Takedown: An Enemies to Lovers Dark Romance

by Lana Hartley

  And I run hard.

  And I don’t stop—until I reach that five-mile mark.

  I do the same thing everyday, six days a week.

  Because what is life when you can’t move and stretch and push your body?

  I enjoy pushing myself to the max in all things.

  In a word, I am unstoppable.

  You probably think I’m crazy for getting up before dawn just to ‘fake’ run on the treadmill. You might ask why I don’t just jog the city streets.

  Well, I feel more comfortable in my own house, collecting sweat while I do something enjoyable like listening to Rihanna’s latest album. Running on my treadmill, overlooking the breathtaking view, is how a tightly wound and success-driven woman such as me gets her relaxing time in for the day.

  I am living my dream each and every moment.

  I run hard, beating yesterday’s time.

  I look around at my immaculate apartment. It’s chic and modern and simple—all whites and greys and blacks.

  The best furniture glamorizes my place. I didn’t spare a dime because I deserve the best in all ways. White tufted couches and faux fur rugs, low-level lighting and huge pieces of abstract black and white art make the place feel one-of-a-kind.

  I can’t fucking stand for anything to be out of place. Not even a speck of dust or a single crumb is allowed to live on my floor.

  My maid comes in once a week and I swear I’d be lost without her.

  The only things on my Cararra marble countertops are my coffee pot and $5000 espresso machine, because let’s be honest, I live for coffee—gourmet, imported from Italy.

  I’m what the male species refers to as ‘beauty and brains.’ I’m the hot nerdy chick, if you want to call it that. What an oxymoron right?

  But yes, that’s totally me in a nutshell.

  I’m also the only daughter of business tycoon Richard Quinn, owner of Quinn Industries. What does this enterprise do, you ask?

  Well, let’s just say my father runs the ‘special entertainment’ clubs of Manhattan. His company is in charge of hiring, firing, and the overall general management of the talent for the most popular strip clubs in the city.

  He’s a rich bastard, but I have to fucking love him because he’s my dad.

  That doesn’t mean I have to actually like him, though, right?

  My dad and I have a lot of the same qualities, which might be part of the reason why we butt heads so often. I consider myself to be a strong business-minded woman, much like my father thinks of himself, only from the male perspective.

  There’s just one tiny glitch in this system that keeps it from operating smoothly, and it has a name. Or should I say, he has a name.

  Yep, I’m not an only child.

  My older brother Harry Quinn is my biggest competition. Not the other women out there trying to make a name for themselves in the business world of New York City. Nope, it’s my very own fucking older brother.

  Harry and I are opposites in every way, even when it comes to our physical features. Harry has dark red hair, almost an auburn color, and it’s wavy. I have straight-as-a-board, long blonde hair.

  Harry likes to remind me that if I’d stop being such an “uptight bitch with a stick up my ass” all the time, then maybe my father would give me the time of day and take me seriously.

  Yes, that is a direct quote from Harry fucking Quinn himself. I know I’m tense; it doesn’t take a fucking rocket scientist to figure that out.

  I’ll always be second when it comes to the beloved golden child Harry. He could half of what I do and my father would praise him for doing it best. That’s just the way the fucking cookie crumbles in the Quinn family.

  Meanwhile, my fancy mother just sits in the background, filing her nails, and judging everything that moves or breathes.

  We aren’t exactly the token family, and Dysfunctional should probably be our last name instead of Quinn, but take them or leave them, I know that they’re my only ticket to victory.

  I jump off the treadmill, sweaty and with my heart pounding. I went extra fast today, thinking about how angry my brother and father make me.

  It’s just a fucking frustrating situation to be in, especially when all I want to do in life is make a name for myself and succeed.

  I head back to my gorgeous en suite and draw myself a hot bath. Yes, I’m a weirdo and prefer baths after my workouts as opposed to showers.

  There’s something about lying in the water that makes my muscles relax, and I don’t feel as sore afterwards. Take notes, folks…I may be on to the top-secret workout tips of the world, you just never know.

  As I lie there, submerging my tightly sculpted and tanned body in the water, I think about how hard it is to be a woman in this society.

  I have to work twice as hard for the same results.

  I don’t just want to break the glass ceiling, I want to fucking shatter that motherfucker. Like with a sledgehammer, while all the glass rains down on all the men who tell women they can’t amount to anything.

  Okay, maybe there’s a chance that’s slightly melodramatic, but I’m just trying to explain to you how difficult it is out there and how most of the time I feel like fucking shark bait.

  The double standards exist, and the competition’s all one-sided. I’m worlds smarter than my asshole brother Harry. That’s just a fact.

  Growing up, who was in the gifted and talented programs at school? If you’re guessing me, then ding ding ding, you win the prize. Congratulations.

  Harry never works hard unless he thinks someone’s watching him. The motivation isn’t driven by the actual desire to do an astounding job. He just wants to be lazy and get rich, living in the limelight of my father.

  Yes, I’m sullen but I have a fucking right to be. I deserve as much, if not more, attention than Harry because I actually put effort into my work.

  But all my trials are in vain, because in the end, Harry always gets the vote from my father. There’s got to be some secret to prove my worth to our dad, but I have yet to figure that one out.

