face, which was honestly worse. Did he have to be that pretty?

It only angered me further.

“Maybe I’m the only delusional enough to–how did you put it, Wildcat?” His smug smirk grew, cruelty flaring in his eyes. “Play lab rat.”

It sounded worse when he repeated it like that, mocking me with his taunting tone. Heat rose to my cheeks. Stress had been making my system glitch.

Of all the people that could have overheard me, did it have to be him?

I was on the phone with Serafina, Inspire’s writer’s department secretary, when Hertford invaded my doorstep. I just happened to be asking her to book a ticket at a premium male strip  club to see if I could get a little creative. Having close contact with oily skin was not my goal, but observing feminine sexual freedom in action might serve as inspiration. 

Serafina’s excitement when she heard my request was palpable through the phone, and I tried to explain the context of the situation because I sensed in two-point-one-seconds she was planning a whole girls’ night out, which was not even remotely part of my plans.

I should just kick him out of my workspace. 

“I’ll call you later,” I said to Serafina, whom I had forgotten about, then returned my full attention to the creature before me.

Given his expression, Ashton heard it all.

Especially the pathetic part where I confessed that it’d been too long since I had any memorable action between the sheets to remember clearly, that I had no one to experiment anything with, and that to find a lab rat for the task on such short notice would be impossible. 

Serafina had that effect on people. She was an intruder who kept digging and pushing until you gave into her trance and the only person in this place who, for some magical reason, didn’t despise me.

I didn’t blame them. It was my name at the end of the project that changed Inspire’s world. I didn’t care. I wasn’t here to make friends. I had no friends. I couldn’t have friends. Especially not someone as intrusive as Serafina.

Sometimes, I wondered how she would react if I told her everything. Not that it would ever happen. If I said it out loud, I’d give my past wings, and it’d end up catching up with me. I could never allow that. It was easier this way. My life was simple: me, my beloved books, and my escalating job. No time for distractions, friendship, or love. No bonds with someone who would demand childhood pictures and family gatherings. That would demand bonds and ties. Just productive time at work and escapism at home.

The problem was that the new Inspire plan would be so much easier to develop if I had a regular something around. Not that I would have admitted that out loud to Ashton Hertford, ever.

I had to concentrate on pulling this job out and to achieve that, I needed to research properly. That was what was missing in my writing.

I took Simone's feedback as constructive criticism, but after trying my hand with more than a dozen different approaches, frustration was starting to wear me out. To be fair to myself, I hadn’t written a single article for half a year, so it was probably that my fingers were a little bit rusty. My work had been less researching and writing and more reminding Hertford that his ideas were pure garbage; for him to answer that they were the garbage I was required to work with if I wanted to keep my job.

My skin was thick; I’d survive this impasse. I just needed a shot of experience to pull me out of this limbo.

And here stood Hertford, offering himself as one.

“I’ll be your partner in crime,” he repeated his initial proposal, his eyes darkening with a glimmer of defiance and wickedness. There was no hint of anything other than pure mockery in them.

He wasn’t really proposing this, obviously. He was merely trying to embarrass me.

He leaned against the doorframe of my cubicle as if he were in the living room of his house, looking every inch the scoundrel he was.

“You and me, Hertford? You can’t be serious,” I finally shot back with intended evident disgust when I realized he wouldn’t go away. Who did he think I was? Worse, what the hell did he think Inspire was? A brothel for him to sample us writers as if we were his whores? Was that the machiavellian reason behind his unjustifiable presence?

“Why wouldn’t I be?” His deep voice rumbled, making my stomach flutter with unwelcome awareness. His eyes glistened with that playful viciousness reserved only for me as if his life purpose was making my days miserable. I should feel special. “Now I understand why you’re such a buzzkill, Wildcat. You just need to get properly fucked to smooth those spikes of yours. I’m willing to sacrifice for the greater good of the world.”

Ugh! I hated him. So. Damn. Much.

A muscle ticked underneath my eye. I wanted to throttle him.

I hated to admit it, but he was partially right. I needed to get laid. Soon. Things were already too dire as they were, I didn’t have the privilege of being selective.

It could be worse. It still might be, at least for me.

By now, Dominic Hertford must have murdered me several times in his sleep, yet I had heard nothing from him. That was extremely odd, considering the rumor about what was happening in Inspire was plaguing the entire Hertford Group. 

Crying over spilled milk was pointless. I put myself in this predicament by being naive. I deserved to deal with the consequences.

The newly announced hook to sell online subscriptions was a year-long plan of sexual challenges that promised to break routines and defy the boundaries of monotony, opening a door for Inspire readers to explore the depths of their true sexual nature and welcome adventures to spice up their intimate lives.

A hundred challenges over a year, starting on New Year’s Day. Two per week.

Hence the desperate urgency for the experimental subject.

I loved researching. It was my whole imprint as a writer and the very core of who I was. Spending hours in libraries and archives, digging out information from the vastness of the Internet, and discovering lost treasures that no one had found before was one of the most fulfilling things in the world.

It was a resource born from desperation that bloomed into passion.

But to properly research, time was essential, and thanks to Mr. fuck-up-my-life, time wasn’t on the table anymore. We’d be drowning in the sand clock of delivering dozens of drafts week after week with such short deadlines.

Five days. We would have only five days to submit the weekly content. Every Monday, the guidelines for the selected topics would be published in the system, and our chosen articles would have to be submitted by Friday.

The only exceptions were the current ones. We were given two challenges as a headstart so we could warm up to the new structure.

Weeks had passed, along with many failed attempts, and I feared my creativity was completely rusty.

But I wouldn’t give him the pleasure.

“I’d rather die from chronic abstinence than have sex with you, Hertford.” A sarcastic smile touched my lips as I batted my lashes sweetly. 

Simone wanted me to be more risky. More daunting. More. But as much as I could use someone to exchange more with, Hertford wasn’t the specific more I was looking for.

It was completely inconceivable. Totally inadvisable.

Besides—not that I was considering it—if you had sex with someone you were forced to share time and space with, it became complicated. It turned into a slow-motion disaster. The waters became murky,and the boundaries blurry. Expectations and disappointments and all that shit– if you ever got to that point, that was. Getting there required trusting someone enough to establish a constant condoned interaction. 

I swallowed. I’d never allow someone close enough for that. Close enough to control my life and learn my secrets. My weaknesses. My past.

As a consequence, Hertford didn’t stand a chance.

“And do you know why that is?” he asked, all cockiness.

“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do to stop you from telling me?”

“Because you know I’ll fuck your brains out, and then you’ll have to admit how amazing it was.”

Modesty and Ashton Hertford were definitely not meant to be used in the same sentence.

“You know what they say, the smaller his dick is, the larger his ego gets."

“Wanna prove your theory?”

“I prefer to live with the uncertainty than with the disappointment.” I never failed to put him in place by pricking his swollen conception of self-worth, but my doses of sharpness had not been replenishing lately because I had more pressing matters in mind, such as dealing with all the chaos Hertford treacherously brought upon us. “Besides, you can’t expect me to trust you after what you did. It was low, even for someone like you.”

A corner of his mouth drew the hint of a smirk, one of his dimples making an appearance. The devil wasn’t remotely remorseful about his dirty maneuver. “If it makes you feel safe, I give you my word that I’d never use what we do between the sheets to compromise your position.” The devil winked, all charm. “A gentleman never tells.”

