Chapter 5

(The Warren Manifesto)

The door to Mia’s suite swung open, and Pearl froze on the threshold. She had seen the living room, but this… this was a kingdom.

The room was a vast expanse of royal purple, larger than the entire apartment Pearl shared with Ella. A queen-sized bed sat like an island in the center, draped in a lavender duvet so plush it looked like a cloud. At the foot of the bed lay a massive purple teddy bear, its glass eyes reflecting the glow of a wall-mounted television that could rival a small cinema screen. To the left, a walk-in closet stood ajar, revealing rows of designer labels and a shoe rack that would make a socialite weep.

Pearl forced a bright, morning-show smile. Focus, Pearl. Breathe. Don’t look like you’re overwhelmed.

“Morning, Mia,” she said.

Mia didn’t look up from her vanity. “Finally. I thought you’d decided the commute wasn’t worth the trouble.” Her tiny reflection in the mirror looked far too weary for a child—like a miniature general evaluating her troops.

Pearl’s smile twitched. Almost. But not enough to seem scared… “Am I late?”

“Almost. But since you’re here, I need to get ready for school. You’ll be handling that from now on.” Mia stood, smoothing her silk pajamas like she was straightening a royal decree.

“Let’s do it then,” Pearl said, masking irritation with a calm tone. Act normal. Don’t let her see panic.

“You have a lot to learn,” Mia noted, her voice eerily calm. She walked to her desk, picked up a crisp white sheet of paper, and handed it to Pearl like a legal summons.

Pearl blinked. What now? She took the paper, her eyes widening as she scanned the title: MIA WARREN: MANDATORY WANTS AND NEEDS.

1. You must sing for me before I go to bed.

2. A good morning peck and a good night peck are non-negotiable.

3. You will prepare my breakfast once in a while (I dislike the chef’s omelets).

4. I hate noise.

5. I hate repeating my words.

6. Do not touch my ears. Only Dad is allowed to do that.

7. I hate dirt. I expect you to be immaculate.

8. You will escort me to Dad every morning for my morning kiss.

Pearl stopped at number eight, her heart skipping a beat. Every morning? And there are at least twenty more…

“I think you know what to do next,” Mia said, hopping onto her bed and crossing her legs. “My bathroom flip-flops.”

“Where are they?”

“In the inner closet,” Mia directed with a sharp pointed finger.

Pearl stepped into the closet, trying to ignore the miniature designer paradise surrounding her. Focus. Get the shoes. Survive. She grabbed a pair of purple velvet flip-flops and hurried back.

“Are you ready?” Pearl asked.

“We are ready,” Mia corrected, a ghost of a smile appearing. Then she stopped and fixed Pearl with a stare that could cut glass. “I heard that most smiles people wear are fake. Are yours real, Nanny? Or are you just a good actress?”

Pearl felt her chest tighten. Oh no. Not the trust test already. Before she could answer, Mia swept past her and headed for the door, leaving Pearl standing in stunned silence.

They reached the heavy, reinforced doors of the Master Suite. Mia pushed them open without knocking, triggering a soft, melodic security chime.

“Who’s there?” a voice barked from within.

“It’s Mia, Dad.” She signaled for Pearl to follow.

The air inside Ace’s room was different—scented with expensive sandalwood and the sharp edge of power. Ace was at his mirror, adjusting a silk tie. He looked lethal in a charcoal suit.

“Good morning, Dad,” Mia sang. Ace turned, the ice melting instantly as he scooped her up. He kissed her cheek, eyes softening in a way they never did for anyone else.

“Morning, sir,” Pearl said, bowing her head slightly. Keep it neutral. Don’t make him notice fear—or awe.

Ace’s gaze shifted to Pearl. The warmth evaporated. “Are you handling her perfectly?”

“Pretty good, sir,” Pearl replied evenly. Lie if you have to. Just survive.

“You’re going to be late for school, Mia,” Ace said, setting her down.

Mia’s face fell instantly. She sat on the edge of his bed, crossing her arms. “You promised to take me today.”

“I didn’t promise. I said ‘soon,’ Mia.”

“Another failed promise,” she groaned, voice thick with practiced disappointment.

Ace sighed, a man defeated by his own heart. “I always keep my word, Mia. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

“Fine.” Mia hopped up, mood switching back to business. She stopped and looked back at Pearl, who was still taking in the sheer opulence. “Are you coming? Or planning to stay here and stare? Maybe you want to move in?”

Pearl’s face flushed. Just breathe. Don’t answer like a fool. “Oops! I’m so sorry—”

“Mia,” Ace interrupted, voice gentle but firm, “you shouldn’t talk to your nanny that way. Not if you want her to stay.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Mia exclaimed, throwing her hands up before storming out.

Pearl caught Ace’s eye for a split second—a moment of shared exhaustion—before turning to follow. Focus. She’s right. Don’t flop. Don’t stare. Just survive.

