I hunched over my laptop in the quiet office of Willowbrook Manor late into the night, the walnut desk a mess around me—sketchpads open to half-drawn dresses' designs. The coffee mugs gone cold with just a faint whiff of jasmine left in the air.
"Why can't I find anything?"
The screen's blue light hurt my eyes a bit, casting long shadows under them, while my raven hair sat in a loose, messy bun that kept dropping strands onto my face like stray thoughts I couldn't shake.
Those factories we saw earlier stuck in my head like a bad dream—one that I would like to forget.
Hellen promised a fix in three days, but even if they scrubbed it all clean, those places felt too broken to make real luxury clothes.
High-end fashion isn't just pretty labels—it's about perfect hand-stitched edges, fabrics so soft and rare they feel like touching history, a story behind every piece that makes people feel important when they wear it.
Luxury items are often associated with one's identity. Many people often determine a person's status by the clothes they wear.
I'd learned all that back when I was a barista, stealing hours after shifts to read fashion books, dig through old magazines, and scroll endless online talks about how the big houses really worked.
True luxury needs rooms full of skilled people who treat every stitch like art, not a handful of tired workers fighting old machines.
And our money? It's too tight already—I don't think it will be enough. Hellen told me that she was going to inject more money into our business, and told me to do so.
Honestly, I am really angry with her. Did she think that I would not sign the deal if I knew about the factories? Nevertheless, I would have signed. This is my last attempt at doing anything to fulfil my dreams.
My fingers tapped the keys without much plan, ideas bouncing around wild in my head: maybe change everything? Skip the fancy stuff?
"What if we try something else?" I said out loud to the empty room, my voice bouncing off the cream walls with their soft stripes.
"Do we really need to stick to luxury? What if there is an alternative?
I need something right in the middle—good quality you can feel, but prices that don't scare people away. Still, the factories loomed like roadblocks, and Viktor's name hung in the air like smoke from a fire I couldn't put out.
Wait.
Viktor.
Curiosity got the better of me—I opened a new search for Herlos, just to understand more. The results came fast and sad—only two years old, it had grown quick at first, all about clothes for women who ran things, mixing strong suits with soft, flowing lines from ethical silks that sold worldwide.
Then, a few months ago, it all fell apart. News stories talked about sneaky sabotage—suppliers suddenly cutting ties, big clients stolen away, factories hit with quiet damage like wires snipped and dyes ruined on purpose.
Fingers pointed at Viktor Leonhart, my own family's king of dirty business tricks, who blacklisted anyone who crossed his path, just like he did to me and my little fashion dream.
"But why go after her?" I whispered to myself, stomach twisting tight. Was it revenge?
Or something bigger?
I shut the laptop with a quick snap, grabbing my notepad to scribble down the mess of thoughts.
A low growl came from my throat—too careful, too drawn out. Those factories needed a big shake-up, not little fixes. My hand hovered to search more—Viktor's full history, Hellen's real connections—but then a tab popped up on its own—my cat video, Emily Leonhart Cat-Mom Meltdown, sitting at ten million views.
The comments were there—She's not what they say—she's real! #TeamCatMom.
"Holy shit—this is it!" The idea hit me like lightning, clear and bright. Why was I brainstorming so much when everything was right in front of me.
I slammed the laptop closed for good, heart racing like I'd run a mile. My brain felt fried, skin still gritty from the day's factory dust, so I jumped up and headed upstairs, bare feet padding soft on the thick hall rug.
The master bathroom waited with its big old clawfoot tub, steam already rising as I turned the water hot. I slipped out of my clothes slowly as I unhooked my bra to let my chest breathe, curves catching the mirror's light.
The water poured scalding hot into the clawfoot tub, jasmine bubbles foaming thick and fragrant, steam curling lazy toward the master bathroom's cream-tiled ceiling like secrets rising free.
I sank in slow, inch by inch, the heat wrapping my body in a tight, perfect hug—running in warm rivers over my full chest where it made my skin tingle and pull taut, tracing the soft dip of my waist, down along my legs earned from those endless barista shifts on aching feet.
Raven hair floated dark around my shoulders, wet strands clinging to porcelain skin still dusted faint from factory grit. Soap foamed creamy white under my palms as I scrubbed gentle, old stress melting away like wax.
I bathed slow, letting my mind wander deep while the hot water lapped soft at my curves, jasmine bubbles popping lazy against my flushed skin in the clawfoot tub's steamy embrace. Suddenly, an idea flooded in—I am an alpha now, right?
So, will I cum normally? Or, will it be something different?
With that thought, my breath hitched sharp, hand sliding up my heavy breasts buoyant in the heat—fingers pinching nipples hard, twisting the hardened peaks till they burned red-raw, pleasure stabbing vicious down my core like a cock slamming deep.
I pressed my tits together rough, mashing the full, aching globes till they swelled hot under my palms, nipples caught grinding between fingers slick with soap, sparks shooting straight to my dripping pussy.
A filthy moan ripped from my full lips, raven hair wet and wild floating around bare shoulders, emerald eyes fluttering half-shut as my other hand dove between spread thighs underwater.
Slick cunt lips parted greedy, fingers circling the clit slow at first—teasing the throb, then plunging two deep inside my tight, clenching hole with a lewd wet schlick echoing off tiled walls, stretching my walls that fluttered hungry around the invasion.
"Ahhh! Oh my, this body... ahh... is very sensitive..."
Hips bucked wild, water sloshing over tub edges in messy splashes, tits bouncing heavy as I fingered my sopping pussy harder—curling knuckles deep to grind that spongy spot that made my vision white out, thumb mashing clit brutal circles.
"Fuck, yes," I gasped hoarsely, pinching my nipples vicious now, tugging them long and cruel till they throbbed like overripe cherries, body arching bow-taut off the porcelain.
The idea fucked my brain hotter with every thrust.
Tension coiled iron-tight low, thighs trembling spread wide like a bitch in heat, fingers pumping my sloppy hole slick and savage now—three knuckles-deep stretching me gaping, walls spasming desperate sucking them in, free hand abandoning tortured nipples to fist raven strands yanking brutal for leverage as moans shattered to guttural cries.
I mashed my tits harder, squeezing bruises into the soft flesh, nipples trapped grinding raw while my cunt squirted faint around invading fingers—pleasure cresting vicious, orgasm wrecking me, body seizing rigid, pussy convulsing milking my digits in rhythmic squeezes, hot juices flooding bathwater creamy as I rode the high shuddering, tits heaving slick with sweat, skin glowing fuck-flushed pink.
"Why is this... so... ahhh... pleasurable?" Drool leaked from my mouth as I took a deep breath, while looking my dazed, red, and drooly face in the mirror.