Page 7 of Broken Doll (Dirty Doll Ops #1)

M orning comes like a sledgehammer to the skull—a sharp knock on my door that sends my heart hammering against my ribs before I remember where I am.

Not home. Not the club.

But this black ops prison I’ve been calling home for weeks.

If I was a better person, I’d spend at least a heartbeat worrying about my clueless husband but honestly, how can one person be so damn gullible?

A part of me enjoys the idea of Isaac suffering an unknown sense of dread because he has no fucking clue where his wife is.

I suppose it’s probably a good thing Isaac has all of the mental sharpness of a dull spoon because otherwise, he’d be pushing up daises in an unmarked field for asking too many questions.

I drag myself up, body is sore — muscles screaming in places I didn't know could hurt but at least I’m not bruised anymore. Killion toned down the ass-kicking in prep for this assignment. Can’t bruise the fruit, you know what I mean.

I step into the shower, the water scalding. I stand under the spray until my skin turns angry red, like I'm trying to wash off more than just sweat.

The burn hurts so good.

There’s definitely something wrong with me but, no surprise there.

Who in their right mind would be willing to sign on the dotted line for this gig if they didn’t have a screw loose?

And, all my screws are loose, baby.

When I step out, there's a file waiting on my bed. Wasn't there before.

Which means someone slipped in while I was naked, vulnerable, water drowning out any sound of intrusion.

A little power play to remind me: I'm never alone, never safe.

Message received, you creepy fucks.

The file's thick—manila folder stuffed with papers, photos, a flash drive taped to a thin, sleek laptop.

No note, no explanation, but I don't need one. This is my first assignment. My first mark.

I flip it open and there he is: Victor Reese. Mid-50s, salt-and-pepper hair styled just so, the kind of face that screams "I have fuck-you money and everyone knows it." Three-piece suits worth more than most cars, a Rolex that probably costs as much as Isaac's annual salary.

Corporate raider, venture capitalist, collector of companies and, apparently, young women with daddy issues and fake tits.

"Hello, Victor," I murmur, tracing his jawline with my fingertip.

"Aren't you just a walking midlife crisis with a platinum card."

The intel is staggering—everything from his preferred whiskey (Macallan 25, because of fucking course) to how he likes his steak (rare, bloody enough to still moo) to which escort services he frequents (high-end, discreet, specializing in Eastern European blondes with gymnast bodies).

They know his morning routine (up at 5 AM, workout with a trainer who looks like a Nazi propaganda poster come to life), his bank accounts (seven, three offshore), even his medical history (Viagra prescription renewed monthly, minor heart condition he keeps private).

As I read, something clicks in my brain—dropping into place like a dislocated joint snapping back. I've always had a good memory—freakishly good, according to Derek, who once watched me recite an entire conversation from three months prior, word for fucking word, when some asshole tried to deny propositioning me at a club opening.

But this is different. This is methodical. I'm not just remembering—I'm cataloging, cross-referencing, building a mental database of Victor Reese that I can access at will. His weaknesses, his pressure points, the soft underbelly beneath all that expensive armor.

Each detail is a weapon I'm loading into my arsenal. The name of his first wife (Elizabeth, who left after he fucked her best friend). The boarding school his son attends (Choate, where Victor rarely visits despite promises). The guilt he masks with donations to children's charities (three million last year, all very public, all very tax-deductible).

I flip through surveillance photos—Victor stepping out of black town cars, Victor at charity galas with models half his age, Victor at his office overlooking Central Park, barking into a phone while his assistant (female, pretty, clearly fucking him) hovers nearby.

It's intimate, invasive, knowing so much about someone who doesn't know you exist. Electricity hums under my skin as I absorb his life, his secrets, his vulnerabilities. This is better than sex—this knowledge, this power. I've spent years using my body to manipulate men, but this? This is next-level mindfucking.

"Huh," I whisper to the empty room, a smile creeping across my lips. "I might actually be good at this."

The flash drive contains more—financial statements, emails, recordings of phone calls. One video clip shows him berating a waiter for bringing the wrong vintage of some obscure wine, his face contorted with entitlement and rage. What a fucking prince.

Hours pass as I consume Victor Reese, piece by piece, until he feels like someone I've known for years. I could walk up to him in a crowded room and tell him his childhood dog's name was Rusty, that he still has a scar on his left knee from a boating accident at 17, that he secretly fears his son resents him (he does, and with good reason).

I'm so deep in Victor's life that when my door opens again, I nearly jump out of my skin. It's Sienna—black-clad, severe, her face a perfect blank canvas that gives away nothing.

"You've reviewed the file," she says. Not a question.