Then, as she stepped into the hallway, a shadow shifted in the corner—a figure watching from the security panel screens. Pearl’s stomach twisted. So it begins…

Chapter 6

(Lonely in the Mansion)

Pearl let out a ragged sigh as the taillights of the limousine faded down the driveway. Mia was gone, but the silence she left behind pressed down like a physical weight. Pearl’s hands moved automatically, tidying the breakfast nook, stacking bowls and wiping crumbs, as if every surface could be polished enough to erase her anxiety.

She had barely registered the soft tread of Italian leather on marble before a wall of charcoal wool was inches from her face.

The bowls slipped from her hands, clattering across the floor with a deafening ring. Her heart jumped into her throat.

“Good morning… Mr Ace,” she stammered, voice trembling.

“Morning.” His eyes didn’t flicker, but the air around him thickened, taut and predatory. 

He bypassed her, moving toward the chrome coffee machine with a predator’s grace. Pearl froze in place, realizing she’d overstepped… again.

“I just wanted to get everything in order before you left,” she added, breath catching in her chest.

He hummed, the sound low and deliberate, as he watched the dark liquid swirl into his cup.

 “Your job here is to look after Mia. She’s stubborn, but she’s…” A rare, fleeting smile tugged at his lips. “…she’s a lovely girl. You shouldn’t be wasting time on household chores.”

Pearl’s stomach twisted. She wanted to nod, to say something clever, but all she could do was swallow. Invisible. Be invisible. Don’t mess this up.

“Yes, but I wanted to—”

“Do not! Interrupt! When I am speaking!”

The snap of his voice cracked like lightning. Pearl flinched, a shiver running down her spine. This house has a rhythm… and I am not part of it yet. Not fully.

“Yes, sir,” she whispered, trying to steady her trembling hands.

Ace took a slow, deliberate sip of coffee. “What is your name again?”

“Pearl. Pearl Augustine.”

“Pearl.” The name rolled off his tongue like a coin, heavy and deliberate. “You have a lot to learn.”

He turned and strode into the living room. 

Pearl hesitated for a heartbeat, weighing her next move. Follow him. Observe. Learn. Any slip could cost me more than just a bad impression. 

She grabbed her cleaning gloves and hurried after him, heart hammering in her chest.

“The chef, the cleaning staff, and the gardener are all on leave,” Ace said without turning. “They return next week.”

Pearl nodded, biting her lip, her mind racing through menus, schedules, and her mental checklist. Mia. Meals. Bedtime. Rules. Don’t fail. Don’t be late. Don’t be obvious.

“Your primary focus is Mia. Get her to bed early. Be firm but fair. When she returns from school, she’ll want to discuss her day. Listen to her.” He paused, eyes piercing hers.

 “My rules are simple. I value my privacy above all else. Do not disturb me for trivialities. If it doesn’t involve my daughter’s immediate well-being, I am not to be bothered. I am your boss. You answer to me. If you need anything, call the driver. He will handle your transport.”

Pearl swallowed hard, nodding silently. Every word a rule, every glance a warning. I have to navigate this perfectly… one misstep, and it will all unravel.

“I have a question,” she said, her voice small but steady.

“Go ahead.”

“Since the staff is away… can I prepare the meals? For Mia, and—if it’s alright—for you as well?” She drew a deep breath. “I respect your boundaries, sir. I won’t be a problem.”

Ace studied her, sharp eyes assessing every nuance in her posture, every tremor in her voice. 

“Mia is particular about her palate. You can handle her meals. I will manage my own.”

Pearl let out a quiet exhale, though her heart still thundered. Control the chaos. Be precise. Don’t let him see you sweat.

“Alright. No problem, Ace.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Pearl could almost hear the whirring of her own thoughts. Every action is measured. Every word recorded. Breathe. Survive today.

Ace’s brow arched, expression shifting from cold to a fleeting curiosity. 

“Are we on friendly terms now, Miss Augustine?”

Pearl felt the blood drain from her face. “No, sir. I… I’m sorry.”

He didn’t respond. He turned and walked out, the click of the lock resonating like a judgment. Pearl sank into a chair, pressing her hands to her face. Like father, like daughter. I am in deep now… and there’s no way out but forward.

Chapter 7

(Oh Little Bully)

After what felt like an eternity, the phone in his secretary's desk finally rang. Maria answered swiftly, her tone professional as she responded, then clipped off the call. She let out a weary sigh, casting one last glance at the intruder.

“He’s sent for you,” she conveyed quietly. The woman rose, her face bloodied and unsettled—far from her usual calm, polished demeanor.

She grabbed her bag and headed back toward Ace's office, sighing deeply before gently pushing the door open, only to slam it shut behind her.

“First, I want an apology,” she demanded, but Ace barely looked up from his laptop, raising an eyebrow.

"For what?" he questioned simply.

“For embarrassing me. I deserve some respect.”

“Respect? For you?” His gaze sharpened as he fixed her with an amused yet cold stare. She nodded, and he chuckled.

“Amari, you barged in here and started arguing with my secretary. This is my company—not your father’s.”

“But she didn't let me in—"

"Didn’t let you in? Or did you fail to follow proper procedure?” His voice grew icier, eyes locking onto hers.

“I'm sorry, Ace. I was excited to see you—I missed you so much,” she rushed, eyes pleading.

