Page 49 of Carnal Games

Just like I didn’t know that Mr. Severe had been living right under my nose. How come Nathan never once let it slip before now? The fact he had an apartment in the same building as his brother. Of all the tidbits he shared, this is the one he chooses to hide.

Ugh… I don’t know whether to be pissed or dance around in joy.

The latter. Definitely the latter.

Because I am going to be living across the hall from Kian Singhania.

The man of my dreams.

My forbidden fantasy.

Suddenly, the bubble bursts, courtesy of a bow named ‘I’m engaged to Nathan.’

The world doesn’t know it’s a mutually beneficial arrangement between friends. Meaning, I can’t flirt with another man, let alone my fiancé’s older brother. Not that I know the art of seduction. Another drawback of fake dating a friend for years.

Especially the prime years in which I was supposed to sow my wild oats.

However, it’s hard to do when every man on earth pales in comparison to the one I’m madly obsessed with. When his name alone sends my pulse racing, my pussy quivering, and my mind spinning.

How was I supposed to fight the pull? The attraction? The infatuation kept brewing and brewing until it took its hold in my veins. By then, it was too late. It had spread everywhere.

It didn’t matter he was unattainable.

But the possibility that one day he might not be, it was more powerful than any drug. Any religion.

All I had to do was wait for the stars to align. Because our destinies had already collided in the park. They kept colliding. The park wasn’t the last place I saw him. Over the years, I caught glimpses of him here and there from afar. Mostly, at charity events and company galas thrown by Dash since he and Kian are business partners.

It’s another reason moving on from him became nearly impossible. The reminders of his existence were everywhere.

The waiting finally came to fruition, even if the circumstances could be a lot better. I swear I’m not a total whack job. Except when it comes to Mr. Severe.

Don’t blame me.

The ship that was supposed to harbor at the shores of sanity capsized a long freaking time ago and took me with it.

“Iris?”

The voice jerks me out of my stupor. The chair scrapes across the floor as I sit up straight. Peeking over the top of mydesktop in my cubicle at the office, I meet the pinched gaze of my editor’s assistant.

“Yeah?” I quickly answer.

“Harshita is calling you to her office.”

Crap. She must be looking for a progress report on the interview. I have nada. But I have a solid plan of action. If that doesn’t work, I can always knock on his door now that we’re neighbors. He can’t ignore me then.

Although I can’t imagine it going well.

An image of me peering from the door’s peephole waiting for him to return from work flashes in my brain.

I’ll look like a stalker, not a professional, as I ambush him.

Like I haven’t given that impression enough.

“Iris? Did you hear me?” the assistant snaps. “She’s waiting for you now.”

“Sorry.” Gathering my notepad and pen, I stand. “I’m going. Thanks.”

I zigzag between the cubicles assigned to all the interns. There are twenty of us from different universities across the country. The setup atSahara Times, one of the highest-ranking and popular media groups in the country, is a mix of formal and casual.

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