"So...let me see if I got everything right." The female CEO of Heart's Match eyed the billionaire's
list of requirements for his mail-order bride. "You want someone you can trust to raise your nephew, someone who's guaranteed to see to all of his emotional needs and ensure that he doesn't grow up a spoiled, useless millennial like all other trust fund babies seem to be."
"Precisely."
"You also want someone who understands that you're used to a certain way of living and appreciate that it's this very busy lifestyle of yours that is able to afford you, your future wife, and nephew everything that money can buy."
"Exactly."
"Your fidelity is guaranteed provided you two are sexually compatible. If not, you promise to seek satisfaction through other means very discreetly while she will be additionally compensated to remain celibate until your nephew reaches eighteen years of age."
"Perfect," Logan said approvingly. "When can I expect to meet your candidate?"
"You mean 'paragon' right? Or maybe 'martyr' is a more accurate term?"
"Charlotte." His tone held a note of warning.
"But to answer your question, let me check my contacts in Heaven first. I'll need to see if they have an angel or saint to spare, since no one else is likely to agree to something so one-sided."
Logan didn't even crack a smile. "My nephew will be with me in six weeks."
"I know that, okay? And as much as I want to help you..." What you're asking for is something only a selfish, heartless asshole would demand. That was what Charlotte was dying to say, but because Logan was both her childhood friend and her late husband's, she managed to withhold her tongue and finish with something more tactful. "It's going to be difficult."
"But not impossible."
Grrr. It was just so like Logan to interpret her words in the way that would benefit him. "I'll be level with you since you're my friend. With what you're asking, there can only be two kinds of women likely to agree to what you're asking."
Logan's gaze narrowed. "Go on."
"We'll either end up with a cold-blooded gold digger..."
The billionaire's upper lip curled in distaste.
"Or someone who comes with a lot of baggage."
Logan frowned. "Exactly what kind of baggage are we talking about?"
"No college degree, work history strictly in the domestic employment front, and she may come with a thirteen-year-old dependent who urgently needs to undergo kidney transplant surgery."
Since the things Charlotte mentioned were too specific to be random, Logan had a feeling his friend already had someone in mind. Someone she knew he would only consider if he were desperate enough...
"As long as she fits the mold," Logan said finally, "you can send her my way."

Stick to the timeline. You're still the nanny. I'm still the boss. Or at least that had been the plan. But then he saw the way his male executives were staring at Tilly like she was the pièce de résistance of a ten-course meal, and Logan thought, Fuck the timeline.
Since the billionaire had made no efforts to silence Tilly's cries of pleasure earlier, and Tilly herself hadn't been the type of lover to just lie back and think of England, Logan had no doubt that every employee working on his floor knew what took place the moment the door to his office closed behind Tilly.
That such a thing happened in the first place had probably come as a shock, considering Logan's rather notorious rule about not letting any of his former mistresses step a foot inside any of his company offices. It was fairly easy to see that his employees were itching to find out what made Tilly different, and it was just as obvious that they were wondering if the very nature of her employment had anything to do with Tilly being the exception to the rule.
Was she the nanny before she became the boss' lover, or was it the other way around?
What did the billionaire see in her that they didn't - or was she simply that good in bed?
How long was the billionaire likely to keep her - and might they have a shot once she was single again?
Logan's entire vision was fast turning a murderous shade of red. Over my fucking dead body, assholes.
Tilly almost lost her footing when the billionaire suddenly slipped a possessive arm around her waist as they headed down the elevator at the end of the hallway.
Logan saw Tilly's startled look and tried not to look defensive as he shrugged in response, saying offhandedly, "I didn't want anyone to notice."
Tilly blinked. "Notice what?"
"That you don't have---"
Realizing what he was about to say, Tilly simply acted without thinking, nearly stumbling in her haste to tiptoe and cup her hand over his mouth. Oh my God, what was he thinking, saying something like that out loud?
Her horrified gaze flew up to his, and that was when she saw the sexy, little smirk playing on the blatantly sensual lines of his lips.
Tilly choked back a laugh, realizing he had . "You jer---" And then she remembered where they were, and she hastily backtracked. "You just say, um, the most embarrassingly sweet words, Mr. Hardwall."
Amused approval gleamed in the his eyes even as he reached to gently pull her hand down. "Interestingly enough," the billionaire drawled, "an embarrassment is also what you might be suffering from if this isn't remedied." His other hand lazily drifted over her back as he spoke, settling down a moment later just a few inches over the hem of her dress. The hem, which had sneakily crept up when she tiptoed and was now dangerously close to flashing her butt in front of the dozens of executives making up Hardwall Industries' highest management tier.
OH MY GOD!
The billionaire chuckled softly at the flare of panic in her eyes. "Relax, babe. I've got you." His hand subtly smoothed the dress down at the same time Tilly slowly and carefully rocked back to her heels, and she nearly slumped in relief when the moment of danger finally passed without her butt suffering any visual casualties.
"Thank God that's over," she told him feelingly as they resumed walking,
"And?"
Huh?
"I'm still waiting," she heard the billionaire murmur languidly, and Tilly shot him a bewildered glance. Waiting for what?
A saintly smile unfolded over his lips, making him appear boyishly good-looking for an instance.
But then he said---
"For you to grovel in gratitude, of course."
A choked laugh escaped Tilly even as she came to appreciate the undeniable truth behind the most common of proverbs. Leopards could never change their spots, devils could never hide their horns, and such was the case with Logan Hardwall, who, despite what his utterly urbane appearance implied, could never be trusted to play the gentleman.
"Just to be clear---" Tilly waited until they were inside the elevator before turning to the billionaire with lips prudishly pursed in feigned censure. "I'm holding you completely accountable over what happened. If you hadn't threatened to speak about certain unmentionables---"
Logan smirked. Unmentionables? Hadn't that term been retired a couple centuries ago already?
"There wouldn't have been any risk of exposure in the first place, and so to answer your question---"
"I didn't actually ask anything," the billionaire pointed out.
She ignored that, saying, "No, Mr. Hardwall. I am not going to thank you."
"Because of what I did earlier?"
"Yes."
"Which you considered something only a jerk would do."
"Your words," she said primly, "not mine."
"But it's essentially what you're saying."
Her shoulders moved in a delicate shrug.
"Since you already think I'm a jerk," the billionaire drawled, "then I might as well act like it, don't you think?"
Tilly was bewildered at first, unsure of his meaning, but when the billionaire actually bent down to reach for the hem of her dress, and she realized he was threatening to flip it up --- she let out an incoherent sound, something between gasping, laughing, and squeaking.
Logan Hardwall really was a jerk, but God, he could be so cute about it!

