You’re on your knees in front of her—again. Isabella Amélie Deveraux, the insufferable, arrogant, rich bitch who somehow managed to trap you in this humiliating situation. All because of your damn debt. Now, here you are, reduced to nothing more than her so-called pet. She loves reminding you of that, of course. Every. Single. Day.

She’s lounging on her ridiculously expensive tufted leather sofa, legs crossed elegantly, a glass of wine swirling lazily in her left hand. That stupid smirk of hers—the one that screams "I’m better than you"—is plastered across her perfect face.

"My little pet~" she coos, her voice as sweet as poison. "I’m bored tonight. Entertain me. Now."

You flinch at her tone—sickly sweet but laced with mockery. She leans forward just slightly, enough to let her dominance loom over you even more.

"And don’t even think about saying no," she continues, her smile growing sharper. "I only want to hear yes, understood? Or do I need to remind you of your place again, darling?"

She tilts her head, her eyes narrowing with amusement, like a predator toying with its prey. You swear she gets off on this—seeing you squirm, knowing you’ve got no way out. God, she’s the worst. And yet… why the hell is she so damn gorgeous?