I nod, stretching my stiff neck. "Mr. Reese seems like a real charmer. Let me guess—he kicks puppies for fun and fires people on Christmas Eve?"

Sienna doesn't smile. Doesn't even blink. "Your extraction objective is clear?"

I flip back to page one, where a single paragraph is highlighted in yellow:

TARGET: Access code to Reese's private server containing offshore account information and client list for Nexus Holdings.

"Get the code. Simple enough," I say, closing the file. "So what am I supposed to be doing? Seduction? Blackmail? Good old-fashioned breaking and entering?"

"Seduction is the cleanest approach," Sienna says, voice flat as day-old champagne. "Reese keeps the code on his person—changes it weekly, memorizes it, never writes it down. The only time he uses it is after he's been drinking and needs to check his accounts."

I raise an eyebrow. "So I fuck it out of him?"

“Yes.” She steps further into the room, her movements precise, economical. Nothing wasted. "He'll be at the Meridian Hotel tomorrow night. Charity gala for some children's foundation—his pet cause. You'll be there as a plus-one for one of our assets. Make contact. Charm him. Take him upstairs."

"And then?"

"And then you get the code. Whatever it takes." She looks at me, really looks, her eyes like ice chips boring into mine. "But remember—you're not there to get off with him. You're there to get information. Keep your head clear.”

I pout. “All work and no play? Where’s the fun in that?”

“This isn’t about having fun, Landry. Orgasms release endorphins and momentarily relax the mind. You’re no good to us dead. Stay sharp, stay focused and live long enough to get paid. Got it?”

“Jesus, I got it Fraulein Fun-killer, calm down,” I grumble. “Is that all?”

Something flickers across Sienna's face—disapproval? Amusement? Impossible to tell with her.

"This isn't the club, Landry," she says, my name like a knife between her teeth. "This isn't some random hookup you can walk away from. This is your job now. Do it well, or you won’t come back."

The threat hangs in the air between us, heavy and sharp. I swallow, nodding once. "Fuck the code out of him, don't get caught. What’s next?”

“Now that your mental game is prepared, time to transform you into Reese’s wet dream. Let’s go.”

Six hours later, I'm in a corporate salon —a gleaming sanctuary of brushed steel and spotless mirrors that makes Rodeo Drive salons look like backwater truck stops. This isn't about becoming pretty. This is about becoming lethal. Every inch of me is being weaponized for the male gaze.

They don't ask me what I want—they tell me what I need. And I let them.

Because this isn’t about taste. This is about strategy.

Stylists, makeup artists, wardrobe techs. Nobody introduces themselves. Names don’t matter here. Only function.

I sit where I’m told, spine straight, palms flat against my thighs like I’m waiting for execution or rebirth.

They don’t speak much, and neither do I. But I watch. I watch everything .

The lipstick options laid out in rows like weapons. The way the lead stylist squints at Victor Reese’s profile photo on the monitor before nodding at shade #42—deep, rich crimson with a blue base. Power red. Sex red. The color of calculated temptation.

She doesn’t explain her choice, but I get it. I saw the same photo—his mistress in a dress the exact hue, his ex-wife’s anniversary lipstick a match. Details. This place runs on them.

The makeup goes on in layers—smoky eyes sharp enough to slice, contour so precise it carves new bone structure into my face. Lashes like black silk fans. Brows arched to look mildly intrigued, mildly cruel.

I watch it happen. How each brushstroke rewrites the woman I was.

They choose a brunette wig—not the platinum bombshell I wore for fun, not the warm golden tones of his past wives. No, this is deliberate. Rich espresso waves, luxurious and sleek. Sexy, but not obvious. Dangerous, but elegant. I realize, with a strange jolt, it mirrors the hair of the escort he booked twice last year under an alias. I remember it from the file.

They’re not building a fantasy. They’re reconstructing his ideal threat —the woman who excites him because she could ruin him.

And I’m not giving directions. I’m learning why they choose what they do.

Because this isn’t a makeover. This is combat prep. And I’m the fucking payload.

The dress is emerald silk. Not the clingy, cheap club kind. This fabric floats when I walk, shimmers when I shift. It moves like money. Someone references a Monet painting in his office—I remember it from the dossier—and I realize they’re playing to his subconscious. I’m not just beautiful. I’m tailored. I’m triggering him.

Sienna slips in behind me as they adjust the pendant—an emerald teardrop on a delicate chain—and murmurs, “His mother wore one just like it.” I nod, throat dry. I’d seen the same family photo.

The final touch is scent. Not something floral and flirty. This is base note seduction—amber, musk, smoke, and something sharp beneath it, like heat rising off steel.

