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I set the box down on the counter, smiling at the big white ribbon placed on top.
He’s going toloveit.
Giggling, I wiggle out of my panties and take them off, hooking the red silk lace on my finger as I walk into his bedroom. This is one reason I love wearing skirts—easy access.
His bed is made, and sunlight shines through the sheer curtains.I place them on his pillow and smile, knowing today, he’ll arrive home first. I imagine him walking through the door, removing his jacket, tie, and shirt, then stopping when he sees my lingerie on his pillow. A precursor for what will happen later. When I turn, I notice a leather folio sitting on his nightstand.
The edges are worn, and I vaguely remember him always carrying something like this at Stanford. I sit on the edge of the mattress, staring at it like it’s a deadly cobra that will strike.
“This is ridiculous,” I tell myself as I reach forward and flip it open.
My eyes dart toward the glass slipper icon and the wordsProject Glass Slipper.
Curiosity gets the best of me, and I turn the page, seeing Asher’s neat handwriting that could be its own font.
Project Glass Slipper
Never let her break.
Phase 1
Protect: shield her from harmful external threats.
Phase 2
Grow: empower her reputation and creativity.
Phase 3
Soar: no longer surviving but leading.
Billie Calloway isn’t the future. She’s a revolution.
My fingers fly through the pages. Asher wrote details dating back thirteen years, when we met at Stanford. Some of it’s written in code, and I’m not sure what it means. Every conversation we’ve had, each time we’ve run into each other—it’s all here, noted in journalentries.
I blink rapidly as disbelief travels through me like ice water in my veins. Asher’s handwriting is immaculate, calculated. My fingers tremble as they trace over timelines. For thirteen years, he has meticulously documented every milestone in my life. Even my social media updates were dissected down to their subtext, which he got right.
This man knows me better than I know myself, and that scares the fuck out of me. Based on this, I’m convinced Asher can predict my every move, reply, emotion before it even happens.
A bitter laugh escapes me, sharp and hollow, as I read how my brother’s approached him to watch over me. The reason I went to Stanford was to escape them and their prying eyes. I was so naïve.
When I realize this project is just another one of Weston’s obsessive strategies and Easton’s relentless drive for control over me, I snap. Anger floods out of me knowing my brothers have orchestrated every aspect of my existence, down to who I fell in love with.
I’m stunned, unable to read another word as tears sting my eyes.
Was I nothing more than a project? A to-do list with phases and bullet points?
I slam the folio shut, my jaw clenching tight. I tuck it under my arm and text my driver. I’m sick and tired of Weston and Easton interfering in my life. My rage takes over as I rush to Calloway headquarters. I’m let out in front of the building, and paparazzi wait for me and snap pictures as I step inside.
I give themgo to helllooks, officially feeling like I’m watching my villain origin story play out.
Weston likes to think that he’s Batman. Yeah, well, today, I’m the Joker, and I will be both of their worst fucking nightmares. I press my thumbprint against the keypad, and the elevator shoots me up to their floor. My heart rapidly beats in my chest, and I try to suck in deep breaths, but it’s no use.
“Ms. Calloway,” their secretary says.
I walk past her, ignoring her every step with my hands squeezed tightly into fists.
“You can’t go in there!”