The Devil Wears Nada: A Steamy Why Choose Romance

☑️ The Devil Wears Nada

They pay a filthy fortune and think that makes them the boss of me. Bless them.
By day I'm Agnes, the receptionist three of the richest men in the city walk past like I'm a houseplant. I pour their coffee. I book their jets. I have made an art form out of being nobody, and honey, it pays the bills.

Barely.

So by night I'm Diablo: red lipstick, fake name, a camera that never shows my face, and three obscenely wealthy "whales" who pay a filthy fortune to do exactly what I tell them. Beg when I say beg. Wait when I say wait. Come back tomorrow and pay me again.

Here's my favorite part, the little secret that gets me through every beige, invisible workday: those three big spenders bankrolling my whole operation? They're my bosses. The cocky one. The quiet one. The one with manners. Every night I bring three masters of the universe to their knees, and they have no idea the woman running them is the girl at their front desk.

I know exactly who they are. They don't have the faintest clue who I am.

I'm the one holding all the cards.

…Right?

A why-choose romance about one very dangerous secret, a double life that’s about to implode, and three alpha men who don't share — until her. Filthy, funny, and full of feelings.

CHAPTER 1, THE DEVIL WEARS NADA
AGGIE

In two minutes, I'm going to take my clothes off for money.
I confirm it's two minutes on the upper-right corner of my laptop screen. Yep. 11:58. Tuesday July 13.
Just another day at the office for good old Agnes.
If your office is your bedroom and you're kneeling on your bed in a cheap-ass black polyester slip you panic-bought at Walmart for $9.99. Marked down from $12.99.
Totally normal Tuesday.
One minute, 30 seconds.
Here's the thing. Agnes isn't doing this. No, Agnes files. Agnes owns four cardigans, all oatmeal. Agnes says bless you to people who only cough.
So I sent somebody else in. Agnes's alter ego.
Which is technically me. But not me.
Getting her ready took three hours, and it wasn't fun. The laptop camera wants to sit at a "flattering height," which in this apartment means balanced on a dresser on top of two library books and a Converse shoebox. The lamp in the corner of her room has a scarf over the shade and it's starting to smell a little burn-y. The camera frame she's primping in front of stops at her mouth, just above her upper lip, which is mandatory for privacy reasons.
But this is not Agnes. This is my alter ego.
I may be taking off my robe for internet strangers, but that doesn't mean all privacy flies out the door. After a bunch of research, I learned that a smart camgirl shows only her chin, lips, throat, collarbone, and maybe a strap or two of whatever she's wearing. There are no eyes showing. No face, aside from the mouth. Nothing that could be identifying.
One minute left. My eyes run over the computer screen where the website glows as if I haven't already studied it for several hours. I check the preview button that shows you what your viewers will see before they see it. I click it.
Oh, no.
That's my mouth? I've had it my whole life and never once seen it cropped off from the rest of my face and lit from underneath like a ransom photo. And my teeth are the exact off-white of a manila folder. Nobody warns you about this shit. You budget for lingerie and lighting and completely forget your teeth are about to be the whole show.
I make a vow, clad in my nine dollars of polyester, that someday I'll bleach these babies to a color that does not occur in nature.
Tonight, I fix what I can. There's a red lipstick in the drawer I bought for a wedding and chickened out of wearing because it was a lot. Now, a lot is the whole point. Two slicked-on coats later, the woman I'm looking at in the preview reminds me of someone I'd never want to owe money to.
Somewhere back in the setup, in cheerful little letters, the site congratulated me on becoming a model. A model. Somewhere in Milan, a woman is getting paid right now to walk in a straight line and look bored, and here I am, kneeling on a comforter I've had since sophomore year and I’m a freaking model too? I nearly choke. I’ve never set foot on a runway, and the last photo anyone took of me was my work badge, and in it, I look like I'm being booked for some crime.
Model, my ass.
Just above my onscreen preview is my new alter ego's name. The cam site made me pick a name, and under pressure, my brain coughed up one dangerous-sounding word. Which is how I'm now named after my landlord's god-awful chihuahua. Four pounds of ferocity. Bitten two grown men. My role model, honestly.
Diablo. Says it all.
Thirty seconds.
I'm not here for the thrill. A cheap slip and too much lipstick is not my idea of fun. No, I'm here for the damn money. I'm here because my sister put her name, her savings, and—surprise!—my name on a loan for a goat yoga ranch. Goat. Yoga. Ranch. In the end, because the business never took off, the goats were sent to some animal sanctuary, the yoga never happened, and the ranch went into foreclosure. But not everything died, unfortunately. No, as of today, the loan is alive and well in the hands of a man who has never once, in his life, cut anybody a goddamn break.
Ten seconds.
Robe on. Lipstick screaming. Self-respect out the door, at least for the next hour.
The GO LIVE button, all red and flashy, is screaming at me. My finger hovers over it. I look at my preview. I look around my bedroom and toss a possibly identifiable throw pillow onto the floor.
And she's LIVE.
Holyfuckingshit.
The live button is no longer flashing. Now, it's solid green. And by God, the box in the upper-left side has the number two in it.
As in, I've got two viewers.
Then, two becomes four. Well, three-and-a-half since one of them is shooting messages at me that scroll down the left-hand side of my screen, that I need to buy crypto. From them. As soon as possible.