“You didn't book an appointment, and now you expect her to ignore her duty?” he snapped.

“That's fine, Ace,” she muttered frustratedly.

He hummed, returning to his screen. "Hmmm."

“Are you just going to ignore me like I'm some kind of disease?” she pressed, moving closer, reaching out to touch his neck. “Ace?” she called softly, turning his face to hers. His sharp jawline and almond-shaped eyes always made her weak, impossible to resist.

“Amari,” he said, gently brushing her hand away. "I’ve got work to do. Besides, you didn't tell me you were leaving the country. You're all over me.”

Amari Sam—born into privilege, a 24-year-old self-made millionaire and sole heiress of Risam Group. Tall and slim, with runway poise and effortless grace. Her posture was impeccable, shaped by years of refinement.

Her face was delicately sculpted—high cheekbones, confident almond-shaped eyes, an elegant, straight nose, and full lips that rarely needed to smile to command attention. Her flawless skin seemed untouched by hardship.

Every move, every word, radiated the subtle assurance of someone raised in wealth and luxury, yet beneath it all, she desperately craved his attention, longing for his acknowledgment.

“I'm sorry I left so abruptly, but I sent the evidence and photos," she explained, her voice steadier, though Ace's expression remained unreadable—silence stretched between them.

“I know you don't love me, but I miss you, Ace. I miss your stares,” she paused. “You have every right to be mad I didn’t call, but you hardly pick up my calls. You only reach out when you miss me—"

“I don't miss people," he cut in coldly. "I don't hold onto feelings or affection. I only call when I need something. We both signed a contract—why make it a big deal? You're acting like I assigned you a role."

Amari's breath hitched as she stared in disbelief. Her eyes watered, but she sniffed, trying to compose herself.

"I get it. You don't have feelings, you don't miss people. But I do!" she insisted. "We’ve been intimate for two years. Fine, I messed up letting my feelings take over, but you’re so good—soft in many ways, even if you hide it. You long for love and affection, and I'm here—"

“For?” he interrupted emotionlessly.

“To fill the void. You’re not alone, Ace—"

“I never said I was," he responded flatly.

“I know, but I can feel it. Whenever we’re together, your touch, your presence—it's everything I crave. I need you, Ace."

“Is that all you want? Sex? Why beat around the bush?" His blunt tone made the air thick with unspoken tension, two years of contractual intimacy weighing heavily.

Amari didn’t flinch. Instead, she let a tear trail down her cheek, her voice soft but resolute.

“If that’s all you speak, Ace,” she whispered fiercely, "then yes. I want you.”

He paused, leaning back in his chair, unreadable. Then, with a deliberate click, he shut his laptop. The screen darkened, and the office basked in the amber glow of the setting sun.

“You’re messy, Amari,” he murmured, his voice low, vibrating. He didn't approach passionately but moved with purpose—like a predator knowing exactly what’s coming.

He stopped inches from her, taller, shadow enveloping her. He reached out to grip her chin, tilting her face up, his thumb brushing her damp cheek.

"If you’re so desperate to fill the void,” he whispered, a dark hunger finally surfacing, "then stop talking.”

Without waiting, he claimed her mouth in a kiss that was cold yet commanding. It was about hierarchy, not affection. Amari gasped, her hands flying to his shoulders, clutching his suit.

His hands moved with practiced precision—no fumbling, just control. He turned her around, pressing her chest against the cool mahogany of the desk. The contrast made her arch her back, a soft sound escaping her lips.

“Ace, please,” she begged, resting her forehead on the desk, eyes fluttering shut as his hands slid up her thighs, lifting her designer skirt.

“Please what?" he asked, voice close to her ear, devoid of warmth but full of intent. “I thought I had no feelings. I thought I was just a void.”

He leaned over her, weight pressing down. He took his time, fingers tracing her lace before hooking into the sides and tugging to reveal her to the cool office air. An exhilarating thrill coursed through her—despite her wealth and status, she was entirely at his mercy.

When he entered her, it was with a firm, relentless surge, not a gentle slide. Her fingers clawed at the desk, white-knuckled. The rhythm was steady, unwavering—a reflection of his controlled power, a reminder of their agreement.

He gripped her hips, thumbs digging in, anchoring her as he moved. Not once did he look at her face, but at her reacting body, her flushed skin under the dim light.

“Is this what you missed?” he growled into her ear.

Lost in sensation, she couldn’t answer, overwhelmed by him—the scent of cologne, musk, the pounding of bodies, the sense of surrender. She wanted to tell him she loved him, but she knew that would be pointless.

Instead, she tilted her head back, exposing her neck, crying out sharply as she climaxed.

He didn't slow—his movements grew more urgent, his mask of indifference shattering in the heat of the moment. Breathing ragged, he buried his face against her shoulder blades, his body tense.

After a moment, he withdrew abruptly, adjusting his tie before helping her up. His face returned to its icy, emotionless mask.

“I’ll call the cleaning crew now," he stated, glancing at his watch as if it were a routine update. “Don’t be here when they arrive.”