#i did something...

She was awful. So fucking awful.

“Evangeline…” His breath stuttered. He hated it. God, he hated it.

Hated how she'd make him shiver despite his disinterest.

Make him get on his knees rather than sit in the throne he built from the bones of bankrupt competitors and burned contracts.

Lincoln Laws was a fortress of a man -steel-eyed, cold, the very definition of a self-made billionaire. He ran empires with his mouth alone. One word, and markets shifted. One glare, and grown men wept.

He didn't do distractions.

He didn't do bright lipstick and bubbly laughs that echoed off marble halls.

He especially didn't do walking dollar vacuums with perfect curves and IQs that never cracked triple digits.

Golddiggers.

Bimbos.

Absolute parasites in designer heels.

He despised them.

And Evangeline Sinclair?

She was every single one of those things -and yet, somehow worse.

Because unlike the rest, she knew exactly what she was. And she loved it.

She owned it. Wore it like glitter. Sprinkled it in her wake.

He couldn't breathe when she entered the room. Not from awe, but from a suffocating cocktail of rage and arousal.

And it all started at the engagement party their parents arranged -a promise sealed by a contract out of drunken greed.

She walked in wearing pink fur, sunglasses indoors, and heels that clicked with every step .

"Hi, fiancé~"

She didn't shake his hand. She kissed his cheek. She didn't ask for champagne. She stole his.

She called him “Lincie” in front of everyone.

He clenched his jaw hard, trying to maintain his demeanor.

But even then, the worst part?

He felt his pants tighten.

She had him. Hook, line, and goddamn gold-plated sinker.

Evangeline was a menace.

She wanted the spotlight and dragged it wherever she walked.

“Everybody look at me, me.”

Paparazzi screamed her name. Fans sobbed for autographs.

The media branded her as “(Continent)'s Blonde Bombshell” -the heiress to nobody, made from nothing but confidence, cleavage, and chaos.

Lincoln hated how she made every room hers.

“Come on, everybody, what you here for?”

Her lips curled at interviews, poised like a queen waiting for applause.

“You either wanna be with me… or be me.”

And everyone did.

Especially Lincoln.

No, not because he liked her.

Not because he respected her.

But because she infuriated him.

And somehow, despite his disgust, he found himself upgrading his car fleet because "Evvie doesn't repeat rides."

Buying a new penthouse because "the view makes my hair look greasy."

Canceling meetings because "Evangeline demands brunch, darling, and I'm simply not one to wait."

She was a Maneater.

She made him work harder than ever -not to please shareholders, but to fund her spontaneous whims.

She made him spend hard, on fashion weeks, yachts, fucking flamingo fountains.

And worst of all?

She made him fall.

Hard.

Hard enough to ignore the way she'd strut into his boardroom in silk, toss his tie over his shoulder, and purr,

"Who's mommy's little worker bee?"

While his employees choked on their dignity.

He was the Lincoln Laws -he commanded fear. Power.

But with her?

He was just Lincie.

Her little CEO chew toy.

He hated how she mocked him.

Hated how she touched him like she owned every part.

Hated how she whispered promises in his ear at galas only to leave him wanting.

He hated that she had fun making his life hell.

And yet, when she looked at him with those glitter-coated eyes and said, "You wanna go back to your cold, boring, grey little life? Where no one laughs, and no one dares to touch you?"

He couldn't answer.

Because she was right.

She was the thrill.

The chaos.

The disaster he couldn't live without.

He wished he never met her.

But now that he had?