Callum Frost is a billionaire CEO with a Manhattan penthouse, a venture capital empire, and a staff turnover rate that should come with a warning label. He’s demanding, exacting, and so controlled that even his hair looks like it’s been given instructions.
I walked into his office, fixed a travel crisis his entire team couldn’t solve, and walked out.
He’s been chasing me ever since.
Late-night texts. Doubled fees I set specifically to scare him off. His number blocked and his messages still somehow landing in my inbox. When he asked me to be his executive assistant, I told him it would take a traumatic brain injury.
But Callum Frost doesn’t hear no. And when he showed up uninvited to my parents’ anniversary party in North Carolina—played the devoted boyfriend, held my hand, kissed me like the whole room wasn’t watching—I stopped saying it.
I agreed to six months. A contract. The office next to his. Professional boundaries that lasted about as long as you’d expect when the man on the other side of the wall is nothing like the cold, controlling CEO I thought I knew.
Now I’m fourteen weeks pregnant, and the six-month expiration date on this arrangement just became irrelevant.
