I thrashed on silk sheets in Ethan's Hamptons mansion till dawn.

My brain looped Alexander's predictable drama like a busted rerun repeat.

I snagged my iPhone shot Charles a text: 

"Book Alexander a seven-day private island getaway—full gear, itinerary locked."

The "chase me, trap me "game. 

Hollywood's old news. 

Time to torch more of his cash.

Charles pinged back a question mark. 

"How do you always nail Mr. King's moves, Miss Taylor?"

I smirking as I typed, "Witch vibes, Charles."

Then I chucked the phone onto a velvet pillow.

5 minute later, it buzzed—three years of our company's financials attached. 

"Why just bleed Mr. King dry?" he pressed.

I stare at the screen, grin fading fast.

How can I explain that I got dumped here with a mission.

From a robot voice in my head: "Target: Alexander King. Drain him, ride the time machine home, cash bonus included."

 Loot his fortune and escape from this trashy novel.

Ethics? System swears his hero glow will refill his pockets once I'm dust.

Real world? 

I was an Excel drone who flatlined at my desk.

Now I'm Alexander's "love nanny," stacking escape funds while shoving his story along.

Started as a nobody—secondhand Jimmy Choos, MBA buzzwords, bluffing into his gala. 

Scored my first gig: "24/7 custom love consulting."

Now I'm a sidekick he actually listens to. 

I typed "I wanna go ho—" to Charles.

Then a black-avatar text hijacked my screen: "You're too loud!"

Signal flatlined. 

Holy guacamole—Ethan hacked my phone?!

***

I bolted out of bed, storming downstairs, hazel eyes blazing.

There he was.

Ethan, slouched on the spiral staircase, bathrobe open to his navel.

He swirled a coffee mug like he'd been camped out. 

Chestnut curls messy, gray-green eyes with a tired edge.

"Up all night scheming to gut Alexander?" he drawled, lips twitching.

"Killed your signal, by the way."

"Let me out, you creep!"

 I flipped him off, teeth grinding.

He sauntered over, slinging an arm around me, dragging me to the dining room.

"Heard you're renting him a private island in Massachusetts?"

"You hacked me again?!" 

I swatted his arm off, pulse racing.

"Sweetheart," he purred, leaning in, bathrobe shadows teasing my eyes. 

"I know what I want without cheap hacks."

His voice scratched my ears, low and flirty. 

I stepped back, glaring.

He slid to the marble table, dropping his mug.

 "That island? It's Blackwood turf."

I froze. "So?"

"So," he said, wiping coffee off his lip, smirking, "stay my assistant for a week. 

Island's free—you pocket five mil. Deal?" 

I squinted, fingers tapping. 

"What's your game?"

He locked eyes, deep and unreadable, then grinned slow. 

"Seven days. Think it over."

Five mil to babysit this nutcase? 

Total trap.

I snorted. "You think I'm that gullible?"

"My grandpa dug up that 1926 Macallan under the oak this morning." 

he said, fox-sly, tired eyes sparking.

"Believe my psychic gig now?" I smirked, chin up.

"Quite the opposite." 

He shoved his gold-rimmed glasses up, a cold glint flashing. 

"I'm betting you're a corporate spy. Gotta keep you close."

He stepped in, vibe crushing the air out of me. 

That woody cologne hit—dizzying, weirdly familiar.

Like a déjà vu I couldn't shake.

Or a lock I couldn't pick.