Chapter 5
The apartment was tomb-quiet when I finally heard Leo’s bedroom door click shut. That night, after Leo’s snores finally drifted through our paper-thin walls, I found myself back at the laptop like a moth to a flame that was definitely going to burn me alive.
The Virtue Exchange registration stared back at me—all clinical white backgrounds and tasteful serif fonts, like they were selling luxury handbags instead of… well, me.
My hands were shaking so hard I could barely click through the process.
Terms and conditions that probably signed away my soul. Privacy assurances that felt like wishful thinking. Medical screening requirements that made my stomach clench.
Step One: Personal Information.
I typed my full name with shaking fingers. Age: 25. Location: New York. The questions became more invasive from there.
Previous sexual experience? Medical history? Emergency contact?
I paused at that last one. Leo’s name sat in the contact field, and something twisted in my stomach. He had no idea what I was about to do, nor what I was considering doing.
Step Two: Verification Requirements.
That’s when the real wall came: proof of virginity.
I stared at that phrase until the words started to blur together. Proof. Like I needed a fucking certificate or something. Like my inexperience was a commodity that required authentication.
Step Three: Terms and Conditions.
The legal text blurred together as I scrolled. Privacy protection, client screening, and payment guarantees. My cursor hovered over the agreement checkbox.
Eight days, that’s all we had left.
The cursor kept blinking at me mockingly. Submit or close the browser. Save Leo or save myself.
“Please,” I whispered to whatever gods listen to desperate idiots, “let this be enough to save him.”
With a breath that felt like swallowing glass, I clicked ‘Submit Application’.
The confirmation page loaded immediately: ‘Thank you for your application. You will receive further instructions within 24 hours.’
My reflection in the laptop screen looked ghostly pale, like I was already disappearing.
I crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed. The girl who’d spent her whole life trying to do the right thing had just applied to auction off her virginity to the highest bidder.
Fucking fantastic.
I slammed the laptop shut and buried my face in my hands. What had I just done?
***
The next day at work, I was operating on approximately zero sleep and the kind of anxiety that makes your skin feel like it’s crawling with ants. Coffee tasted like liquid regret, and even basic tasks felt like trying to perform brain surgery with oven mitts.
Which explains how I managed to send Asher Blackwood’s confidential demo files to the wrong artist management team.
The demos weren’t just confidential—they were top-secret, classified, burn-after-listening level stuff. Some major artist he’d been courting for months, and I’d just handed their current label a roadmap to every negotiation tactic we had.
I realized my fuck-up about thirty seconds after hitting send, which was roughly twenty-nine seconds too late.
The main office went dead silent when Asher Blackwood emerged from his glass top-floor cave, moving with the predatory grace of someone who’d perfected the art of professional homicide.
His steel-gray eyes locked onto me with laser precision. “My office. Now.”
Even though his voice was quiet, it was the kind of quiet that hurricanes make right before they level entire cities.
I followed him like a prisoner walking to execution, which wasn’t far from the truth. He closed the door with deliberate precision, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
“Do you have any concept of what you’ve just done?”
Each word was delivered with surgical precision, designed to cut deep. I opened my mouth to apologize, but he held up a hand that could’ve stopped traffic.
“Those demos were under strict confidentiality. The artist’s current label will now know exactly what we’re offering, down to the penny. Three months of negotiations just went down the drain because you couldn’t be bothered to double-check a simple file transfer.”
My hands were trembling so hard I had to clasp them behind my back. “I’m sorry, I—”
“I don’t want to hear excuses.” He moved closer, and I caught a whiff of his cologne—something expensive and seductive. “You’ll spend the weekend calling every contact we have, doing damage control. You’ll draft explanations, make apologies, and pray that our reputation survives your carelessness.”
His eyes never left mine when he leaned closer to my face and I almost choked on my own heartbeat in my throat and intensity in the inches of air between us.
“And if we lose this signing because of your mistake, it comes out of your future here and in this industry. Do I make myself clear?”
Translation: I was one mistake away from being unemployed.
And here’s the truly fucked up part—somewhere between his controlled fury and that predatory intensity, my body decided to betray me completely.
That barely leashed power radiating from him…it was doing things to me that had absolutely no business happening during a professional ass-kicking.
Christ, what was wrong with me? Getting turned on while being demolished by my boss was a new low, even for my disaster of a life.
Perfect. Just what I needed while potentially selling my body to pay off loan sharks.
“Yes, sir,” I whispered. “Perfectly clear.”
“Good. I want a full report on my desk Monday morning detailing every conversation, every response, every potential solution.” He moved to his desk, dismissing me without another glance. “You can start now.”
The rest of the day passed in a haze of humiliation and panic. I stayed late, making calls to industry contacts and crafting carefully worded emails that basically amounted to “please don’t completely destroy us because one of our assistants is a walking disaster.”
By 10 PM, the office was nearly empty. My head was pounding, my throat was raw from talking, and I still had a dozen more calls to make. I was drafting yet another damage control email when I noticed something on my desk that hadn’t been there before and made me do a double-take.
A takeout bag from Chez Laurent—the kind of upscale French place where a single appetizer costs more than my weekly grocery budget. Inside was a proper meal: coq au vin, roasted vegetables, some kind of fancy bread that probably had its own pedigree.
I looked around the empty office, confused. The only other person still here was besides me—Asher, hunched over his desk in his glass office, looking like he’d been there since the Mesozoic era.
When our eyes met through the glass, he quickly looked away, but not before I caught something unexpected in his expression. Something that looked almost like… concern?
Under the food container was a business card I didn’t recognize. James Mitchell, Senior A&R Director at Atlantic Sound. On the back, in Asher’s precise handwriting: Tell him I referred you. He owes me a favor. This might help with damage control. – A.B.
I stared at the card for a long moment, my brain struggling to process this development. Asher Blackwood—the same man who’d verbally eviscerated me nine hours ago—had not only bought me dinner but was actively helping me fix my catastrophic mistake.
I ate the meal slowly, savoring flavors I couldn’t normally afford, and wondered what kind of man could tear someone apart one moment and show such unexpected kindness the next.
The business card helped. James Mitchell was indeed happy to assist when I mentioned Asher’s referral, and he had contacts who could help mitigate some of the damage.
By the time I finally left the office at nearly midnight, I had the beginnings of a solution.
At home, I collapsed onto my bed fully clothed, too exhausted to even change. I was just drifting off when my phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number:
Your application has been reviewed and accepted. Virtual screening scheduled within 24 hours. Please await further instructions.
