Corrupted

CORRUPTED CORRUPTED AND CHERISHED DUET MARIE JOHNSTON LE PUBLISHING Copyright © 2022 by Marie Johnston Editing by Evident Ink Proofing by My Brother’s Editor, Deaton Author Services, and Judy’s Proofreading Cover Design by Secret Identity Graphics All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. The characters, places, and events in this story are fictional. Any similarities to real people, places, or events are coincidental and unintentional. Created with Vellum I thought I only had a stalker until someone tried to kill me. Now I have two problems. I don’t know who wants me dead. And what do I do with the body? As an up-and-coming designer in L.A., I’ve gotten used to upsetting people. That’s where my father’s money comes in handy. I can afford to ignore all the right people and focus—because I have a strict time line. But when I anger the wrong person, someone comes after me who isn’t interested in cutting out patterns. Which is what I was doing with sharp scissors when the attack happened. I know how to wield a pair of shears. Another intruder barrels through the door, but he doesn’t want to hurt me, and he won’t tell me how he knows there was a hit out on me. He says I have to leave. With him. I’ve always stood my ground, but Kase Donovan is bigger, stronger, and more determined. He drags me away from everything I’ve worked for, and I hate to admit—I don't put up much resistance. Staying could cost me my life, and I have to make my career a success or that money Father gave me won’t save me from another man who wants me. Corrupted is the first book in the Corrupted and Cherished duet. Holland and Kase's story will continue in Cherished. CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 About the Author Also by Marie Johnston CHAPTER 1 Holland I run the Baronet satin under my hands, close my eyes, and inhale. “This is better than sex.” Tanisha snorts softly on my right. She’s threading her sewing machine, readying her Bernina to coax the lilac fabric into a luxurious blouse with an ample cleavage-flashing effect that’ll cost more than some people’s weekly paycheck. Whether anyone will buy that shirt . . . I won’t know for at least two months. But if I don’t sew the expensive shit and sell it for even more, then I won’t be doing much other than keeping the doors open. “You clearly haven’t had the right sex,” Tanisha mutters as she pokes at the digital screen on her machine, likely to adjust stitch type and length. A wall of fabric rolls is to our left. The cutting table lies in the middle of the space, with another table nearby piled with scraps. Waste not, want not is a mantra in a struggling business, and if we can make accessories to sell along with our clothing pieces, we’ll do it. Scarves, ties, and belts are easy enough to make with a higher profit margin if you do it right. And we have no choice but to do it right. “No. I certainly haven’t.” I let out a wistful sigh. I haven’t had the wrong sex either, and certainly none that makes me want to pass up fondling an expensive satin. Smooth to the touch. A massage for the skin. I grew up with bedding made from material like this. Should I make a pillowcase for myself with the extra? I’ll do it tonight. “Why do you think I’m behind my machine so much?” “Other than using it as an excuse to keep from weeding through the rotten seeds to find the good fish?” I smile at her off-kilter saying. “We need that line on a shirt.” I cross to my desk, find a notebook, and jot it down. “Five percent?” They’re her sayings; she earns some of the profits. “You know I don’t care.” Tanisha rises from her chair and peers at me over her reading glasses. “Eight.” “Deal.” Father would frown at my lack of negotiation abilities with friends and coworkers. Tanisha’s both. She used to be an independent contractor, but she can get benefits through BommGirl, my plus-sized clothing brand. We both know she can walk out the door and get snatched up by one of the thousand struggling designers in L.A. Her Sayings by T shirts are some of my best sellers. My line is built on bombshell fashion for the curvy girl, and curvy girls like snarky shit too. She stuffs her reading glasses into her dark curls and goes to the cutting table with the satin. I’ve left everything satin to her. My other part-time employees passed on working with the Baronet, and since the padding in my company’s savings account isn’t as plush as the fabric, I didn’t force them and turned to my three full-time employees. Anna and Sahara gladly left the Baronet to Tanisha. We’ve dubbed Tanisha “seamstress and sayings.” Anna Quan is “finance and fabrics.” Sahara Mack is “customer service and solitude.” That means we leave her the hell alone so she can save all her spoons for BommGirl’s clientele. Her energy is limited and we respect that. Profits have risen by ten percent since Sahara came on three months ago, and I would dig her a cave and pump coffee into it twenty-four seven if she asked me to. If fashion week doesn’t pan out the way I need it to, then it won’t matter. Sahara steps into the room, her dark-framed glasses perched on the end of her nose. She drapes an arm around a mannequin wearing a pair of casual shorts and a tie-in-the-middle