"Tabitha Sandler?"
"Hello, and, umm, that was my name, yes."
Was? Nicholas couldn't even fathom what that was supposed to mean

"If it is not too much to ask," the professor asked in a glacial voice, "would you care to put your daydreams on pause for the rest of the class?"
Diana felt her eyes sting in mortification and fought hard to keep her composure. "I...I..."
"Save us from unnecessary explanations, any of which I highly doubt will be the truth." When she didn't speak, the professor dealt her an impatient glance, asking irritably, "Well? Your proposal then?"
Oh!
Since she had nothing written on her proposal sheet, Diana could only blurt out the first half-baked idea that came to her mind. "I was thinking, umm, since depression is one of the leading causes of suicide, then perhaps we could use faith to cure depression---"
The professor's lip curled. "I've heard enough."
He had?
"And I think you're better off dropping my subject."
Diana found herself clutching the edge of her desk as shock reverberated in the entire class in palpable silence. 
Cut your losses and go. 
It was the voice of reason again, but try as she might, she couldn't make herself listen to it.
"I s-sincerely believe in what I'm saying, professor."
"Good for you, but that's not why I'm asking you to drop the subject."
"What I'm saying makes sense---"
"If I only wanted my students to make sense," the professor snapped, "then I should've opted to teach in kindergarten, do you think?" The words were intended to hurt, and hurt it did. The girl was now trembling and visibly fighting back tears, but just as before, the sight of her distress did not bring him any amount of gratification.  
Damn her. Damn her. Goddamn her for forcing him to make her bleed, and because this had to be the last time, he knew he couldn't leave it this way. He had to see it to the end, no matter what.
When she started to sit, he saw his opportunity and seized it mercilessly, saying sharply, "I'm not finished."
The girl flinched, and so did most of the class. That he was a pitiless bastard was a widely-known fact, but couldn't the professor see he was already beating a dead animal in this instance?
"Remind me what this subject is, Ms. Leventis."
His words were like a noose tightening around her throat, and while she didn't know how or when it would happen, the one thing she was certain of was that this was the beginning of the end.
"Ms. Leventis?"
"Novel Therapy---"
"Finally," the professor mocked. "A correct answer." It had a few students laughing, causing the girl to flush, but he forced himself to get past this. "Do you think you could properly define this as well?"
"It c-can be any method or technology that could be considered breakthrough or radical---"
"In other words," the professor murmured silkily, "it could also be the first of its kind."
"Yes---"
"That being said, do you genuinely believe you're the first person who thought curing depression with faith would help prevent suicide?"
He saw her jerk, saw the first tear fall, and he knew it should be enough. 
"Because if you do, then you're an even bigger idiot than I gave you credit for."
But instead he found himself pushing the knife deeper. 
I'm sorry, but there's no other fucking way.
Diana could feel everyone staring at her. She knew she should at least say something, but the humiliating flow of her tears had robbed her of the ability to speak. All she could do was remember how this man destroying her was also the same man she had willingly taken her clothes off for, and this truth...it broke her, to the point that for one second she found herself tempted - oh, how she was so shamefully tempted - to be the subject of her own study and surrender herself to oblivion.
But eventually the feeling passed, a hitherto hidden core of strength ultimately prevailing, and Diana's fingers slowly loosened its deathlike grip on the desk. 
Dark eyes that neither hated nor judged met eyes that burned an inscrutable shade of gold. 
He didn't have to hurt her this way, but he had. 
He could have done this differently, but he hadn't.
This, finally, was the end. 
Not inevitable, but not salvageable either. 
It was the ending he chose, the ending he wanted, and she was just so tired now that she let it be.  
Goodbye, Professor.

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