I made a nauseated grimace; there was not a single gentlemanly cell in him, and the fact that he dared mention anything about my position was evidence of it. I bet he’d go running to his brother to tell him how the writer he sent to control him ended up sucking his dick. Two kills with one shot since he hated his brother as much as he despised me.

I should just go back to ignoring him. This was what he wanted, and I was giving him the chance to get under my skin. But just because I had a great inability to shut my mouth when it came to Ashton Hertford, instead of smartly dismissing him, I added fuel to the fire.

“I don’t believe you, Hertford. And if I were to fuck someone from work, I’d go directly to your brother. I’m a smart girl, you see, and he is far more…”—I scanned him from head to toe as if measuring him—“interesting than you are.”

The impulsive lie tasted sour in my throat. Dominic Hertford was many things—cold, imposing, unnerving—but interesting he was not, at least not for me.

“Is that what you did to get here?” He asked with a suddenly concealed face.

My lips pursed in a thin line to suppress the ire that this particular assumption raised. It was what many believed to be true, even Simone. The order of placing me as a provisional lead writer came from up high, after all.

Given the structure of Inspire, becoming a lead writer was a career on its own, and the ones who had achieved it climbed step after step with exceptional accomplishments. I was incredibly good at what I did, but had no badges of honor or golden prizes yet.

It didn’t matter anymore; Ashton ruined that for me, too. There was no more lead writer badge because he was turning Inspire into a goddamn publishing Hunger Games.

I had to focus on building my arsenal fast. Reacting slowly meant staying behind, especially in this new light. I had what the job required, and I would succeed.

“My capabilities brought me here, Hertford. Not my pussy,” I spit bluntly. That was who I was. Sharp and honest. I hated sweet lies and empty compliments. Hated hypocrisy. Hated fake masks.

“Perhaps you should try it then. From what I learned, your capabilities are failing you these days.” Hit right on the target with my own words, the bastard. “If I were you, I’d better earn my good graces.” 

My eyebrows shot to the sky. Was that a threat?

His expression was blank and unaffected, so it was hard to tell, but this was his usual sick game. If he found any way of playing with me, he would. The damn sadist had no boundaries.

I wanted to throw something at him. It wouldn’t be difficult to hit him; his confidence occupied the whole, wide room, after all.

“For the record, I don’t work for you,” I cut off. Being his brother’s pawn was the best shield to protect myself from his manipulation. Even when it wasn’t true. I was in undefined territory, after all. I’d become an Inspire writer, so on paper, I did belong to Inspire. But I hadn’t really achieved what was asked of me, so I could be living on borrowed time. But Hertford didn’t have to know that.

“For the record, working for me would be far more pleasurable and interesting than working for my brother,” the arrogant ass said and then slowly licked his upper lip as if he were savoring his words—what his words conjured.

Something in the way he said it made me think of slow kisses and furtive glances, and I darted my eyes away.

I had to run away from this before my head kept summoning those disgusting ideas. Writing about sex during more than twelve hours a day without actually having any sex was addling my brain.

Taking my purse and my notebook, I walked past him, but the prick blocked the way with his arm, and his inked bicep aligned with my eyes.

I’d never observed what his tattoos were about. They weren’t that discernible on my screen. Now, I was face to face with the snake that shadowed his skin. It would be hot if the arm weren’t attached to the insufferable demon before me.

“What do you say? You and me having some science time?”

 I pushed his arm, ignoring how firm it felt and the lingering, tingling sensation on my fingers as I walked away. “In your dreams, Hertford.”

I pretended I didn’t hear when he said, “You know where my office is in case you change your mind. I promise I won’t make you beg.”

CHAPTER 2

Cat

 

New day, new chance at success.

With coffee and determination, I’d triumph—I told myself at the beginning of a new page. However, triumph wasn’t smiling on me today. I wrote all day long, no breaks, and still, nothing was worthy of sharing.

The storm outside was relentless, but at least the office had been empty all day because of a fashion event that almost everyone had attended. Given the weather, they would probably take the rest of the day off.

I didn’t have that luxury. My deadline was inching closer, and my creativity was grasping at straws.

The new north that Hertford brought upon Inspire had shaken the company’s ground. Some of Inspire’s most prestigious former lead writers quit, unwilling to see the company reshaped into a model unfit for their pristine careers. Others who hadn’t had many opportunities to shine before were having their moment now.

Some were doing better than the rest because they were the precise type of writer this new Inspire required: the popular influencer type.

That was another new rule: part of our job was to keep our social media accounts active and thriving—a task at which I was a disaster, but they were apparently experts.

They were fresh, young, and irritatingly loud. All of them, but especially the leader of the pack, Amanda, who also happened to be an obscenely flourishing blogger, social media star, and, much to my demise, an amazing writer.

Over the past two weeks, I’d sent Simone four versions of the first challenge and two versions of the second one.

All of them were rejected.

I knew she approved the other writers’ articles because I could track them in the new software in which we wrote our annotations and drafts, collected information and images, and submitted our finished projects. The articles were not available for others to read; only Simone and the designated admins were allowed to do that, but we could all track each other’s deliveries on a task board.

I’d never felt like I had to compete with co-workers. The Daily Post operated in a completely different way. We had assigned jobs, and in my particular sections, everything was planned ahead of time, giving me months to do extensive research and chew my approach and words.

I’d never been behind schedule before. Not once.

It was frustrating. Devastating. Immobilizing.

I was trying hard to find inspiration and illumination, to research, to be creative, and to fill myself with drive and enthusiasm.

I’d asked Serafina to take me out for some drinks. She jumped to the occasion, ready for such an adventure. 

I wore my usual don’t-you-dare-approach-me look that guys never seemed to get right to see if, by chance, fate was good to me this once and decided to bless me with a night fling good enough to set my sexual creativity on fire.

Spoiler alert: it was not.

And the worst was that half of it was my fault.

I hated to feel forced to do this.

It was different dating at twenty-eight—fine, almost twenty-nine—than it was in my early twenties. It was more difficult to find men attractive enough to give it a go and then discard them. They all just seemed… lacking. Not only physically but also their vibe.

 

 

It wasn’t that I was saving myself for any prince charming. That sort of fairy tale was off the table for me. I couldn’t have real things when there was nothing real about me. It wasn’t about thinking too highly of myself, either. Or perhaps it was; I didn’t know anymore.

I used to date. Often. Maybe date was not the correct word. I used to have sporadic someones. I even had a protocol for it because I wanted to protect myself from overstepping self-imposed boundaries that could only lead to wrong expectations.

It was just that it’d been getting harder lately to overlook the way they tried to sugar-coat everything they said to take me to bed, believing I was the kind of woman who was after love because, in their narrow minds, we were all the same. 

Or to keep kissing them when they didn’t do it right the first time.

Or to fake a smile to a lame joke.

I’d learned how to read them, and I knew precisely what I’d find before they finished introducing themselves.

The situation was more extreme under my current stress. My cloudy mood didn’t help me see the good in anything.

That was where the short-lived story of the lab rat plan ended. This project was supposed to last a whole fucking year. Dating someone for that long was out of the question, given I couldn’t even find one, let alone several someones to aid me with the task.

It felt so very impossible to accomplish it, and I hated feeling defeated at something.

You’re gonna come back crawling on your knees.

No, I wouldn’t. I’d never go back. I’d never look back.

So, I’d been trying to live the sexual adventures by myself. Trying and failing.

It wasn’t that I couldn’t find pleasure on my own. I could. I’d been alone my whole adult life. Except for those specific nights in which I decided to hunt down some fool to do the task—and sometimes keep them for a week or two—it was only me, myself, and I. And my fictional characters, who were so much better than real men.

