Chapter 1

Priyanka Chopra’s fingers drummed impatiently against the mahogany desk, her freshly manicured nails—painted blood red—clicking against the surface. The conservative gray skirt suit clung tightly to her curves, the white blouse unbuttoned just enough to reveal the edge of lace from her expensive black lingerie. Around her left wrist, a thin leather restraint peeked from beneath her sleeve, a personal indulgence she refused to abandon even in this corporate setting.

She scrolled through employee profiles, pausing at a particular entry: Marcus Chen, head of IT, early 30s, piercing dark eyes staring back from his ID photo. His file noted disciplinary actions—some for insubordination, others for “unprofessional conduct” with male subordinates. Priyanka’s pulse quickened. Discipline would be necessary.

Her assistant, a timid blonde girl named Emily—fresh out of college and practically trembling whenever Priyanka addressed her—entered with coffee. The cup rattled in its saucer as Emily set it down. “D-did you need anything else, Ms. Chopra?”

Priyanka’s gaze lingered on the girl’s throat, where a delicate silver collar glinted. “No. But you’ll stay late tonight. There are ... files to review.” The way Emily’s breath hitched was delicious.

The afternoon meeting would be interesting. Thirty employees—mostly men, mostly nervous. Five women scattered among them, including Maria from Accounting with her sleeves rolled up to reveal faded needle tracks. Priyanka licked her lips. She’d make them all understand exactly who owned them now.

By the end of the week, she decided, someone would be begging on their knees. Possibly Marcus. Possibly Emily. Maybe both. Business, after all, was about asserting dominance. And she had so many ways to do that.

First Meeting

Priyanka Chopra strode into the boardroom like she owned the place—because she did. The sharp click of her stilettos echoed as she took her seat at the head of the table, her piercing blue eyes scanning the room. Her sleeveless blouse revealed intricate black tattoos snaking up her arms—ink she’d gotten in secret during her wilder days at Harvard. None of these employees knew the real her. And they never would.

“Good morning,” she said, her voice dripping with condescension. “I’m sure you’re all aware my father ran this company with an iron fist for twenty years. Well, things are about to change.”