  Men can’t handle me. I already know that.

  I know I’m superior, or at least the same level as them at the very least, and they don’t like it, not one fucking bit.

  They can’t deal with an alpha female. Guys need to feel in control all the time, and they won’t let some successful women grab them by the balls.

  As I get dressed in my sexy A-line skirt and white blouse, I think about how tired I am of trying to get approval from men. I’m my own person, and I’m not going to answer to fucking anyone.

  I walk to my front door that was carved in Morocco and close it behind me, preparing for another day at the office, knowing I will achieve great things because no one can stop me.

  Chapter 6

  Molly

  Everyone stares at me as I walk down the elegant office hallway.

  This place is my second home.

  And my normal is being looked at, admired, and appreciated.

  My friends tease me all the time by calling me a ‘head turner,’ which I take to mean that I have the blonde bombshell type of look.

  To me, yes, I’m confident―but not because of my looks. I’m a firm believer that it’s what’s on the inside that really counts.

  If I can engage in a thoughtful discussion about problems of the world or the best way to get a business up and running, then I’m having a great fucking time.

  Yes, I’m Type A all the way―and yes, I garner attention and jealousy from onlookers who wish they were me or wish they could be with me.

  But let’s just say my standards are high, like exceedingly high.

  Anyway, back to the fucking present. I walk over to my secretary, who sits in a cubicle right outside of my office.

  “Hi, Katrina.” I greet her with a positive smile to start out the day on the right foot.

  “Hi, Molly,” Katrina responds.

  She’s in her late forties. She isn’t married, and she has no children. I think
she’s a crazy cat lady but I love her and respect her. Hell, I’ll probably turn out just like her one day.

  Just kidding. That will never happen.

  Katrina has salt and pepper hair that she wears in a really super chic yet classic short style, and she always wears loud and vibrant colors. I have to hand it to her; the girl really pulls off the wacky style flavor.

  “I’m really sorry,” Katrina says apologetically as she winces in what is apparent embarrassment.

  “Sorry for what?” I chuckle and look around the office trying to figure out what she’s talking about.

  “I couldn’t handle him, nor could I send him away,” she states vaguely.

  I look over to my open office door and notice that the light is already turned on. This in itself isn’t completely curious, because sometimes Katrina will go into my office when I’m not there to file papers or to find some documents she might need that I have.

  “Is there…is there someone in there?” I whisper and point to my open door.

  “Yes,” Katrina grimaces. “I’m so sorry, Molly, he’s adamant that he needs to speak with you right away.”

  “Who is he?” I ask, feeling ominous intrigue.

  Katrina shrugs. “He won’t tell me.”

  “Hmm,” I say, and narrow my eyes. “I guess if I start screaming, call 911,” I joke.

  Katrina gulps hard. “Okay.”

  I walk into my office not knowing what to expect, but I’m prickling with interest.

  I have to bite my tongue to prevent myself from letting an audible gasp escape my lips. When I swing the door open all the way, I see the body of a Greek god standing before me, facing me from where he’s standing by my glass windows.

  I examine him carefully, scrutinizing every feature and aspect of his appearance and body language. He has jet black hair that he has intricately parted at the side, and he’s clean shaven with a gorgeous face.

  I don’t even know who this guy is, but I’m deducing by the way he’s grinning at me with his hands in his pockets that he’s a powerful person with tons of influence that he’s not afraid to use on anyone he encounters.

  He has enough swagger in his movements to stop any woman dead in her tracks, and that—unfortunately— seems to include me.

  “I think you might be in the wrong office,” I joke, trying to break the ice with this mysterious yet totally fuckable hunk.

  Yes, I’m extremely embarrassed to even fucking admit that I have an instant attraction to this man. But I’m still a warm-blooded woman, after all.

  “Oh, trust me,” he grins slyly and takes a step closer towards me, “I’m exactly where I need to be.”

  “You sound pretty confident.” I snort, although I don’t mean to. “Can I help you with something?”

  I lay my purse down on my desk and stand directly across from him. He looks deep into my eyes, and as fucking cheesy as it sounds, I swear I nearly get lost in their delicious, swirly caramel color.

  I take a deep breath and then clear my throat, waiting for him to state the reason for his presence. “It’s not every day I get the pleasure of having a visitor greet me when I arrive at the office,” I joke further, thinking that it’s helping me relax, even if I’m not that fucking funny.

  Like at all.

  He laughs anyway, I guess to appease me, which makes me feel even more pathetic.

  He approaches me and takes my hand, startling me. He softly kisses the top of my palm and winks at me.

  Who the fuck is this guy, and did he just jump out of a 1920s black and white movie?

  All joking aside, his tender and soft lips make me tingle between my legs when he makes skin-to-skin contact.

  I try to level my body’s out of nowhere reactions and keep my poker face holding strong.

  I pull my hand away. “Please, take a seat.” I motion to the chair opposite my chair behind the desk.

  He does as I ask and continues to grin at me as if he’s God’s fucking gift to women or something and I should be honored to be in his presence.

  Maybe I am. Who knows? He sure is fucking hot. I feel like I’m under a spell or something with this guy.

