Blackmailed by my CEO stepbrother

CHAPTER ONE: Why does my CEO want me? Ava's POV. This man is really very mean. The way he shouted, rolled his eyes and shoved that iPad right in my face with the video playing. It wasn't the clearest footage, derived from a CCTV camera, grainy and slightly distorted, but my face showed clearly enough. Me, poisoning his drink. My hands, my face, my movements all of it right there on that screen. How do I deny this? This video could ruin my whole life, especially if my mother finds out I killed her husband. Yes, he was abusive. Yes, he was a terrible man and an even worse husband. But none of that changes what I did or what the law would call it. So when Max said follow me, I followed. Not because I wanted to, and not because of the way he sometimes looked at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention. I followed because that video was in his hand and he was standing close enough to the reception hall that all he had to do was walk back through those doors and find my mother. Room fourteen. Third floor. One of those hotels that exists specifically for moments people aren't supposed to be having. I lay on the bed, shivering, the wedding music drifting up faintly from the reception hall below. My mother was down there right now, in her dress, dancing with Richard Kingston, happy in the way I hadn't seen her be happy in years. And here I was. In a hotel room with his son. "I said open those legs." Max's voice came low and direct and left no space for negotiation. I obeyed. The video was still in his hand. "Ava, take my fingers." He held two fingers right in front of my face, close enough that I could see exactly what he was asking. I didn't move fast enough so he pressed them to my lips and pushed them in until I almost choked that I had to pull them back to breathe. I took his wet fingers in my own hand and brought them down slowly, rubbing them against myself. It felt good in a way I wasn't prepared for and hated myself immediately for noticing. Within seconds, I was wet and my body had stopped consulting my mind about any of it. "Push it," he said. I pushed his fingers inside and the moment they went in he took control, pulling them back out and returning with three, moving them at his own pace, his own rhythm, like he had already decided exactly how this was going to go, and my only role was to be present for it. It was painful. More painful because of who he was and what was happening downstairs and the fact that I could still hear the faint sound of the reception band playing my mother's best song that she had probably requested. I came twice before he stopped. He pulled back, stood at the edge of the bed and reached down to his trousers, drawing them down until he was standing in nothing but a pair of white boxers. I looked at him despite myself. The build of him, the jawline, the way his body was constructed like someone had designed it specifically to be difficult to ignore. Then I looked lower. I wasn't sure I could take that. Long, thick and dark, with veins running along the sides, the kind of size that made you do the calculation before anything else. He wouldn't care about the calculation. That much was already clear. He came forward, pressed my head back against the pillow and pushed himself toward my mouth. I had no choice. I took him in and choked twice before my throat adjusted, and he held my head in place and moved at his own speed while the wedding music continued below us like a completely separate world. It started four months ago. I worked at Kingston Enterprises as an Executive Assistant, which in practice meant I was in Max's office more than my own. Carrying files he could have had anyone bring. Clarifying things he clearly understood but pretended he didn't. Just to have a reason to call me in. One afternoon he looked up from whatever was on his desk and asked what I thought about a particular project. I told him everything, plainly, no performance, just my actual thoughts, because I had learned early that he had no patience for people who softened their opinions to suit him. He listened without interrupting. "You're really smart Ava," he said when I finished. "You care for dinner?" "No, I'm fine sir. Glad I could help." I turned to leave. "Ava." He said my name longer that time, stretching it slightly. I turned around and waited. I already knew what was coming. I just waited for him to say it. "You promised to give me a response today." "No. That's the response." I left his office and went back to mine and opened my laptop and tried to return to something that felt like a normal afternoon. Then a message came through from his number. Since you’ve decided to turn me down, I’ll handle this my own way. I read it twice. Then I put my phone face down and sat there trying to decide what exactly he meant by his own way because there were several interpretations and none of them were comfortable, and I wasn't sure which one I was hoping it wasn't. I left for dinner alone that evening. Ordered a drink I barely touched, sat with my thoughts and stared at nothing for long enough that the waiter came to check on me twice. Working for Kingston Enterprises had been one of the hardest things I had done in my life. The pay was good, my colleagues were decent, the work itself wasn't the problem. Max was the problem. I paid for my untouched drink and went back to the office. He was on a call when I got there, so I stood outside his door and waited. The conversation was strange, fragments I couldn't fully assemble something about a video, something about compensation, his voice carrying the particular satisfaction of a man who had just acquired something useful. Thanks for this. You’ll be well rewarded. Then the call ended. I knocked. "Who's there." "It's Ava, sir." "Come in." Smooth and cheerful, like he had been expecting me. I walked in and stood near the shelf. He was already watching me. "Did you come because of my text… or have you changed your mind?” "I came because I want to quit, Max. I don't want to work here anymore." He didn't flinch. He stood up slowly, smiling, the kind of smile that had nothing warm in it. "Unfortunately, you can’t quit. And you won’t be turning me down again.” Before I could respond, he gestured forward to me and opened his iPad. I crossed the room because something in his voice made my feet move before my head approved it. He showed me the screen. I froze. The video was grainy, pulled from a CCTV feed. The footage was dark, but my face was still clear enough. My hands were clear. The moment was clear to me, standing over a drink, doing what I had been trying to convince myself had never really happened. How did this get here? How did this end up on Max Kingston's iPad in this office on this ordinary Tuesday evening. He watched my face while I watched the screen and I Could feel him reading every single thing I was trying not to show. "So," he said quietly. "Shall we talk about ourselves now?"