Trillionaire After Divorce

"You should sign." Vincent says with ease as he hands me a blue pen over the poor excuse of a ‘bed in breakfast’ he set up. I can humour his attempt at making pancakes by eating them despite them being undercooked, but the attempt at wooing me seems attached to a ridiculous document. The more I skim it, the more the grease used to make the pancake rises up my throat. I can't believe this. "What?" I ask, just to make sure he is aware of what he is asking. "Sign the documents. The doctors will only take a small piece of your liver and give it to my mother. It's a perfectly safe solution." I know his mother has a liver issue, and a few weeks ago, we all tested out of formality to see who a perfect match would be to donate. Still, she is the same woman who slapped me because I ‘oversalted’ her son’s food even though Vincent said it was fine—forgive me if my liver testing was more out of ‘peer pressure’ than the genuine interest to help her. “You said you would help.” Vincent remi

“Anything?” The more the man repeats that word, the more sinful it sounds. But I can give ‘anything’ and everything to keep my organs intact; I have no qualms about donating, but can't it be to someone I can wish well for? Can't it be by my will? Can't I have more of a say than this? So, I guess in this case, ‘anything’ fits. I nod slowly to the man’s repetition, and his chuckle echoes as he bends over to collect me from the ground. "Boss, I can carry her." One of the men in black around him offers, but he shakes his head. "She is my dog now." My arms surround his shoulders, accepting his demeaning term of me because if I can survive the night, then I will clutch on to the devil himself. The man smells good, like aftershave and a subtle hint of expensive cologne. His deep chuckle follows when I bury my nose against his chest. “She even smells me like a dog.” He utters, making me jerk my face away from him. Shit. This is embarrassing. “Well, don't stop now, doggy. I'm your

Matteo D’Amico Olivia Lawson had light brown hair that resembled honey, hazel eyes with a slight blue hue, soft, plump lips, and a body that the gods must have carved. He loved the sight of the ass that had wiggled on the floor as its helpless owner crawled desperately to safety at the hospital. She looked beautiful when she turned to him, even with her eyelids half closed and her body trembling with fear. He loved how she clung to him afterwards as if he were her beacon of hope. Of course, he was at the time. She had been interesting enough to grab his attention, and when she asked for a divorce from her supposed husband, he saw a chance with her. He could pretend to be her friend, pretend to be sympathetic, pretend to understand her until he could have her for a night and rid himself of the lust he felt around her, but Christ on a cracker, she was a Lawson. He had been looking for an opportunity to get close to the family; most ‘old money’ families feared him, but the Lawsons h

"Livy!" "Vincent, I'm serious; he grabbed my-" "Livy, I didn't ask you to cook this dinner so that you can pick apart my coworkers. This night is important for me. If I get this promotion, we can move to a bigger house and go on fancier dates." "I don't need-" "There you two are! Slithered away, have you?" Vincent's hand snakes around my waist as the newly retired general manager of Vincent’s company swaggers in the kitchen where Vincent and I are having a private discussion. He doesn’t seem to care that he is interrupting us, but that could be because his cheeks are flushed from the alcohol I served. "Yes, I am just giving my wife a few notes on the hors d'oeuvres she has served." Vincent defends as if we have no right to be in our kitchen. "Mrs James, you have done a fantastic job. Thank you for hosting my retirement party." Vincent’s former boss says. I didn't want to host the party; he has a wife who can do this for him! "Ah, it's nothing, Mr Harris." Vincent answers on

"Olivia Lawson...Olivia Bethany Lawson." Vincent repeats as if he is trying to familiarise himself with my name. “The Olivia Bethany Lawson.” He finishes with a cold laugh as I close the doors to the private balcony right next to the main hall. I agreed to give him the five minutes he demanded, with Hugo standing outside, keeping watch to avoid eavesdroppers from paparazzi posing as guests. Vincent reaches for a flask inside his jacket and takes a swig. He likes rum, but since the liquid in that flask smells like nail polish remover, it must be cheap vodka. "They say three years is enough to know a person, but boy, did you elude me. Was it funny? Were you laughing when you were trying to find out how commoners live? How they struggle? Was it easy playing pretend?" He asks as bright pink patches paint his cheeks. I don’t remember the last time I saw Vincent tipsy from one shot; whatever is in that flask must be strong; it's best we finish this quickly. "Pretend?" I repeat wit