Toys could do the physical job, too.

However, this mission required something else, and at every passing minute, I felt that I wouldn’t pull this through if I didn’t really live these experiences in full color.

All my self-doubts were swimming right beneath my surface.

Failure, they screamed at me. Imposter. 

Do you really think you’re gonna get far?

So, I worked hard all day to silence the voices in my head.

The still-unleashed storm had been toying with my sanity by depriving me of electricity, and eventually, my laptop ran out of battery.

I was looking for paper and pen when Serafina appeared on my doorstep with coffee in hand—a double shot of espresso with three spoons of sugar for me—and made herself comfortable in the chair across from me, since we had the whole office for ourselves and there was nothing else to do until the power returned.

How could I make her stop being this nice? I hated that she went to such lengths of dedication to learn my preferences to become my friend when there was nothing for me to offer in that department.

I thanked her with a tight, forced smile.

“How’s your week going?” she asked, beaming brightly.

“Same as always, I guess,” I replied with my usual enthusiasm. Clearly, she was here searching for a conversation, and after she went out with me the other night, I felt like I owed her one. “Yours?” I asked back, almost reticently.

“Same as always, too. Sewing and sewing, making content and sewing some more.” Unlike mine, Sera’s voice had an energetic and sickeningly positive tone.

She studied fashion design and had a personal project she was very passionate about, a corsetry brand that was bold but delicate at the same time. Empowering and sophisticated. Luxurious but reachable. Serafina was incredibly talented and perseverant; I could give her that. 

It was impossible to afford a life in New York and climb the ladder of your dreams simultaneously, so she worked at Inspire from Monday to Friday and dedicated her weekends to her namesake brand, Serafina. As Maria Serafina Ricci.

Two workaholics with a lot of dreams but too little time. That’s what we were. Perhaps we could’ve been friends if I were in a different situation.

“At least you actually did something. I’ve been writing, but nothing comes out the way I want it to,” I confessed, exhausted. Drained.

That was my second mistake because saying things like that to Serafina was like imploring her to dig deeper into your personal affairs.

As I said, I was so exhausted that my brain was fried.

She took the last drafts I just printed and started reading them.

“You know, you’re always reading those spicy books. Maybe you should just make a fictional story in your mind and write it down,” she suggested casually as she went through the paragraphs that held my future in their words.

“Been there, done that. It didn’t work.”

Writing fiction was not my thing. Only swallowing it as if it were the air I needed to breathe.

“Well, you should keep trying it. I know you’re overwhelmed right now, but you’re better than this. I know you, and you can write something outstanding, impactful, and captivating. You just need to silence what’s drowning your mind so you can see clearly again.”

A lump got stuck in my throat because she didn’t know me at all. No one did. There were pieces in the past and pieces in the present. A shattered mosaic that was not whole and would never be.

“And because I know you as much as I do,” she continued, “I’ll be honest… This doesn’t sound like you. I know that it’s been difficult for you because this wasn’t your plan, but don’t allow that to get to your words.”

A deeper pang of guilt hit me.

How was she aware of so much about me? I’d be more cautious with how much I shared from now on. 

I knew the answer, though. Serafina didn’t have friends here either. She was an assistant in a world of star writers who thought too highly of themselves. They would never mingle with her.

That was the reason she targeted me the moment I landed at Inspire. I might be a bitch sometimes, but at least I didn’t have a goddess complex.

She was also a lot to take in. Loud, bubbly, and intrusive. And too damn romantic for my liking. Given Serafina’s penchant for answering questions no one asks her and oversharing her truths, I’d witnessed her heart being broken and repaired by at least half a dozen prince charmings during the last six months, her lovesick hope being refilled disgustingly fast every single time.

“And…” Serafina chewed her bottom lip with indecision. I could sense something was bothering her, but she hesitated. Serafina didn’t usually hesitate.

“What?” I pushed.

She sighed. It sounded like bad news. “I happened to eavesdrop on Simone by chance today. During a meeting with Tessa Hendrik.”

By chance sounded too far from the truth, but who was I to judge?

“Are you sure?”

Tessa Hendrik was a very famous writer with a collection of prizes in her purse. She kinda fell into disgrace last year when she wrote an article about Spain’s royalty based on unreliable information that turned out to be wrong. She quit and had been laying low ever since, but she was still one of the most talented writers in the world.

“Yes. It sounded a lot like a negotiation. I think I heard something about arranging an open spot for her by dismissing someone else.”

Oh, Lord. I was so fucked. The open spot could mean another former lead writer was quitting, but several had already left, and no one had been replaced. So, it could also mean I was about to be kicked out because I was the only one who didn’t have an approved submission yet.

Tessa was a legend. She was brilliant, and I was momentarily stagnant. The competition hadn’t even started yet, but it was becoming more challenging every day.

Dread felt like pure acid in my stomach.

I closed my eyes and replaced it with fierce determination. Ashton’s sabotage wouldn’t deter me now, nor would Simone’s ill-intentioned moves to break me.

Fuck, what if Simone was also doing this on purpose? Cruelly criticizing me and my job so I couldn’t get past it? She would have a valid argument to dispose of me. It sounded above her, but she had developed a deep sense of hatred towards me since all this fuckery was announced. I represented the fall of her empire but also the limitation of her power. Inspire was this pristine world that she painted, and I was brought here to smudge it with everything she detested against her very will.

But I couldn’t keep asking Sera about it.

A thin frame interrupted us. Ava Hamilton’s frame to be more accurate. Her pearl necklace and French nails. Her lean, designer dress figure. Her golden family lineage. All that packed into a bottle of Chanel N°5 with It girl wrapping.

She was the face of Inspire’s social department and Simone’s daughter. I wished I could say she had an arranged position, but she was a natural at romanticizing her experiences, so the very heart of the events was exposed in the right, precise way to make people see the drive behind the shine.

“Simone is waiting for you at her office,” she spat.

To be honest, a part of me pitied Ava. Being Simone’s daughter didn’t seem easy. Ava’s superiority complex had been nurtured from the crib, but sometimes, I wondered how heavy it might be to live under the shadow of a deity. Safe for that, the world seemed to revolve around Ava’s influence, and writers died to meet her approval because it came with connections they would never reach otherwise, which fed Ava’s capricious character.

These things didn’t affect the Avas and Tessas of this world, though. They were born with a future and a silver spoon in their mouths. If they didn’t succeed here, they would do it without a doubt somewhere else, by their own means or not.

But I… I had no other choice because I had no tomorrow outside Hertford Group. This was my beginning and my end. 

“I’ll be there in two minutes,” I said, glaring at her.

The power returned just in time to see how something sparked in her blue eyes, something that felt like she knew something I didn’t. I couldn’t tell what, but I didn’t like it, and after Serafina’s ominous gossip, I couldn’t help feeling choked by dread.

By the time I reached Simone’s office, my mood was as dire as the storm that raged outside.

The space reflected her inch by inch, meticulously curated down to the finest detail. Tones of light grey and deep blue set a calming yet sophisticated backdrop, accented by intricate moldings that spoke of timeless elegance that mirrored Simone’s persona—polished, poised, and undeniably powerful.

She wore a pristine winter white suit today, matching her grey-white bob, which looked as if it’d been laser-trimmed.

Simone looked at me from above her lavender designer glasses when I stepped up to her desk.

“Sit.” I obliged without a second thought.  

