Author's Note:
This is the first in a long, ongoing series chronicling one man's rise to power, wealth, and total dominance -- and the
very specific
talents he used to get there. It's erotic fantasy, not a manifesto. So relax, enjoy, and don't take it too seriously.
K xx
Prologue: Daisy Dean vs AJ Long
Daisy Dean had interrogated CEOs, CFOs, and men who measured their worth in private jets and offshore accounts. But she'd never been waved into a meeting like this -- no delay, no legal team, no stall tactics. Just a time, a location, and a message:
Mr. Long will see you now.
The reception area outside AJ Long's office was pristine, architectural, deliberately cold. Black stone floors. Steel-trimmed furniture. Walls of glass. Everything gleamed with silence and restraint -- the kind of restraint that whispered money in its most dangerous form: the kind that didn't need to
show
off.
Daisy sat straight-backed in a charcoal pencil skirt and high-buttoned blouse, her curves restrained in tailored fabric that did its best -- but never quite succeeded -- in concealing her body. Thirty-four, red-haired, and full-figured, she carried herself with practiced authority, but she knew what people saw when she walked into a room.
Her coworkers called her "Double D." They thought it was clever -- the alliteration of her initials and the unavoidable fact of her breasts. She ignored it. Just like she ignored the way men looked at her in meetings, or how she crossed her arms in elevators. She'd learned long ago that professionalism didn't always silence desire -- it just made it more
quiet.
No wedding ring today. She never wore it to interviews. Not because she was hiding, but because it always led to questions -- especially when they realised who her husband was.
Marcus Dean. Chief Financial Auditor for the Department of Corporate Oversight. Her boss. And the man who had personally assigned her to AJ Long's case.
"No formal training. No investors. No board. No record of early funding. Yet he controls a multi-industry operation valued at
just under three billion dollars.
Logistics. Construction. Private contracts. You name it. That kind of empire doesn't build itself."
"And it doesn't happen clean."
Daisy had been brought in because she could stay detached. Calculated. Sharp. She knew how to separate her presence from her person -- to be more than what people assumed when they looked at her.
But as she smoothed her skirt and crossed one leg over the other, she couldn't help but feel the weight of something different pressing down around this office. There were too many gaps in AJ Long's history. Too many vanishing names. Too many sealed deals with no origin.
And no one -- not one person -- had tried to slow her access. Not legal. Not PR.
It was almost like he
wanted
her to come.
"Mr. Long will see you now," the receptionist said, without looking.
Daisy rose and followed the silent assistant through a set of tall glass doors -- and into a space that swallowed her whole.
The office was wide, gleaming, and high above the city. A dark walnut desk commanded the space, clean and almost intimidating in its lack of clutter. No awards. No plaques. Just a sleek pen and an untouched glass of amber liquid. The air smelled like leather, polish, and something warmer -- a masculine spice she couldn't quite place.
And behind the desk, standing with effortless poise, was
him.
AJ Long.
Taller than she expected. Broader. His skin a deep, even brown, his build heavy with strength, not sculpted but
earned
. He wore a black dress shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, the fabric pulled tight across his chest and biceps. His face was clean-shaven, his jaw strong, his mouth curved in a slow, knowing smile.
"Mrs. Dean," he said, his voice low, rich. "Glad you made it."
She took his hand -- large, warm, rough-skinned -- and matched his gaze evenly as their palms met.
"Mr. Long," she replied, keeping her tone professional. She felt the heat behind his handshake, but didn't flinch. She didn't flinch for anyone.
He gestured to the chair across from him. She sat, tucking one ankle behind the other, her posture immaculate. She noticed his eyes flick briefly downward -- not leering, just
taking her in.
She was used to it.
She wasn't used to how
intently
it felt.
"I assumed you'd want legal present," she said, flipping open her notepad.
"I don't," he said.
Her eyebrow lifted slightly. "Most CEOs want a record."
"Most CEOs aren't me."
He leaned back, not arrogantly -- just easily. Settled. Centred. Like he'd already won something she hadn't realised was up for grabs.
"You can ask me anything," he said. "Take notes. Be thorough. If you decide you need something official later, we'll bring in the lawyers. But right now?" His smile deepened. "Let's keep it light."
"Light," she repeated, writing nothing down yet. "You want to give an informal statement... off the record."
"Honest conversation," he corrected. "That's what you're here for, right?"
She hesitated. The room was warm. Too warm. He didn't feel like a suspect. He didn't feel like a liar.
He felt like gravity.
"Alright," she said finally. "No recorder. Just notes."
He nodded, and she flipped to the first page.
"Your public school records end abruptly. No diploma. No GED. No college. Yet fifteen years later, you're at the head of a private empire worth over
three billion dollars.
"
AJ didn't blink.
"You're thirty-two years old, Mr. Long," she continued. "And no one -- not your competitors, not your partners, not the government -- seems to know where you came from."
She turned the page again, lips tightening.
"We did find one thing. A set of unofficial certificates. Handwritten. Dated. And signed not by a principal... but by a teacher."
