Chapter 1 Wet Dreams

Cecilia

Black Peak Estate's study, moonlight through the blinds painting shadows across his back, the suffocating weight of him pressing me down.

His hands were everywhere—gripping my hips, sliding up my thighs, pressing me harder against the cold glass window overlooking the sea.

I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only feel the relentless rhythm of his body driving into mine, each thrust sending shockwaves through every nerve ending I had.

"Arthur—oh god, Arthur—"

My voice didn't sound like my own, high and desperate and completely wrecked. I was gone, spiraling, my nails digging into his shoulders.

"That's it, baby," he growled against my ear, his voice rough and possessive in a way that made my entire body clench around him. "Let me hear you."

And I did. God help me, I did. Every moan, every gasp, every broken cry of his name as he moved faster, harder, his fingers tangling in my hair and pulling my head back so he could watch my face as I fell apart—

"Cecilia. My Ceci"

The sound of my own gasping breath jolted me awake, my heart slamming. For a disorienting moment, I couldn't tell where I was.

The darkness of my bedroom slowly coming into focus, the sheets twisted around my legs, my body slick with sweat and still trembling from the phantom sensations that felt way too fucking real.

It was just a dream.

Just a stupid, treacherous dream that my subconscious decided to torture me with at five in the morning.

My pulse was racing, my skin hypersensitive, and between my legs... fuck.

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the ache to go away, but all I could see was him.

Arthur.

His dark eyes burning into mine, his hands on my body, his voice in my ear saying things that made me—

"Stop it," I hissed at myself, throwing off the covers. "Stop it right now."

"Fuck."

I cursed at the empty apartment.

He sent me away four years ago.

But I still dream about him, my body still ached for him.

My body still remembers the temperature of his fingers, the shape of his lips, that feeling of being utterly filled when he entered me.

Stop! Don’t dwell on him any longer, Cecilia Locke!

My hand found the necklace I never take off—a tiny encrypted USB drive pendant.

Dad's last gift. The week before the crash, he pressed it into my palm: "If something happens to me, remember three numbers—7-14-23. Everything I’d left for you was inside."

I was 9 then, didn't understand what "something happens" meant. Now I'm 22, and I finally get it—Dad didn't die in an accident. He was murdered.

And the killer's probably inside the Winston family.

Arthur Winston.

He might even have taken direct part in my father's death.

But I was having a wet dream about him.

I hate who I’ve become.

After my father died, my mother remarried and moved to Europe. She left me with my father’s young close friend—Arthur Winston.

My father's best friend.

My former guardian.

My first.

And starting today, my boss.

That was right. I’d joined the Winston Company, aiming to hack into its servers.

No one would have guessed that the CEO’s former ward had joined the company just to infiltrate their servers.

Now, I ought to get ready and head to work.

I turned toward the bathroom, turned on the shower. Ice-cold water hit my skin. I closed my eyes, forced myself to focus on breathing—in, out, in, out.

Didn't work.

As water slid down my skin, my mind conjured his hands, his kisses, that breathless possession when he pressed down on me.

I tried to handle this physiological problem myself, but after a few minutes I realized—this is fucking useless.

Only he can satisfy me.

Only Arthur.

I slammed off the water, looked at myself in the mirror: "Cecilia Locke, You don't need him either. Got it?"

The woman in the mirror stared back, wet hair plastered to her face, eyes full of anger, unwillingness, and a vulnerability I refused to acknowledge.

I took a deep breath and started arming myself.

The suit—Max Mara charcoal grey. Professional, proper.

Sleeves rolled to my elbows, revealing Dad's antique Patek Philippe.

Makeup minimal, almost bare, but sharp eyeliner and perfect red lips.

Looking at my reflection, I finally nodded with satisfaction.

That's right. This is Cecilia Locke—Stanford financial engineering master's.

Meanwhile, she held an even more secret identity—Wall Street legend "C."

Not that silly girl who had a crush on her guardian and got shipped to Silicon Valley with a "you're too young."

I checked my watch—8:15. Time to go.

Stepping out of the building, Tribeca's streets were still quiet.

I’d bought this apartment after I came back, just so I wouldn’t have to return to Black Peak.

I had no desire to live with Arthur Winston!

Let him go on controlling me?

Standing in front of Winston Tower, I had to admit—no matter how many times I see this building, it's still fucking impressive.

70 stories of glass curtain wall stabbing the sky, reflecting hard metallic light in the morning sun. The whole structure's like a sword thrust into Manhattan's heart—sharp, cold, inviolable. Just like its owner.

I took a deep breath and entered the lobby.

The lobby had that suffocating solemnity, and dead center, the massive Winston family crest: a black eagle with wings spread, talons gripping the globe.

Very Arthur.

The receptionist's eyes lit up when she saw me. She definitely recognized me—the "problem child" shipped to Silicon Valley four years ago, now back.

"Miss Locke, good morning." Her smile was professional and respectful. "HR is expecting you. Please take the private elevator this way."

Private elevator.

Before I was sent away, I often came to the company to pester him. He even had a private elevator built just for me.

"Thanks, but I'll take the employee elevator." I smiled politely. "I'm just a regular junior analyst now."

The receptionist froze, then quickly recovered: "Uh... okay, the employee elevator's over there."

I could feel the curious stares from the other reception staff. Let them look.

The employee elevator was packed with suited office workers, everyone heads-down on phones or documents.

I squeezed into a corner, feeling the oppressive closeness.

Doors opened and closed at 28, opened and closed at 35. I watched the numbers jump, my heartbeat accelerating with them.

43rd floor. Strategic Investment Department.

I'm about to meet my new boss Marcus Chen, start my "undercover" career.

The elevator dinged at 43.

The doors opened. I took a deep breath, straightened my shoulders, and stepped out.