She went back to reading something on her computer, her scrutinizing eyes sharp and precise, stopping abruptly a few minutes later, sighing with what I could imagine was exhaled disappointment.

“I won’t take much of your time, Miss Wilder. I had more faith in your work.” I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. The only faith she had was in my failure. “You’ve been with us for how many years? Seven? Eight?”

"Six months,” I muttered. “Plus my time at The Daily Post.” It was so like her to use facts in her favor.

“A long time,” she concluded, doing her best to justify her upcoming reprimand. “Reading draft after draft of what you sent, I feel as if you were somewhere else this entire time. It doesn’t represent Inspire. It’s your job to create something that does.”

I’d sent her a final draft earlier, but I already knew it was deficient.

A knot formed in my throat, my mind already fretting over what was to come. Simone didn’t waste saliva in vain, and her voice was painted with sharp fatality. It was just like when a doctor was about to announce death; you could tell by their voice before they declared the words.

She couldn’t fire me just like that, could she? There were specific guidelines, and I still had until the end of the week.

If I lost this job…

Tears burned the back of my eyes, but I forced myself to keep them in check as Simone threw one slice after another.

Not enough. Lacking. Failure.

The words she used echoed time and time again inside my head as bile rose. I wanted to vomit. I wanted to snap. I wanted to cry. I wanted to turn back time.

“Honestly, I would’ve dismissed you by now, but protocols must be kept.”

A wave of relief washed through me, only to then plummet down.

“However, given that someone as experienced and talented as Mrs. Tessa Hendrick intends to work with us, I’ve been authorized to change the initial set of writers if one of the current ones doesn’t meet Inspire’s standards.”

Every word was a sting.

I wished I could fight her in this, but I couldn’t. She was absolutely right. I fucked up. I’d been so unfocused these last months. So out of line.

I deserved this. I deserved to lose the one good thing I had in my life. The only constant, real thing, even when it was a lie.

I thought I was good enough for the job. I thought that the circumstances that brought me here wouldn’t matter because I felt prepared to fill the shoes. That my dreams would be fuel enough.

Those had been lies—lies I told myself so I could hold on to the dream I was so close to living—to keeping.

Simone went back to whatever was occupying her screen as she talked to me with a vacant voice. A hollow speech given just for protocol’s sake.

“She’ll be joining the project next week to replace the weakest link of our chain.”

Oh, Lord. This wasn’t good. I was crumbling inside, but Simone kept casually typing as if she were talking about the rainy day.

“You have until tomorrow night to deliver something decent, or you’re out.”

Forget the urge to throw up; I felt like I might pass out. One thing was to imagine it as a possibility; another was hearing her announcing it. The room started to spin around me, and small black dots plagued my vision. I didn’t know if the flickering lights and thunderous sounds were the product of my imagination or if the sky was actually threatening to bring this building down.

“But Mr. Hertford…” It slipped past my lips unintentionally. He could interfere. He could influence. He could aid me.

Or he could accelerate my fall.

If he decided to ever answer my email, that was. Three weeks and still no word from him. Not that he had responded to any of the weekly printed reports I left with his receptionist since my mission began. We never exchanged another word after I agreed to this, and I concluded it was because my reports were detailed enough to meet his expectations, but now I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d walked straight into a trap that had no way out.

And mentioning him was a big, fat mistake. Simone’s eyes darkened. “I am aware. I’m sure he will relocate you somewhere else. Perhaps as his assistant or something more personal.”

Every word was laced with disgust and disdain. She was so damn sure I’d fucked my way here and so damn pleased to rub it in my face.

Tomorrow night was way too soon to fix what I hadn’t been able to develop in weeks. 

That was why Ava was so smug.

“You can’t make this kind of decision. The board approved a plan with strict guidelines, and it’s my right to demand they’re followed.” It was a stupid, unprofessional, and childish reply, but it was the truth. Simone could only go so far. Ashton had disabled her power. She could make suggestions to the board, but she didn’t have the freedom to do as she pleased without their approval anymore.

Hertford’s words resonated in my head. If I were you, I’d better earn my good graces.

Of course, he knew this was coming. He was obviously savoring it. And if he was aware of it, it meant this was discussed. Publicly.

“And I still have two weeks left,” I planted myself, reminding her that this battle was not lost for me. I wouldn’t go down without fighting for what was mine.

A condescending grin illuminated Simone’s face. “That would be correct, Miss Wilder. But as I told you, I’d been given the green light to make some changes. We also decided to start with the selection and release two more challenges on Monday, and you haven’t even submitted something decent enough to get in line.” 

For the first time since I walked away from my past, I could feel Mason’s voice ringing in my ears.

You’ll be back with your tail between your legs. You’ll be no one. Nothing.

Everything was wrong. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I was good at what I did. It was a bad phase, nothing more. One that might define my entire life if I didn’t react immediately.

Just keep up your usual work. I trust you will do it outstandingly well.

If I’d only known that keeping up would not turn out to be that simple.

It was evident that Simone didn’t believe I was going to make it through. She wasn’t even looking me in the eyes anymore, not because she cared, but because she wouldn’t waste a blink on me.

If I lost this chance, this job, I couldn’t just try somewhere else. Building up the farce all over again could be too dangerous. The universe had been smiling at me when I got into The Daily Post. The same luck twice was improbable.

Had I been too ambitious, and this was my punishment?

I’d rather burn in the pits of hell than give Mason the satisfaction of my failure, but all I could hear was his fucking voice in my head.

I’d been trying to get this through for almost a month; a day wouldn’t suffice. I wouldn’t be able to come up with anything. My castle was crumbling down, my dream was fading away, my lies evaporating me with them.

The desperation was blinding. Smoldering.

The horrible sensation that gripped my body was like frozen fire. I wanted to collapse and cry, to beg Simone on my knees to give me another chance, to give me a little more time. 

But no matter how hard I pleaded, she would never do that. I almost felt like one of her life goals was to take me down.

So I just nodded, trying my best not to show how much her announcement was affecting me because if there was one thing that Simone hated more than a lacking writer, it was a pitiful one. I wouldn’t give her the pleasure. 

I blamed what I did next on the set of emotions that took hold of my body and mind the moment I stepped out of Simone’s office with anguish and dread threatening to break me before I even got the chance to think of a plan to survive.

I would’ve dismissed you by now.

I thought you could do better than this.

You are nothing without me.

You know where my office is in case you change your mind. Promise I won’t make you beg.

If I was going down, I wanted to know I’d tried everything in my power before lowering my sword. I’d give it a proper fight.

Simone wanted experience; I’d give it to her. 

The hallways of the Inspire blurred around me as I walked through them with burning determination. No hesitation.

I didn’t allow myself to overanalyze the madness I was about to do. All the reasons why it was a horrible, terrible decision.

Regrettable. Unethical. 

A colossal mistake.

A cataclysmic, irrational error.

But desperate times, desperate measures, and all that.

I had until Friday, which meant I had to dive into real research right now. Not tonight, not later, but now.

There could be a thousand possibilities and outcomes for it.

Maybe he was in the middle of a meeting. Or somewhere else entirely. Perhaps he had company. Maybe he’d reject me and enjoy every single second of the show—rejoice in it.

The small part of my head that was still running on common sense begged the universe not to find him. The other ninety percent, drowning in adrenaline and improvised decisions, needed him to be there.

I knew it was a lunatic move, but at least I would’ve tried.

I couldn’t fail. I would not fail. Morals be damned.

