Claimed By Desire

Amara. I woke up to three things: My phone was buzzing nonstop. I had a terrible dry mouth from eating too many plantain chips at midnight. And as if that wasn't enough, all my social media handles seem to have gone completely insane. At first, I thought it was a glitch. I blinked, yawned, and rubbed the sleep from my eyes as I reached for my phone. The bright screen nearly blinded me, but I squinted through the blur. My heart skipped. 2.1 million views. 300k shares. #AmaraUnfiltered trending at #3 worldwide. I sat up like I'd been electrocuted. "What the hell…" The video was one I posted two nights ago, after one too many glasses of wine and a terrible date with a man who asked if I "belonged to anyone." The memory still made my skin crawl—his condescending smile, the way he'd leaned back in his chair like he was doing me some grand favor by taking me to dinner. I'd walked out before dessert arrived. In the video, I was unapologetic. Raw. Real. "Submission isn't sexy. It's cultural brainwashing. A real woman doesn't exist to be conquered—she exists to lead, build, and take up space. Stop glamorizing male dominance. It's not kink—it's control. I will never submit to any man to be used as a toy, because I know my worth. The sooner the women around the world know this, the better for us all." I said it with my chest. No script. Just passion, conviction, and eyeliner sharp enough to cut feelings. My studio apartment had been dimly lit, but my eyes had burned with intensity. I'd been wearing my favorite oversized blazer—the one that made me feel like I could conquer boardrooms and break glass ceilings. And apparently, the world had finally listened. I squealed—actually squealed—and jumped out of bed, doing a ridiculous victory dance in my oversized crop top and sleep shorts. My bare feet slapped against the cold hardwood floors of my tiny Brooklyn apartment. The walls were covered with vision boards, motivational quotes I'd printed out, and photos from my college graduation—reminders of who I was and who I was becoming. My hair was a mess, wild curls sticking up in every direction, but I didn't care. My feet pounded the floor as I screamed, "I'm viral! I'm freaking viral!" The comments were wild. Some praising me like a queen: *"FINALLY someone said it!" "Queen energy!" "This is the feminist content we NEED!"* Others accusing me of man-hating: *"Bitter single woman energy." "Who hurt you?" "You'll die alone with that attitude."* Whatever. Controversy fueled clicks, and clicks paid bills. I'd learned that lesson the hard way over the past two years of building my platform from zero followers to my current 847k. Every viral moment came with its fair share of trolls, but it also came with brand deals, speaking opportunities, and the kind of influence that could actually change minds. Speaking of which—my bank account had been crying for six months. Unemployed. Overqualified. Underestimated. Every interview ended with some variation of the same feedback: "You're brilliant, Amara, but you're a little… loud." Translation: You're too much. Too opinionated. Too threatening to fragile egos who can't handle a woman who knows her worth. I'd been living off savings, freelance writing gigs, and the occasional sponsored post. My rent was due in two weeks, and my credit card was maxed out from that disastrous attempt at a vacation in Miami three months ago. The pressure had been mounting, keeping me awake at night, making me question if maybe I should tone it down, play it safer. But now here I was. Loud and global. I was halfway through responding to a potential podcast sponsor when a new notification popped up. The email address wasn't one I recognized, but something about it made my pulse quicken. **RE: Job Opportunity — Immediate Hire** Weird. I didn't recognize the sender. But the subject line intrigued me. I tapped. Dear Miss Amara Williams, We are pleased to inform you that after internal evaluation, Thorne Enterprises is offering you the role of Personal Assistant to the CEO. This is a full-time position with full benefits and a monthly salary of $25,000. Your social influence, digital communication expertise, and brand alignment are in high demand. We believe you are uniquely positioned to support Mr. Thorne... in all necessary capacities.. If interested, your interview and onboarding will take place at our Manhattan headquarters tomorrow at 10AM. Dress code: Business formal. Sincerely, Executive HR Team Thorne Enterprises. I froze. Then read it again. And again. My hands were actually shaking as I held the phone. Thorne Enterprises? The Thorne Enterprises? The same global conglomerate that owned half the city? The company with fingers in everything from luxury real estate to cutting-edge technology? The one with the secretive billionaire CEO nobody had ever actually seen in person—no photos, no interviews, just whispered stories about his ruthless business tactics and mysterious personal life? The company whose headquarters looked like something out of a Marvel movie, all black glass and steel reaching toward the clouds like a modern Tower of Babel? I blinked. "This has to be a joke." I scrambled out of bed and grabbed my laptop, fingers flying over the keyboard as I pulled up my sent emails. I scrolled through months of job applications. Nothing for Thorne. Not even a hint. I had never applied. Hell, I wouldn't have even dared to dream I'd be considered for something that elite. Companies like Thorne Enterprises didn't hire unemployed podcasters from Brooklyn—they hired Ivy League graduates with perfect résumés and family connections. And yet… The email signature was digitally verified. The address matched their corporate headquarters exactly. Even the formatting looked professional, official. This wasn't some scammer trying to steal my identity or get me to send Bitcoin to an African prince. Maybe this is what luck feels like. I quickly reached for my phone to call my best friend, Gracie, who was currently somewhere in Bali on vacation with her new boyfriend, Marcus. "Hey girl," I said into the phone the moment she answered, my voice practically vibrating with excitement. "Hey, how are you?" she replied, but her words came in short, breathless pants. There was music in the background—something low and sultry. "Are you alright?" I asked, suddenly concerned. "Yeah..ah" she moaned, accompanied by a rapid clapping sound. "Oh, it seems you're busy," I said, catching on. "I'll call you back—" "No… no, it's fine," she gasped, but I could hear rustling sheets and what sounded suspiciously like a male voice murmuring in the background. "Girl, handle your business. I'll text you," I said, grinning despite myself. At least one of us was getting some action. I hung up and looked at my reflection in the mirror above my dresser—bed head, crusted eyes, and yesterday's eyeliner smudged like a raccoon. But underneath all that mess, I still smiled. My brown skin was glowing despite the lack of sleep, and there was something fierce in my dark eyes that even exhaustion couldn't dim. My podcast must've caught the attention of the right people. Maybe being "loud" finally worked in my favor. Maybe someone with actual power had watched that video and thought, "This woman has something to say, and I want her on my team." I flopped back onto the bed, phone clutched to my chest, grinning like a maniac. My mind was already racing with possibilities. A monthly salary of $25,000 would change everything. I could move to a better apartment, maybe even Manhattan. I could invest in better equipment for my podcast, hire an editor, and take my platform to the next level. Tomorrow, I will be walking into a billion-dollar tower. Tomorrow, I would be meeting the infamous Mr. Thorne—a man so powerful and mysterious that he might as well be a myth. Tomorrow… everything could change. And I was ready for it. The question was: was Mr. Thorne ready for me? I hope he’s got a fire extinguisher, because I’m coming in hot.