Hotline Pleasure

Chapter 1

Madelaine

I was five minutes late.

Five minutes. That wasn’t so bad, right?

My heels clicked against the sleek marble floors of Montenegro Enterprises as I rushed toward the elevator, clutching my coffee like a lifeline. The caffeine hadn’t kicked in yet—my brain was still sluggish, nerves tangled in a tight knot at the base of my spine.

Please, please don’t let him notice.

The elevator doors slid open, and I scrambled inside, pressing the button for the top floor. My reflection stared back at me from the polished walls—wide eyes, slightly flushed cheeks, teeth biting into my lip like a guilty child.

I wasn’t usually late. I wasn’t usually reckless.

But today, I’d overslept. Slept through two alarms, actually. Maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe it was the sleepless night spent whispering to a stranger on the phone—s**t.

My stomach flipped.

Don’t think about that.

I shook off the memory just as the elevator chimed, opening to the lion’s den.

The top floor was eerily quiet—too quiet. I stepped out cautiously, the air-conditioning sending a shiver down my spine. Glass offices lined the hall, but my focus zeroed in on one in particular.

His.

Killian Montenegro. CEO. Tyrant. Evil.

His office door was open, but that didn’t mean he was in a good mood. The man’s moods swung between murderous and slightly less murderous.

I exhaled slowly, straightening my shoulders. Maybe if I just slipped in—

“Brooke.”

Shit.

No. No, no, no.

His voice came from behind me—smooth as polished steel, sharp as a knife against my already fragile nerves.

I turned slowly, carefully, my body moving on instinct.

And there he was.

The devil in a three-piece suit.

Broad-shouldered, perfectly composed, and looking at me like I was a problem he couldn’t wait to eliminate. His charcoal suit was crisp, fitted to intimidating perfection, his tie flawlessly knotted. But it was his expression that made my stomach plummet.

Cold. Unforgiving. Displeased.

He flicked his wrist, glancing at the expensive, custom-made watch on his wrist, and then—he actually scoffed.

Like I wasn’t even worth his irritation.

“Late.”

The word was so cold, I swear the temperature dropped.

My lip wobbled. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to stand up straight, even though my legs felt like jelly.

“Only f-five minutes,” I blurted, too quickly, too breathless.

A horrible, heavy silence.

Then, he raised a single, perfectly cruel brow.

“Would you like to round that up to ten?” His voice was calm. Too calm. “Perhaps fifteen?”

“I-I mean, um, technically four and a half,” I babbled, voice an embarrassing pitch higher, “b-but it’s not like I—I wanted to be late, it’s just that, well, my alarm didn’t—”

I snapped my mouth shut when I noticed how his eyes darkened -- that is the first sign that he's actually pissed. I panicked when he started to walk closer to where I am causing me almost tripping over my own feet.

His expression didn’t change, but I swore I saw something flicker in his eyes. Something amused.

“Do you think this is a college internship, Brooke?”

My stomach twisted.

“No—” I squeaked, then cleared my throat. “N-No, sir.”

“Reall? Because you surely treat it like one.”

I actually whimpered.

My fingers twisted together, my shoulders curling in. I was going to cry. Right here. In the middle of the office. But I couldn’t cry. Not in front of him. Not in front of the man who already thought I was incompetent. I took a shaky breath, trying to steady myself.

“I-I swear, it won’t happen again.”

He sighed. Exasperated.His gaze flicked down. And then—his lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line.

I followed his eyes—then nearly died.

My blouse.

It was slightly wrinkled, the top button undone in my rush. I wanted to disappear. Burn the building down. Crawl into a hole and never come out.

I gasped, hands flying up to fix it, face burning so hot I swore I was about to combust.

His gaze snapped back up, unreadable.But I swore, for one second, his eyes lingered.

My whole body locked up.

He tilted his head slightly. “Brooke.”

I flinched. “Yes?”

A long, terrible pause. Then—

“Coffee.”

I blinked.

“…What?”

His jaw ticked. Oh God, wrong answer.

“Coffee,” he repeated. “I assume you didn’t bring one for me?”

I stared at my half-empty, pathetic excuse for coffee.

Oh God.

I had never felt more stupid in my life.

“N-No, sir.”

His silence was worse than his words.I clenched my fists, my heart hammering so hard I could hear it.Then, just when I thought he’d finally dismiss me, he tilted his head, studying me like he could see through me. Like he knew my thoughts were a mess of tangled, guilty things.

Like he knew I would crumble if he pushed just a little harder.

And then, with calm, lethal cruelty, he said—

“Next time you decide to be late, at least bring me something useful.”

Asshole.I nodded, because what else could I do? Scream at him? Cry? Beg the ground to open up and swallow me whole?

He was already gesturing his hands for me to get out of his sight when his brows furrowed and his lips twitched like he’s super pissed at something.

“And Brooke,” he murmured, voice just low enough to send a pulse of unease through my stomach.

“Next time, don’t wear your lingerie to work.”

…

Ice flooded my veins.

What?

I blinked, mind blank with horror, and then—

Oh God.

I instinctively clutched at my blouse. At the soft lace peeking out where my rushed buttoning hadn’t quite done its job. Heat seared my face. My pulse was a frantic drumbeat in my ears.

Oh God. Oh God.

My lips parted in shock, but no sound came out.

I wanted to die.

No—worse.

I wanted him to die. A slow, painful death. Preferably involving me strangling him with his own stupid, designer tie. But all I could do was stand there, drowning in my own mortification, as he turned away.

Later that night, I lay sprawled in bed, starfished on my mattress like a girl in the middle of an existential crisis.

I couldn’t sleep.

Not after today.

Humiliation still burned through me, hot and sharp. I could still hear him. Still see him. That stupid, perfect suit, that awful, condescending voice—

I let out a strangled squeak and yanked my pillow over my face, kicking my legs in sheer agony.

“I hate him,” I whispered into the fabric. Then louder, “I HATE HIM.”

I sat up abruptly, grabbing my pillow and punching it. Once. Twice. Five times. It wasn’t nearly as satisfying as slapping Killian Montenegro across his infuriatingly perfect face, but it would have to do.

Why was he like that?

Why did he have to look at me like I was an inconvenience? Like I was small, fragile, easy to break?

I rolled onto my side, curling up, groaning into my sheets.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair that his words were still clinging to me, still sinking into my skin like poison.

I huffed, flipping onto my back, then my stomach, then back again.

Why couldn’t I just stop thinking?

Why couldn’t I just turn off my brain?

I grabbed another pillow, clutching it to my chest like it was a lifeline.

“I hope you step on a Lego,” I muttered, scowling at the ceiling. “I hope your coffee is always lukewarm. I hope you get paper cuts on all your fingers.”

I just needed to stop thinking.

Just for one second.

But my mind kept spinning, caught in the cruel loop of his words, his gaze, his condescending amusement.

I whimpered softly, rolling onto my stomach, burying my face in my sheets.

I needed to forget.

Something. Anything.

My fingers were shaking when I reached for my phone.

It was just an app. Just some stupid, anonymous hotline meant for people who couldn’t sleep. I hesitated, my lip caught between my teeth.

I shouldn’t, right? I mean, yeah, I shouldn’t. But my fingers moved anyway. A quiet invitation blinked on my screen—

Seeking late-night company?

I swallowed hard. My pulse fluttered as I clicked. And then, before I could change my mind, before I could let my conscience catch up—

I typed.

Are you awake?