The only option I had was him and his goddamn offer. The prick that usually made my work a living hell. The reason I was in this predicament in the first place.

I loathed having to fall into this kind of humiliation. To strip myself of dignity just to have one tiny chance at not losing everything I’d built.

Stolen. Correction: everything I’d stolen.

But my desire to prevail was stronger than my pride.

I took a deep breath, ran my sweaty hands over my black, pleated skirt, and opened his office door without knocking, bumping right into him as he was on his way out. 

We froze for a moment, a thousand voices screaming inside my head for me not to do this. To turn around and run from my own stupidity.

Nothing good could come out of it; it was something I’d widely repeated since the first time he suggested it because it was a universal truth. Hertford was a lost cause of a man in every sense. 

But nothing good would come from not doing it either.

It’d be just this time, an impulse to move on from this ill-timed block—once and never again. I’d come up with ideas to avoid or brainwash him into forgetting it later.

I was sure the rest of the challenges would flow from my fingers in a cascade of creativity after I got the first one right. I was just blocked. It happens to every writer, right?

“Wha—?” He started, but I couldn’t let him question me. Couldn’t let him think this through or give him the chance to retreat. I moved so fast he didn’t get the opportunity to say another word, yanking him against me and pressing my mouth to his as I kicked shut the door with my heel.

CHAPTER 3 

Cat

 

One moment’s breath was all I took to speak. “This is not me getting into your good graces, Hertford. I’m merely using you.”

Then I kissed him again. 

He responded without argument, matching me in a clash of lips, tongues, and fire. We kissed in the same way we fought—with vicious passion.

He caged me against the tarnished glass door, sending a thrill of adrenaline through my body that had me moaning against my very own will.

His office was in the middle of the hallway that divided the rest of the offices from the reception. In a few minutes, there would be a parade of coworkers on their way out, and we’d be on full display if we didn’t move.

Of course, I hadn’t calculated that, but why should I care? I was ninety-nine percent kicked out, one percent hope. This was all I had.

Later, I’d allow shame and regret to fill in every fiber of my body that was now acting out of pure desperation, but at the moment, I only felt sick pleasure boosted by the urgency of the impending disaster.

And yet, there was something else too. Something that shouldn’t have come as a surprise at all: Ashton Hertford was a wickedly good kisser. Rough and confident and wild, but not rushed.

Good enough to make me melt in his arms. Good enough to make me forget my own mind. But then, all the devious creatures knew how to lure their prey, didn’t they?

I’d done my good share of kissing during my life, but kissing Ashton Hertford was another sin entirely.

I was always overthinking everything, always listening to my loud thoughts, but his mouth erased it all. All preconceived judgments I had from this man that made me see fire day and night, in the worst of ways, were just gone. All that was left were his soft, demanding lips, his expert tongue, his leather and smoke scent, and the feel of his warm, hard body pressing onto mine. 

His snare was intoxicating. Alarmingly invigorating.

Perhaps it was the product of the thrill of being on the verge of discovery. The excitement of doing something forbidden. Perhaps it was the extreme, dire situation that awaited me if I didn’t give myself to this, because I couldn’t imagine melting for Ashton Hertford in this dimension, however, melting I was.

One look at him was enough to know he was the kind of man who liked to do depraved, sinful things. That a night with him was worth ten with others. Bad boys always knew how to fuck. The problem was that he was also the most infuriating man known to humankind.

Not that my body seemed to care as I felt every hard muscle of his body against mine. It was disturbing how much he was igniting me in mere seconds. My heart raced inside my chest, pumping melted heat through my veins.

I hadn’t felt like this in ages, if ever. It was as if he could read my mind because he knew precisely what to do next. How hard to pull, how much to press. When to bite. When to lick. When to suck.

Perhaps this little taste was enough to light the spark. Perhaps I shouldn’t get any further.

Against every cell of my body, I stopped him—and myself—pushing him away and ungluing myself from the glass door at the same time.

Our breath was ragged, wild and frantic, and I wanted to run away and pretend this never happened, but I also wanted to seal his mouth against mine again and get lost in the consuming sensation of him.

I shouldn’t be liking it this much.

Voices and footsteps sounded from outside.

I’d seen silhouettes from female visitors inside his office during the last couple of weeks and knew precisely how much the sheer blur allowed me to see through the glass. Not that I’d been watching, but I thought his lack of shame was disgusting. Now, there was another sensation spreading through my veins that had nothing to do with disgust.

And I hated it.

Him.

This.

Something challenging and so very self-pleased crossed his striking eyes. A cocky grin played on his mouth.

This was so wrong. So fucking wrong. And so damn embarrassing.

I should take advantage of the moment and leave. I should just accept that Inspire—and possibly my life as a professional writer—was over and run as far as I could from this lapse of judgment. 

However, I didn’t. I couldn’t.

My feet remained nailed to the ground, and I was unable to make a decision. Unable to move.

Not only because this was the only shot I had left to try to keep everything I’d built but also because this felt unexpectedly different—captivating, enthralling.

And I wanted more of it. 

He was still him—still the same arrogant Hertford that would, without a doubt, use this against me every chance he found. The same infuriating man who wrecked my days for his personal fun. The same that had jeopardized my entire life with his twists and turns.

And yet, he was something else, too.

My heart beat savagely inside my chest. This could not be happening. 

And just when I was about to find the strength to walk away from this magnetic trance, the light flickered, and everything went to black, wrapping us in shadows and gloom.

It was late afternoon, and there was almost no natural light left. Given the engulfing darkness, I gathered the storm had left more than a couple of streets without electricity again.

All I could see of Hertford was a vague silhouette, barely enough to know where he stood. That he wasn’t moving. That his chest was still heaving, just like mine.

Two heartbeats slipped into one, and the air became unbreathable. Thick with the promise of darkness and the weight of what we wanted that hung between us, with a gravity that was not humanly resistible.

Three heartbeats and Ashton was lifting me, locking my legs around his waist, and devouring me again. If our previous kiss was passionate, this one was pure wildfire.

I rocked against him, or he against me; I didn’t know anymore. I only knew I was humiliatingly eager to feel more of him. All of him. To feel his hardness against my most sensitive spot. To feel his hands grabbing my ass. To feel his tongue tangling with mine.

My pussy was drenched and aching for him, pulsing and craving. A savage need that had no common sense. Lust clouded good judgment, and our mouths wrecked each other again and again.

What was I doing? This was Ashton fucking Hertford. If I made it out alive, he’d wield this as a weapon against me forever.

He broke the kiss without warning and started trailing my jawline with licks and small bites. I felt an electrifying current running through my entire system.

“Couldn’t resist my offer, Wildcat?” he rasped as he tasted the pulse on my throat with his tongue and lips, sucking and licking, and melting my insides with his indecently skilled tongue.

I grabbed the hair on the back of his head and pulled hard.

“Fuck you, Hertford.”

I wanted to punish him for what he was doing to me, for making me this weak for his mouth, but the groan I earned was pure pleasure.

“Such a dirty mouth,” he whispered against my lips before thrusting his tongue again, invading me with hunger.

My skirt was gathered around my waist, and I was so wet I was sure I was making a mess of my ruined tights that I felt ripping a few moments ago. I couldn’t help myself from rubbing against him. The sensation was so intense, so damn scorching, I could only think about getting more of it—about getting lost in it. 

“I knew you’d come begging for my cock.”

I stilled. His mockery was a bucket of icy water. 

