Chapter 2

The next day, I'm driving the new Aston Martin that was my "performance bonus" for the last quarter. It' s a ridiculous car, but Jocelyn insists on these displays of wealth. It reinforces my public image as her kept man.

I'm heading downtown, not to our sprawling Beverly Hills mansion, but to a different kind of home.

Suddenly, a pink Bentley convertible taps my rear bumper. It's intentional, a gentle nudge, not an accident. I pull over.

A woman with surgically perfect features and a predatory smile gets out. I recognize her instantly. Tara, a recently divorced socialite who runs in Jocelyn's circle.

"Ethan Lester," she purrs, walking up to my window. "I've been wanting to talk to you."

"My insurance information is in the glove compartment," I say, my voice flat.

She laughs, a sound like grinding glass. "Oh, I'm not interested in insurance. I'm interested in you. I heard about your... arrangement with Jocelyn. I find it fascinating."

She leans against my car, making a show of it. "I'm looking for some new staff myself. And I'm prepared to be very generous. I'll double whatever she's paying you. Think of it as a signing bonus."

She wants to poach me, to make a public spectacle of stealing Jocelyn Lind's trophy husband. It would be a major social coup for her.

I look at her, my expression unchanging. "Thank you for the offer, Ms. Vance. But I'm not currently accepting new clients."

I pause, letting the insult hang in the air. "Besides, I've heard your employee turnover rate is quite high. I prefer more stable investments."

Her smile falters. A flicker of anger crosses her face.

"You'll regret that," she says, her voice losing its purr.

I just nod, put the car in drive, and pull away smoothly, leaving her standing on the side of the road.

I don't drive home. Instead, I head to a discreet, gleaming high-rise in the heart of Los Angeles' financial district. I pull into a private underground garage, where a valet who knows not to speak to me takes my keys.

I take a private elevator to the penthouse floor. The doors open not to a lavish apartment, but to a bustling, open-plan office. The air hums with the energy of innovation and ambition.

A young woman, my COO, greets me at the elevator.

"Good morning, Mr. Lester," she says, handing me a tablet. "The pre-market data is in. We've captured another two percent of the derivatives market from the Lind family's firm."

I take the tablet, the cold metal a familiar comfort. Here, I am not the nanny. I am not the kept man.

I am Mr. Lester, the CEO of Apex Innovations. And the war has just begun.