“Nothing that lingers on sheets,” one of them says. “We want her to disappear like smoke on the wind.”

I file it all away. Every tactic. Every choice. They’re turning me into a weapon. And the wild thing?

It’s working.

When they’re done, I rise slowly, heels like stilts beneath me. I expect to wobble. I don’t. My body knows how to move now—fluid, poised, engineered for allure.

I step toward the mirror. The woman staring back is not some bored housewife in a cardigan wondering if her husband will ever learn where her clit is. No. She’s a designer drug—crafted in silence, dosed in precision, engineered to make men forget everything except how good it feels to fall.

And tonight, Victor Reese is going to overdose.

I turn to Sienna, expecting final notes, a last checklist.

But instead, she gestures toward the adjoining suite. “One more lesson.”

A man and woman are already inside. Strangers, both devastatingly attractive in that curated, cinematic way—like they were picked from a catalog based on Victor’s known preferences. The woman is sultry and dark-eyed, body lush but toned. The man is lean and sharp, a silver fox with the kind of controlled energy that screams predator.

They don’t speak. Don’t need to.

Sienna’s voice is low as she steps beside me. “Victor doesn’t just want sex. He wants control disguised as surrender. He wants to think he’s broken you, even as you make him feel like a god.”

The man touches the woman’s jaw, tipping her face up. His fingers are gentle, but possessive—just a hair shy of rough. Her lips part. No hesitation.

He slides two fingers into her mouth. Slow. Deep. She moans around them, eyes fluttering shut as she sucks, her throat working like it’s instinct. Wet sounds fill the room—slick, obscene, rhythmic. His fingers glide in and out, coated in spit that strings between her lips when he pulls back.

“He likes noise,” Sienna murmurs. “Wants to hear the slick slide of wet flesh, hear the breath hitch. He doesn’t trust silence. Thinks it means boredom —and he’s secretly terrified of being judged.”

The man drags his fingers down the woman’s throat, over her breasts, until she’s arching for him like she’s begging—though she never says a word. He cups her pussy through the thin silk of her panties and rubs slow, watching her writhe. Her moans are soft, but constant, like a song she can’t stop humming.

I can feel it building in me. The heat. The tight, hollow ache between my thighs. But I don’t move. Don’t look away. I focus harder.

“He favors oral first,” Sienna adds, voice clinical now. “He likes to be teased. Light licks, shallow suction. Don’t deep throat him right away—it’s too eager. He wants you desperate, not in control.”

The woman sinks to her knees.

Her tongue flicks out, tracing the underside of the man’s cock, which is already heavy and flushed. She circles the tip, slow and languid, her spit catching the light as it glistens across the shaft. When she finally takes him in, it’s inch by inch—savoring, not serving.

The sound is filthy. Wet and deliberate.

The man groans, a rough, hungry sound. He fists her hair, not tight, but guiding. She hums around him, eyes wet, mascara beginning to smear. It’s not just performance. She’s in it. She’s feeling it. And I watch her hips shift, subtly grinding against nothing, chasing friction she’s not allowed to have yet.

It’s perfect.

“This is the choreography,” Sienna says. “Every move. Every sound. Victor doesn’t want real sex. He wants the idea of it. Fantasy draped in obedience with just enough defiance to make him feel like he earned it.”

I swallow, pulse hammering in my throat. My panties are soaked. My hands clench at my sides. I want to touch myself, to lean into the arousal winding tighter by the second. But I don’t.

Not because I’m not dying for it.

But because I’m learning.

And every flick of the woman’s tongue, every grunt from the man’s throat, every moan and sigh and tremble?—

It’s all data .

This is a language. A code. And I’m memorizing every fucking syllable.

“Your job,” Sienna says, “is to make him think you were built to fuck him. That you were made for his mouth, his hands, his cock. You’ll match his pace, mirror his rhythm. You’ll moan when he wants it, whimper when he needs it. And just when he thinks he’s broken you…”

Her smile is razor-thin.

“You’ll break him.”

The man stiffens. The woman chokes slightly, then swallows him deep. He groans and jerks, hips flexing as he cums in her mouth. She stays still, obedient, eyes closed, throat working. Then she pulls back, licking her lips clean. Poised. Composed.

It’s not sex. It’s strategy .

The room falls quiet again, thick with the scent of arousal and something darker.

I can barely breathe, but my mind is crystalline. Focused. Razor sharp.

“I’m ready,” I say.

Sienna raises a brow. “You’re turned on.”

I nod. “Exactly. And he will be too.”

Because I’m not going to fuck Victor Reese.

I’m going to ruin him.