Page 51 of I'm sorry, Princess

Remember when I was so cocky about the way I look? How I told myself that my pretty face and nice curves would make my clients vulnerable to me, give me the upper hand?

Well, he flipped the script.

He did that to me.

He’s gorgeous, infuriatingly so, and his sick comments, his inappropriate questions, they did something I didn’t want to admit.

They made me feel wanted.

And I haven’t felt wanted in so long.

I threw myself into my career from the moment I started college. It became my everything, my identity, my shield. And in doing so, I shut out everything else.

No boyfriends. No distractions.

I haven’t had a boyfriend in three years. Three. Freaking. Years.

Sure, I’ve tried to date. I’ve been on the apps, gone out to dinner, entertained the small talk. But do I really want to waste my time with guys who only want to get laid? Who treat me like a prize to win, or worse, a future baby-making machine?

No, thank you.

I had bigger priorities.

I needed to focus. I needed to prove to my parents that I could be independent, that I didn’t need to marry some rich creep they hand-picked for me.

I needed to prove to myself that I was more than the perfect daughter they spent years grooming me to be.

But now, sitting in front of him, it feels like all of that resolve is crumbling. He’s getting to me, breaking through the walls I’ve spent years building, and I hate it.

But Lorenzo, he’s different.

He plays with my mind, gets inside my head, making me think of him far too much.

He makes me forget why I’m even here, why I took this job in the first place. And somehow, through his sick, twisted games, he makes me feel wanted in a way I haven’t felt in years.

But I won’t do it. Not today.

I’m too tired, too drained to let him win.

I know nothing can happen between us. I don’t even think he wants anything real. He just wants to prove to himself that he can have me, because the first time we met, I told him he wasn’t my type.

His cold blue eyes lock onto mine, searching for something.

But I don’t give him the satisfaction.

Without saying another word, I turn and walk toward the door.

“What are you doing?” His voice stops me in my tracks, sharp and surprised.

I glance over my shoulder, catching the flicker of curiosity in his eyes.

“I’m leaving,” I say flatly, keeping my face blank.

I grip the handle and try to push the door open, but it doesn’t budge.

It’s locked.

What the hell?