  “So, who are you exactly and what the hell are you doing in my office?” I get right down to the pressing question of the hour.

  He laughs again. “You aren’t afraid to be blunt, are you?”

  “Not particularly…” I say, meeting his gaze dead-on.

  “I’m Owen Wolfe, and it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He extends a hand for me to shake this time, and when I take it, I get that warm feeling again, melting my skin just with his touch.

  “Why does that name sound familiar?” I ask, and contemplate the answer.

  “I get that all the time.” He gives me a cheesy grin that’s ridiculously full of macho arrogance.

  “So, what makes you special?” I tease.

  “I’m the founder, owner and CEO of Lone Wolfe Pictures,” he says with pride.

  “I love your movies!” I exclaim. “How do you get all the A-list celebs to play roles in your films?”

  “Easy,” he says, and winks at me again. “I have the charm they all flock to.”

  I laugh. This guy is just too fucking much. “Is that movie about the two people who get lost in the woods on a camping trip and then fall in love yours? You know…what’s it called?” I snap my fingers and try to rack my brain.

  “Hunted.” He nods. “Yep, that’s us.”

  “Great film.” I nod nostalgically with a smile.

  I’m totally becoming distracted right now. I still need to get to the bottom of why Owen Wolfe of Lone Wolfe Pictures is here in my office. And I definitely don’t need to be acting like some star struck fangirl.

  As if reading my mind, he finally drops his reason for being here. “I want to take you to dinner,” he says with enthusiasm that is…surprisingly hard to resist or say no to.

  But I’m still surprised.

  Dinner? Where the hell did that come from?

  Confused, I do what comes naturally and scoff at his proposal.

  “Are you kidding?” I laugh.

  “No,” he states, looking confused.

  “I don’t even know you.” I shake my head, wondering when the practical joke will be over.

  “That’s the point of the date,” he says as if he’s stating the obvious. “I’m actually being serious here,” he adds. “I know tons of trendy scenes to check out for dinner places. I know so many people, we can just walk right in, we don’t even need a fucking reservation,” he brags.

  I stare at him in bewilderment for a few seconds. “I can’t, I’m sorry, my schedule is full at the moment.” I need to shut this down, especially with the way I’m still reacting to him.

  “I insist,” he says, and I notice some firm undertones in his voice.

  “I can let you know when my schedule clears.” I look him in the eye, unwilling to back down.

  Owen sighs and stands up. Yes! I think that means I’m winning this battle.

  He takes a pen off my desk and lifts a Post It. He scribbles his number across the center of the paper. “If you change your mind, here’s my direct line. I don’t usually give out my private number to people,” he says as if I should feel fucking honored to receive it or some shit.

  “Okay,” I stumble.

  “Call me when your schedule clears,” he says, and without another word, he disappears as quickly as he arrived.

  Chapter 7

  Molly

  My Porsche cuts through the traffic like nothing else can.

  She’s my baby and I love to drive her to my parent’s manor outside the city.

  Like I said, I work hard and I know that I deserve every luxury and extravagance, starting with this dream of a sports car that I’ve been wanting since I was a little girl.

  My black on black model is way faster and better than anything on the market and it makes me fucking happy, so why not?

  My parent’s house is situated far from the chaos and
the bustle of the city. It’s noon and I’m on time, as per usual. It’s an accountability thing.

  The long tree-lined avenue that leads to the manor fills me with nostalgia that warms my system.

  Turning off the car, I take a second to check my makeup, and then I take a deep breath. Meeting with my parents always brings up an array of old emotions in me. It takes all my effort not to devolve into a child when I’m around them.

  I have to hold my ground, today more than ever.

  I stare up at Quinn Manor as I stand in the driveway, shielding my eyes from the sun.

  My parents live out in the Hamptons, which should come as no surprise to you, or anyone who knows our family, for that matter. My mom loves to be by the coast where she can sit on the beach, drinking cocktails with her friends while they gossip about other rich housewives.

  Once a week, I come out here to join my father for lunch.

  And once a week, like always, my father doesn’t care.

  The purpose of my arrival is to report on the company, its daily processes and how things are moving along.

  My father never asks me to do this, and I’m sure he doesn’t fucking give two shits about what I have to say, but I do it anyway.

  You probably want to know why I spend a tireless amount of effort to impress someone who doesn’t notice me. Yes, it hurts sometimes, but that just proves my devotion to not only my father, but to our family business as a whole.

  The company is my life, and I care more about it than anyone involved―I just don’t get the recognition I deserve. I won’t let that little glitch derail me, though; I always start my day with driven purpose.

  Think of it as a tradition of sorts. Yeah, that helps me not sound so crazy…right?

  “Hey, Daddy.” I give Richard Quinn, a.k.a. my father, a polite smile and kiss the top of his head as I walk past him.

  He’s already sitting at the head of the table, where he belongs, in the formal dining room of his mansion.

  “Good afternoon, Molly.” He nods his head in a gesture of greeting.

  I sigh and sit down directly next to him on the right-hand side. I glance around the room. My mother always makes sure there’s a giant bouquet of fresh roses in the center of the twenty-seater table.