Page 8 of Billionaire Alien Boss Daddy

She hesitates for a moment, then says, “Yes, Sir,” and leads me to her bedroom. The room is small, cluttered, and smells faintly of lavender. Clothes are strewn over the back of a chair, and the bed is unmade. She grabs a handful of items and stuffs them into a hamper in the corner.

“Maid’s day off,” she says with a nervous laugh, trying to lighten the mood.

I grunt, unimpressed. Her smile fades, and she opens the closet door. “It’s mostly thrift store stuff,” she admits, gesturing to the rows of clothes inside. “I know you’ll probably want me to upgrade my wardrobe.”

I step closer, inhaling deeply. My Vakutan senses pick up nothing unusual—no grolgath scent, no hidden devices. The closet is just a closet. I scan the walls and floor, checking for hidden panels or compartments, but everything is clean.

“Your apartment is… acceptable,” I say finally, closing the closet door. “But we’ll discuss your wardrobe tomorrow. You’ll need to look the part if you’re going to work for me.”

She nods, her expression a mix of relief and uncertainty. “Yes, Sir.”

I take one last look around the room. For now, I’ve found nothing suspicious, but that doesn’t mean I can let my guard down. Claire Redding is an enigma—one I intend to solve.

The boutique is exactly what I expected—opulent, exclusive, and utterly overwhelming for someone like Claire. She stands in the center of the room, her arms stiff at her sides as a swarm of tailors and assistants descend on her like vultures on fresh prey. One of them kneels at her feet with a measuring tape, another circles her with a critical eye, muttering about her complexion and the hues that would best complement her.

Claire’s eyes dart to me, wide and unsure. She’s out of her element here, and it shows. Instead of retreating into her usual demure composure, she looks to me for reassurance. A small crack in her façade, and it’s all I need.

“You’re fine, Ms. Redding,” I say, my voice calm but firm. “You’re in the very best of hands.”

Her shoulders relax slightly, and she offers a shy smile. It’s small, hesitant, but real. Something warm and unfamiliar stirs in my chest. Approval? Protectiveness? I push the feeling aside. I don’t have time for sentimentality.

The lead tailor, a wiry man with an impeccable mustache, steps forward with a bolt of fabric draped over his arm. “Now, Ms. Redding, we’ll start with a classic pantsuit. Something tailored but not too severe?—”

“No,” I interrupt, my voice sharp enough to make the man freeze mid-sentence. “No pants. Skirts only, and above the knee unless style demands otherwise.”

The room goes quiet. Claire’s head snaps toward me, her green eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”

I meet her gaze without flinching. “Skirts, Ms. Redding. It’s a professional requirement.”

Her cheeks flush, and her lips part like she’s about to argue, but then she presses them together and looks away. She understands. Good.

The tailors scramble to adjust, shuffling through racks of dresses and skirts with renewed urgency. Claire stands stiffly as they measure her again, her face still pink. I watch her closely, noting the way her hands clench and unclench at her sides. She’s flustered, maybe even angry, but she’s not fighting me. That’s progress.

The lead tailor returns, this time with a sleek pencil skirt in a deep emerald green. He holds it up for approval, and I nod. “Yes. That will do.”

Claire’s jaw tightens, but she doesn’t say a word as she takes the skirt and disappears into the dressing room. I lean against the wall, crossing my arms, and wait.

When she emerges, the skirt clings to her hips in a way that’s both professional and undeniably alluring. The tailors fawn over her, adjusting the hem and pinning the waistband, but I barely notice. My eyes are fixed on her. She’s beautiful, but it’s more than that. There’s a spark in her now, a defiance that wasn’t there before. It’s intriguing.

She catches me staring and raises an eyebrow. “Happy, Sir?”

“Very,” I reply, my tone even. “But we’re not done yet. Let’s move on to the blouses.”

The afternoon sun catches in Claire's honey-blonde hair as we exit the boutique. Her new outfit - a cream silk blouse and that emerald pencil skirt - transforms her from mousy accountant to corporate goddess. The sight stirs something primal in me, something I thought long buried under centuries of discipline and duty.

I clench my jaw. Human women are a pleasant diversion, nothing more. A night of passion, then onto the next mission. That's how it's always been. That's how it should be. But Claire...

The way she moves in that skirt sets my blood on fire. The slight sway of her hips speaks of untapped sensuality waiting to be unleashed. Dangerous thoughts for a Vakutan warrior. More dangerous still for a Veritas operative with a mission.

She has power over me. The realization hits like a plasma bolt to the chest. This slip of a human female has worked her way under my scales without firing a shot.

No. I am her superior, her master. I will mold her into the perfect assistant, train her to my exacting standards. And if she proves trustworthy, perhaps...

I shake off the thought. "You may have the rest of the afternoon off," I tell her as we reach the car. "Enjoy it, because starting tomorrow at five AM you belong to me. Do not be late."

The drive to her apartment passes in charged silence. I watch in the rearview mirror as she exits the car, her new skirt highlighting every curve. She stands on the curb, watching my departure with those mesmerizing green eyes.

One way or another, I will solve the Claire enigma.

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