This was a hundred shades of wrong for a hundred different reasons, starting with how I’d fallen so damn low as to seek Ashton Hertford of all men on earth. The one who would twist this against me because he enjoyed driving me mad.

He was toying with me. Of course he was. And I was allowing him.

The outrage was more than enough to wake me from the trance.

I jumped off him and pushed him away. “You’re a dick, Hertford. I won’t ever beg you for anything. But you know what? It’s your loss.”

He had to humiliate me, hadn’t he? I knew it’d be like this.

But no, I wouldn’t let him. I wasn’t falling on his lap; I was using him, and that was my power.

I arranged my skirt in the dark with as much pride as I could gather and turned to leave, but he reached me and grabbed me by the elbow, whirling me back to him.

I should have stopped him then, just as I should’ve stopped him before. Should’ve resisted him like every fiber of my body was begging me to, but the bastard kissed so good. So damn good.

I hated it. His kissing. His touching. Everything.

Yet, I kissed him back. 

I kissed him fiercely—madly.

I knew I’d regret this tomorrow, but something in the way we sparred turned me on beyond reason.

It was a twisted realization, one I would have to analyze later without the haze of arousal clouding my senses, but it was also an enlightening discovery.

This time, he led me to his desk until my backside hit the surface. His hand started an impatient road from my knee to my thigh, sliding up the silky surface of my tights until his fingers found a ripped area and, with a confident pull, finished tearing the thin fabric.

The feeling of his warm hand against my skin was pure bliss, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly so.

The darkness made everything sloppier but also so much furtive. We were two shadows, contrasted by the far city lights, and nothing more than that.

He finally roamed higher and found the waistband, peeling the tights down with such force that my shoes flew off with them.

I couldn’t see much of him, but I could feel all of him as he placed himself between my legs, forcing them apart, pressing his erection against my aching, throbbing core.

“Ask for it, Wildcat.” His voice thundered in the dark. A deep promise made of smoke and sin that would have had me begging for him if he were not… him.

That proved how little he knew about me. I would never beg any man, let alone Ashton Hertford. The day I asked him anything nicely, hell would freeze over. 

Yet, there was something in me that loved to challenge him in any way I could. Something that was viscerally rooted, and I seemed to be unable to control it. Something that pushed me to push him off the cliff, dragging me along with him.

“Make me,” I moaned, lacing it with all the poison I could muster.

His chest rumbled with a dark chuckle that told me he enjoyed our game—my defiance—our sparring.

Of course, he did. The bastard was so used to girls falling to their knees for him that anything different was probably exotic.

“It’ll be my pleasure.” His voice sounded rougher than before. Darkened with wickedness and unhinged lust.

And then he sank to his knees, tearing off my underwear and putting his devilish mouth to work.

I muffled my gasp.

I should have put a stop to this madness before it was too late, but it was already too late.

When I felt his tongue on me, all my resolve crumbled.

There was something incredibly addictive and alluring about being submerged in total darkness, only a few feet away from people living their mundane lives while I was being scandalously ravished. About having to be silent and swallow my moans when all I wanted was to scream out loud.

The first stroke of his tongue was heaven. Light and soft and taunting. But, the following ones? Those were fire.

He devoured me at the perfect rhythm and perfect pace. Sucked and licked and teased, making me a slave of his ministrations.

I was past logic. Past clarity. 

It was a rollercoaster of sensations, heightened by the sneaky nature of the situation.

Every sensation was electrifying. Every brush was awakening.

There was something in the way he moved his mouth that was so different than any other lover I ever had. He knew precisely how to do it, at what rhythm, and with how much pressure.

And right when tension started gathering at the base of my spine, he stopped.

Abruptly. Suddenly. Sadistically.

“Where are your manners, Wildcat?” he whispered, replacing his tongue with his thumb and rubbing my swollen clit in idle circles, slow and torturously painful, holding me right on the edge of madness. 

A breath away from letting me fall, a breath away from making me fly.

“Go to hell, Hertford.” I’d never concede to him this victory.

He sank two fingers from his free hand deep inside me, sliding in my slickness and adding pressure to my clit with his thumb.

My traitorous hips lifted for him without my permission, moving on their own accord, seeking the high he was perfectly mastering.

Fuck him.

“I can’t hear you,” the devil mocked as he fucked me, in and out, driving me closer until I started writhing, then slowing down to chase my orgasm away at his whim.

It was frustrating. Addictive. Fucking sick.

I wanted him to put me out of my misery, and at the same time, I craved his sweet torture.

Between my inability to choose and my refusal to give in, he continued his gloriously sadistic ministrations, adding his expert mouth and changing the pressure. I found myself unable to do anything other than enjoy the ride, milking every drop of pleasure, savoring every second of delicious, wonderful...

A dry knock sounded on the glass door. We both whipped our heads in unison towards it. A feminine shape could be discerned on the other side, candle in hand.

“Mr. Hertford? The documents you requested from the archive arrived.”

It was Paulette’s voice—Simone’s personal assistant.

Fuck.

I lifted myself on my elbows, and we found each other’s eyes, the glow of the candle casting the dimmest of lights in our direction. I wished it didn’t. Being in absolute darkness was easy, but seeing him like this was not.

His handsome face between my legs. His tongue running through those sinful lips, sucking my arousal as if it were the sweetest honey he’d ever tried.

The scene was as indecent and debauched as it was decadent. Ashton, with his fingers knuckle-deep buried inside me, and I openly displayed on his desk.

He must have been thinking the same because I saw in slow motion how his mouth curved up in an even more devious smirk.

I knew he was going to level up this game before he did. I knew it because I noticed that smug look shining in his candle-lit eyes.

I could’ve—should’ve—moved. But somehow, that didn’t seem to be the line of action today.

I found myself hypnotized by this—whatever the hell this was. 

 

 

By all of it. By the thrill of the dangerous, perilous situation we were in. By being on the verge of discovery, my legs spread wide as he tongue-fucked me to oblivion. By the pleasure, mind-numbing, and searing. By—against my better judgment—Ashton Hertford himself.

I was aching and pulsing for him.

It was as if a drug was running through my veins, and I couldn’t have stopped the high even if I wanted to. He was already in my bloodstream, and I feared it could prove to be fucking difficult to be clean of something this strong.

He paused for a moment without losing eye contact, sinking one finger again, hooking it to my G-spot. My muscles clenched, and I swallowed a moan.

“Is the spring issue included?” he asked casually, his loud voice hinting at his amusement before he licked me again.

Fuck. The. Bastard. 

He wouldn’t let Paulette find us like this, would he? 

“Say please, Wildcat,” he whispered, only for me to hear.

Another pump of his finger. Another flick of his tongue.

I watched with constricting nerves as Paulette’s hand neared the door handle. “Yes. Do I bring them in, sir?”

He sucked my clit once again, biting it with lazy delicacy as I bit my tongue to muffle another moan. I couldn’t take it anymore.

Everything felt as if it was being played in slow-motion and time-lapse at the same time.

I knew by Serafina how much of a gossip Paulette was. There was no way that this was going to stay here. She’d spread it like wildfire.

I locked my eyes on his and swallowed. I didn’t want to concede, but I saw the challenge there. He couldn’t care less if Paulette saw us like this, but I did. I didn’t want my professionalism questioned. I didn’t want to give them a reason to think I’d fucked my way up. That I kept doing so.

Point for him.

“Please. Please. Just fucking please,” I finally begged through gritted teeth.

“I’m on a conference call. I’ll retrieve them later.”

