Page 76 of Breeding Her: The Red Flag Edition
My disgusting, shameful habit.
Straight before or after work—spilling my seed down the drain.
It always felt wrong, watching the water wash it away.
Not when it could be—
No.
I clenched my jaw.
Chapter 2
Lucia
A soft chime from my phone pulled me from sleep. I blinked against the dull glow of dawn seeping through the curtains, my body caught somewhere between the warmth of sleep and the cold slap of reality.
5:00 a.m.
Right on time.
Laurent Dubois was like his Rolex—precise, relentless, and expensive to maintain.
I reached for my phone and pulled it under the duvet like it was a secret. His messages were already waiting. Bullet points. Minimal punctuation. No “Good morning.”
•Breakfast: protein, low carb. No onions.
•Coffee: strong. No sugar. Usual spot.
•Dry cleaning: picked up before 12.
•Confirm calendar, flag any conflicts.
•Rework presentation 3 for 2 p.m. meeting.
I let out a slow breath. My thumb hovered over the screen as I mentally translated his demands into action items and added three of my own just to keep him from tearing someone’s head off before lunch.
Outside, the city was still half asleep—windows dark, traffic muted. I could’ve stayed there, wrapped in my sheets, clingingto the warmth like a lifeline. But the man I worked for didn’t believe in slow starts.
I pushed the covers off and swung my legs out of bed, the floor cool against my skin. My slippers had migrated under the bed again—of course. I padded into the kitchen and started the kettle, already thinking through my route for the morning.
Coffee shop first. Then the dry cleaner that hated early drop-ins. I’d have to charm the guy behind the counter—again. The thought made me sigh, but I didn’t complain out loud. Not when Dubois Enterprises paid me more than any of my previous jobs combined.
And the benefits? Gold standard.
Dental. Private health. An annual bonus if you survived working under Dubois for longer than six months.
I hadn’t hit that mark yet, but I was close.
Close enough to know that if I played this right, I could finally stop juggling rent and ramen noodles.
Did it matter that I had to give up any concept of a social life? Or that my dignity took a small hit every time he snapped his fingers and expected me to appear?
I glanced at my reflection in the kitchen window—pale from lack of sun, hair tied in a loose knot, dark circles that no eye cream could solve.
I didn’t have dignity or a social life before this job.
At least now I could afford to fake both.
