Mafia King's Contract Breeder
Chapter 14 Meet the King

Chapter 14: 14 Meet the King

Lara POV

After the clinic spat me out, all I wanted was to collapse somewhere dark and quiet and pretend none of this was real. That I wasn’t being processed like livestock. That my body wasn’t being checked, cleaned, and reset for someone else’s use.

Astonishingly, my wish was somewhat fulfilled.

The next stop on this nightmare assembly line was "grooming." They led me into what looked like a high-end spa tucked somewhere inside the tower—soft lighting, marble floors, the faint scent of expensive oils and flowers. It should have felt luxurious. Instead it felt like another layer of preparation. Like I was being polished before being wrapped up and delivered.

The staff didn’t speak English. Or if they did, they weren’t wasting it on me. They chattered softly in a language I didn’t recognize while they worked, their hands efficient and impersonal.

I was scrubbed head to toe with something that smelled like vanilla and money. My skin was exfoliated until it stung, then slathered in thick, silky moisturizer that left me feeling too smooth, too soft.

Manicure. Pedicure. Hot wax that made me grit my teeth and stare at the ceiling while they removed every trace of hair from my legs, underarms, and between my thighs.

I stopped trying to follow what they were saying after the first ten minutes. At least this part didn’t involve cavity searches or blood draws. It was almost... gentle. Almost relaxing. If I ignored the fact that every touch, every treatment, was turning me into something prettier. Something more presentable.

Something ready for him.

That thought never left me. It sat in the back of my mind like a shadow, no matter how warm the towels were or how carefully they painted my nails. I was being dolled up for Emmanuel Sagres. Every scrub, every wax, every stroke of lotion was for his eyes. His hands. His pleasure.

I lost track of time somewhere between the massage table and the barber’s chair. My hair was trimmed and shaped until it fell in sleek, perfect waves with not a single split end left.

When they finally stepped back, one of the women smiled and presented me with a large pink box tied with a black ribbon, like this was some kind of gift.

I opened it.

Inside lay the final piece of their little project.

An expensive set of black lace lingerie—strappy, barely-there, the kind of thing that cost more than I used to make in a month at The Red Door. The bra was sheer enough to be pointless, the panties little more than strings and delicate panels designed to frame rather than cover. And beneath it all, a pair of wickedly high stiletto heels in glossy black patent leather.

That was it.

No dress. No robe. No way to cover myself beyond the scraps of lace they’d chosen for me.

I stared at the contents for a long moment, the numb detachment I’d been clinging to cracking at the edges. My stomach twisted. They hadn’t just cleaned me up. They’d stripped away every last layer of armor I had left—my old clothes, my old defenses, even the tiny bit of control I used to have over how I presented myself to the world.

Now I was supposed to walk into whatever came next wearing nothing but lace and heels, freshly waxed and polished like a prize heifer.

One of the girls made a soft encouraging sound and gestured toward the box, clearly expecting me to put it on.

The fabric was cool and silky against my skin as I stepped into the panties and fastened the bra. The heels clicked sharply when I slipped them on, making my legs look longer, my posture more arched.

And then —

There was nothing left but the main event.

—

The elevator went up and up and up.

It had no buttons on the inside. But it had mirrors.

I tried not to look at the woman reflected back at me from all three walls, hair brushed out in sleek red curls cascading down my back, bare legs displayed to perfection in three inch heels. The air conditioning was on far too cold to be dressed in only lacy lingerie, raising goosebumps on the back of my arms and making my nipples stiffen into peaks inside the see-through cups.

I folded my arms across my chest, then dropped them again when I realized how defensive it looked.

The doors slid open without a sound.

I stepped out into a penthouse apartment, heels clicking sharply on hardwood floors. A painting hung on the wall just opposite the elevator lobby, something modern with a swirl of lines and colours.

"Hello?" I called out.

I moved cautiously from the elevator lobby into an open space living area bigger than my entire house, vaulted ceiling, floor to ceiling windows, and a devastating view of the city beyond.

I stepped closer to the windows to see where we were in the city. From this high up the city was just a blur of lights and shadow. I couldn’t even tell which direction we were facing. It felt like being suspended in the sky with no way down.

"Come here."

I jumped. My heart slammed once, hard, against my ribs.

The sound had come from an open doorway to my right. A study. I could see the corner of a massive desk and one long leg stretched out in expensive leather shoes.

I walked closer.

Emmanuel Sagres looked up from the computer screen to take me in as I paused in the doorway.

Even here, in his own home, he was dressed like he was about to sign someone’s death warrant—perfect charcoal suit, tie knotted tight at his throat, not a single thread out of place. His icy blue eyes dragged over me slowly, taking in every inch of the lingerie they’d dressed me in, the way my hair had been brushed out, the three-inch heels that made my legs look longer than they were.

Somehow I had forgotten the full impact of him – how he filled up the room in Rob’s basement office until I could barely breathe. How he made me think that I must be locked in even with the key in the lock, because I was too frozen under his stare to think straight.

I hated it.

And now, it was only worse, worse, worse.

The King was on his throne, in his glittering penthouse tower.

And I was the freshly processed, stripped, and polished little toy they’d sent up for his entertainment.

My heart pounded against my rib cage until I could barely tell the difference between hate, fear, and desire.

There was no sign of visible appreciation in his cool, appraising eyes. He considered me for a moment, then leaned back in his seat and loosened his tie slightly.

"Take a seat," said Emmanuel Sagres.

I sat down in the chair opposite his desk and crossed my legs.