Conference call? Really? In the middle of a blackout. I aimed a dismayed glare at him. 

Paulette mumbled a clear understanding oh. Was conference call some sort of code between them? Did it mean he was occupied? I wanted to strangle him. Her arm fell from the door handle, and she left, taking the light with her.

Relief shot through me.

“Now, just because you asked nicely—” and his mouth was on me again. Devouring me. Taking me to heaven.

The devouring urge to fight him because of what he’d just done vanished altogether, and all I could think about was how glorious his tongue felt between my legs.

Something inside me got unleashed. My insides were on fire, running molten fire. I needed to fucking explode. I begged Ashton Hertford to fuck me. I’d better make the humiliation worth it. 

I locked my fingers on his soft hair at the same time he sped up the rhythm of his tongue and the pumping of his fingers.

Nothing had ever felt so good in my entire life.

In and out, rolling and swirling and sucking, until my muscles started to clench so fiercely I felt like my whole body would cramp, and the most exquisite, mind-blowing orgasm hit me with the force of an avalanche. Wave after wave of pleasure washed over me in the most delirious kind of release.

Ashton kept licking while the trembles subsided, and I came back to reality. And with reality—as if there was a very sadistic almighty creature enjoying my torture and pulling the strings to make it last—it also came back the light.

Fuck.

I didn’t want to look at him. I knew what I’d find. That self-pleased, cocky ego all over the sky. However, to follow up with all the impulsive mistakes I seemed to be making today, I did. 

My body reacted to him in such a startling, unexpected way. To his rising chest, breathing as wild as mine. To his wicked tongue licking my release from his lips. To that hungry look in his striking sage green eyes. 

It was the most erotic image I’d ever seen in my entire life. 

Now that the power was back, a group of people walked down the hallway on their way out.

I couldn’t care any less.

It was a fever-high lust that felt like paradise. A false one, of course.

He stood and leaned over me from between my wide open legs, ran a finger through my pussy, and smeared my lips with my cum. “Look at you, Wildcat. You’re fucking a wreck.”

I dropped my eyes to his arousal. He didn’t differ that much from me. The fabric of his jeans strained against his swollen cock. Painfully so.

If I were one of those lovesick fools who dreamed about anything happening with Ashton Hertford, I would be praying for this moment to never end. For him to make love to me. To fall for me. To play Prince Charming in my fairy happily ever after.

But I was not a lovesick fool. I was a realistic, skeptical creature who knew that fairy tales were only that. Tales. That Ashton Hertford was far from being a knight in shining armor.

And I also wanted a payback for what he made me do. I wanted him to know that this was me using him, not him playing with me.

So I shoved him away, stood from his desk, arranged my skirt, and walked to where my shoes lay scattered.

It was rude and completely unfair, but so had he been torturing me. Let him solve his hard problem by himself.

“Thank you,” I said, putting back my shoes with grace and poise. My voice came out much more strangled and breathless than I wished it to, but I managed to tame it in time. I only hoped the hallway was empty when I walked out that door, evidently ravished. “Since we’re so keen on manners.”

Not that I got to the door. Not that I got anywhere.

He laced his arm through my waist and dragged me back to his desk, twisting me around and bending me over.

The few items that had survived the previous round clattered to the ground.

“You’re playing with fire, Wildcat. I hope you are prepared to get burned.” His voice was husky and dangerous, and I knew he wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t a threat or a promise. It was a plan in motion, and it made my heart pump faster than it ever had.

Goosebumps rippled across my skin as he lifted my skirt once again, his breath a tantalizing whisper against my ear. I found myself speechless for once, my usual sharp retorts failing to aid me. 

Fuck him. Defiance surged within me, a desperate attempt to reclaim some semblance of control. “Damn you, Hertford.” I wiggled beneath him, trying to free myself, but his grasp on my waist was too strong.

His chuckle was laced with sadistic pleasure, but there was something really sick in me because the way my body responded to it was a hundred shades of wrong. The bastard knew what he was doing, how he was playing with me and pushing me under his trap, and how I was reacting to it.

“I’m gonna make you take back every dirty word from that filthy little mouth,” he rasped, his voice thick and deep with arousal, wrapping around me like ivy, steadily climbing and tightening with each passing moment.

“You can try—” The retort died in my throat when his hand gripped the base of my neck, forcing my face flat on the desk while the other undid his jeans.

Time seemed to dissolve as instinct overrode thinking, and I found myself unable to process anything other than the twisted pleasure this fantasy provided.

I’d never been handled like this before, and a part of me had always felt like something was missing. I lived it through books, yes, and I thought that perhaps the fictional expectations had broken me for real men. 

But there was a huge difference between playing something in your mind and actually feeling it in every inch of your body. In every drop of blood running through your veins.

It was the most intense sexual experience of my life.

With one rough shove, he drove his cock to the hilt inside me. Pain and pleasure blended at the invasion, at his thickness ripping me without delicacy. At how much I enjoyed it.

His possession was as unapologetic as it was exquisite.

He slammed into me, and my eyes watered from the sensation. From feeling that I was completely and utterly ravished and filled.

“I can’t hear your complaints now, Wildcat.”

People had stopped walking down the hallway, so I’d stopped biting my moans. Even if I tried, I didn’t think I could swallow my satisfaction anymore.

The intensity of our fucking eclipsed any possible attempts of restraint.

But I couldn’t allow his ego to grow larger than it already had, could  I? “Is that all you’ve got?”

He didn’t answer with words but with a furious, primal thrust that hit me everywhere at the same time and almost, almost made me come again. The collision of sensations nearly sent me to the edge of electrifying madness.

But then he stopped abruptly, withdrawing and turning me around roughly.

I leaned back on my elbows and looked at him.

My mistake.

It must have been the sexual high because, at that moment, I felt horribly mesmerized by the sight of him. Nauseatingly so. It was ensnaring and overwhelming.

Every sinew, every fiber of his being, was fascinating.

His shirt hung open, revealing a meticulously chiseled chest and abdomen with intricate tattoos that enhanced that irresistible bad boy facade, his silver chain with two metal plates hanging.

I gasped when my eyes reached his cock, throbbing and pulsing for me, covered in our cum. His size was… impressive. Mouthwatering.

I looked back at his face because I didn’t want to stare and drool, but his face—goodness, his face was disarming. Pure, twisted lust and reckless desire, and disturbing need.

I’d never been one to believe in love, but I did believe in the power of desire. And in that moment, I felt drugged by it. It felt like stepping over a cliff that I’d never dare approach otherwise because I was aware of how deadly the fall was. But approaching I was, risking it all.

It scared me to death because I knew something like this could be addictive.

He stepped closer, our bodies touching in all the right places, his breathing as heavy as mine, a daunting challenge in his eyes.

This time, when he buried himself inside me, he made it agonizingly slowly, in a sensual, hypnotizing rhythm that felt like heaven and hell all rolled into one. Inch by inch of him, making me see stars.

“Admit it, Wildcat. This is the best fuck of your life.”

It was. Truly, it was.

It seemed that nothing ignited me more than being desired roughly and savagely did—in the way I thought it only happened inside my head.

Perhaps it was the fact that I didn’t care what he thought about me. Or maybe it was how every interaction with him seemed to stoke a blazing, raging fire in me.

Maybe it was that he didn’t expect anything from me that made me feel free. That he’d already taken my worst outbursts, and he never shied away from them. Or that no matter what, I would never fall for someone like him, so there was no risk in making him want to challenge me because I would withstand him.

As frightening as it was, it was also liberating to be unburdened by restraints.

I shook my head in response, pushing the boundaries as Hertford pounded into me. I’d do anything to avoid conceding.

He fired back in response, quickening his pace, thrusting in a relentless rhythm. “Admit it, or I won’t stop all night. You fucking know I won’t.”

I didn’t know if he realized how promising his threat sounded.

The bastard slowed down to a torturous and delicious pace, and I would’ve gathered the strength to hold on if he hadn’t started to work my clit with his thumb again.

It was too much. His cock and his hand and him.

“Admit it,” he repeated one last time as he rubbed my swollen flesh between his fingers, sliding his cock faster and harder, hitting the perfect spot to send me over the edge.

I was fighting myself not to say it when all I wanted was to give in. But then, he wrapped his free hand around my throat and squeezed, and I was lost.

The sensations were overflowing my body, and I couldn’t control myself. I was at his complete mercy, and something in the savage, imposing way he was choking me was enrapturing. It was as if knowing I had no other option was freeing me from my own restraint.

Tension gathered at my core, and all my muscles tightened, my resistance crumbling. “Fine, you are giving me the best fuck—oh God—fuck of my life.”

My strangled voice was barely audible, but that confident smirk all over his face told me he’d heard me quite clearly.

It was as if the admission unleashed something in him because Ashton started to fuck me even harsher than before. Deeper, more brutal, and frenzied.

Tears rolled down my cheeks. I could bet my hair was a mess, and my face was a disaster of smeared makeup and sweat, but such concerns were a distant whisper compared to the maelstrom of sensations that were captivating my body. Of the hardwood against my back and Hertford’s fingers buried in my hips and my throat. Of how much his thickness filled me. Of how much his sick sadism pleased me.

“That’s it, Wildcat,”—thrust—“you,”—thrust—“take,”—thrust—“it,”—thrust—“so,”—thrust—“fucking,”—thrust—“well.”

My hips bucked to meet his, feverish and frantic, until a hot ache burned through my veins, radiating molten pleasure all over my body, electrifying every nerve and making me spasm as it rolled through me, wave after wave.

I couldn’t hold it anymore, and my mouth opened to scream out, but Hertford muffled it with his hand as he continued to ride my orgasm until he slipped out and came all over my ruined clothes.

We remained like that—him standing with my legs hooked around his waist—panting in unison as the fog dissipated and what we just did came into vivid reality.

Until what I ignited became palpable and unavoidable.

I’d just been office fucked by Ashton Hertford. Princeling of Hertford Media Group, professional fuckboy who irritated me beyond comprehension, and full-time asshole.

And the worst part? I didn’t just tolerate it. I relished it.

 

IF YOU WANT TO KEEP READING A HUNDRED CHALLENGES,

CLICK HERE

***

A Hundred Challenges Reviews:

Thank you so much for reading this freshly out-of-the-oven advance of A Hundred Challenges. As a new writer, I pinch myself every day to make sure this is not a dream.

These three chapters are the beginning of a journey that I promise will take you through thrilling adventures, a rollercoaster of emotions, many surprises, and a love story that is as fierce as it is complicated. 

These are some of the reviews you may found on Goodreads thus far: 

 

Sydnie Wilson: ★ ★ ★ ★.25

I’ve never read a dark romance before, and honestly when I read the content warnings I was very apprehensive and wasn’t sure whether I would enjoy it or not but I’m so glad that I gave it a chance!!

This book is *very* spicy which I was expecting from the warnings lol but what I wasn’t expecting was for the plot to grip me in the way that it did. I couldn’t put it down and the reveal at the end had me like 😯😯 I also didn’t realise how long the book was, but for me it didn’t feel long at all because I was so hooked on what was happening.

I fell in love with all of the characters and I’m already so excited to see them again in the next book. Also, Wildcat and Viper?? PLEASE the nicknames are 10/10

 

 

Scarlet Belle: ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

I went into this ARC read completely blind, as it was my first one I read about Natalie's journey of writing the book but didn't read the description. I'm so thankful for that because I was immediately pulled into the intense and complicated relationship between Cat and Ash. What started as pure hatred between them took a strong and troubled path into unknown waters.

This book tackles a lot of issues around our awareness of self. Our characters go on a journey where they discover that letting go and giving yourself to the good moments is what shapes us. They learn that fighting for themselves will suddenly become much less important than holding on to each other. Plus we get a little "who did this to you" and who doesn't melt for that 

Book 1 came into my life unexpectedly but I'll be desperately waiting for book 2! For anyone who enjoys dark romance and enjoys experiencing new spice with the characters, this book is for you! 

 

 

Miss Mona: ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

"it doesn't count as hell, if you like how it burns”😈

Let me tell you about how I devoured The Hundred Challenges! It’s the kind of book that grabs you by the collar from page one and never lets go. No fluff, no unnecessary details—just pure, straight-to-the-point storytelling that keeps you hooked. My first thought was corporate Cosmo meets The Devil Wears Prada, but with a razor-sharp edge and the twists you'd never suspect!

The main character - a book girlie herself, which makes this an instant win. The writing is clean, modern and so immersive that you forget time exists. Suspense? Check. Intrigue? Double check. The bruised-and-broken trope we all secretly (or not-so-secretly) adore? Oh, Natalie Mar delivers! And the romance? Chef’s kiss. The spicy scenes are written with finesse—nothing cringe, nothing overdone, just impeccable pacing and intensity.

If you love thrillers that waste zero time, characters that pull you in, and a plot that keeps you flipping pages like your life depends on it, The 100 Challenges is your next read. Book girlies, prepare to scream!

 

JoLN: ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

 So I have a warning for this book and it’s that it’s UNGODLY ADDICTIVE!

Don’t even get me started on the spice because it’s off the charts 🔥🥵🌶️ Cat and Ash are in another league, the way they push and pull and end up being each other’s perfect match is something out of this world!

The whole mystery behind Cat’s life is entrapping and Ash’s family is another mystery, wrapped in a secret that has you on edge every on single page.

And even though I didn’t know I needed this book, I definitely know for a fact that I need book 2 ASAP because that ending has SO MUCH MORE in it!!

 

 

Fiona Crosswell: ★ ★ ★ ★ .5

I devoured this!! In two days I’ve done nothing but delve into the world of Cat and Ash and all their deliciousness. I’ve ignored all responsibilities and just read and listened to the Spotify playlist (with each chapter as recommended) and what an experience it was! Congrats Natalie on your debut!

 

 

Aricka Shively: ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Natalie, Natalie, Natalie… A Hundred Challenges was one of the best dark romances I’ve read! Ash was just delicious and Cat is dark and mysterious and just as devilishly fun as Ash. I LOVED learning about our main characters through each other’s, and their own, eyes. I want to rave about the insane plot that you wove so intricately throughout the novel. Cat’s backstory, the Mafia, and Ash’s story was so compelling and seamlessly woven together. There were so many elements to this story at the beginning that I was nervous that they would end up getting lost or the ending would be lackluster, but you proved me wrong a million times over! Your storytelling is impeccable; I was captivated continuously through the book. I literally was on the edge of my seat reading the ending, and probably read the fastest I ever have trying to reach the conclusion to the chaos that our MMC and FMC found themselves in. It was so fun to read and the spice is *chefs kiss*. Thank you for the crazy fun ride and I can’t wait for book 2!!

 

If you want to read more reviews, they are available

on Goodreads.