I shift around to get my circulation going, since kneeling for any length of time is not something I typically do, and hang onto the front of my robe like a subway pole, trying to remember one thing from the nine forums I read about cam-girling, while I was at my full-time job, using a hidden browser.
Talk to them. They type, you talk.
Like a late-night radio host, if the host were dressed like me, overly lipsticked, and slightly nauseous.
"So," I blurt, trying to lower my voice. "Come here often?"
Ugh. Idiot.
first time. u?
"Oh, hey, first timer." Shit. Am I supposed to sound spunky? Seductive? Innocent? "We have something in common, don't we? Ask me anything about this website, because I know none of it."
I force a little laugh I'm hoping doesn't come off as batshit crazy.
And a sound goes off, a cheery little cha-ching, and I flinch like someone hit me. Then I realize a little gold crown floats up the chat like a bubble in a beer.
why so jumpy, baby? that sound is money, new girl. ur welcome.
Five bucks. Because I said I don't know shit? A thing I have done, for free, expertly, my entire life? I sit with that for a moment. What else have I been giving away?
The site cheerfully informs me I've just knighted my first knight. He gets a tiny sword next to his name now. Five dollars to razz a website with me. We're both clearly killing it.
Viewer six shows up and opens with, show ur feet n shut up.
I'd love to say I stayed classy. But it's after midnight, I'm named after a killer chihuahua, my hands won't stop shaking, and somewhere, my sister is sleeping like a baby while a loan shark makes plans to break our legs.
Something in me flips.
"Wow." I lean at the lens, mouth-first. "With game like that, the restraining orders must just find you."
Take that, bitch.
Cha-ching. Ten dollars. DO HIM AGAIN.
Feet guy, undeterred: cmon baby, show me somethin.
"Sure, hon," I snap. "Here's something to suck on. How 'bout no?"
Cha-ching.
I continue. "No name."
Cha-ching.
"No face."
Cha-ching.
"And nothing—" I pull the robe all the way up to my neck like a shy substitute teacher, "—for free."
Big emphasis on free.
The cha-chings sound like a chorus of gods who've fallen from the sky to bless me.
The chat detonates. Nineteen viewers. Somebody drops forty dollars.
Here's what I figure out somewhere in minute twenty-five, and it's worth more than the cash: my fear never goes anywhere. My heart's slamming into my chest the whole hour. But something moves in next to it and starts unpacking boxes. When I finally get off my knees, legs nearly asleep, nineteen strangers stop breathing at once. I try a slow turn, drag a strap down my shoulder exactly like I saw in some hoochie-momma music video, and the cha-chings come in a rush. I catch the preview window mid-turn. Red mouth. Black slip. For one full second, I have no idea who she is.
Then I do. And I get the whole game in a single move. Slow. Everything slow. They're not paying for skin. They're paying for the maybe.
At 1:14, I run out of nerve, blow the camera a kiss because it's a Diablo move, and slam the laptop shut like it owes me money.
Then I open it back up, because I never checked the only thing that matters, and it takes me five minutes to even find where the tips live.
Three hundred and eleven dollars.
One hour. In a cheap slip and too much lipstick. Insulting a man about his manners. My day job pays me that in two days of answering phones for three men who've never once said my name. And where I have to wear fucking pantyhose.
A laugh explodes from my mouth but I shove it back down. It's late and I live in a cheap apartment building with thin walls. But it doesn't matter. Tonight was never about the three hundred dollars. It's taking charge of a shit situation my sister got us into that can only be resolved by me. In a slip and red lippy.
The there’s the adrenaline. I’m learning that it doesn't just disappear when the show's over. It just stands around in your body looking for somewhere to go.
I'm still on my knees. I've been on my knees for an hour and I don't want to get up, and it takes me a second to figure out why. Every inch of me is buzzing at some frequency that’s going to keep me up all night. At least it’s not fear. Fear packed up and left around minute forty. This is the thing that moved in next to it and got comfortable.
I made nineteen strangers stop breathing tonight. Me. A mouth, a lamp, and a slip that cost less than lunch.
I lie back on my sophomore-year comforter. The laptop's still open, dark now, and there she is again in the black of the screen, the not-Agnes-woman with the red mouth, bare throat, the strap halfway down. The woman I didn't recognize earlier who looks like she gets exactly what she wants and makes you thank her for it.
I want to be her for five more minutes.
My hand's already moving before I've decided anything, and to be clear, it is not about the foot guy, or the crypto guy, or any of the sweet little Knights who paid tonight to watch me. It's about the no. The nineteen held breaths. The warm, stupid, entirely-mine power of it.
I lay down as if I might sleep, and behind my closed eyes, there's the shape of someone watching. Not a face, I don't have one to give him yet, but the idea of a man I’d let have me. Who earned it. And makes me feel hot.
It embarrasses me, how fast my right hand wanders under my slip until it finds my wet pussy. It only takes a few strokes until I come, my left hand clamped over my own mouth out of pure habit—thin walls, keep it quiet, keep everything quiet. For a few seconds, Agnes isn't in this apartment at all.
After, I breathe at the ceiling. Flushed, appalled, a little proud. I have a feeling that particular combination is about to become my whole personality.
Sweet little Aggie. On her knees at one in the morning, getting off on her own brilliance.
I schedule tomorrow before I can argue myself out of it. Same time. Same… face I don't have.
Diablo's open for business, bitches.
* * *
Birdie wanted to meet for coffee at eight a.m.
I want to be clear just how insane a request this is. My sister has not seen eight a.m. since Burning Man two years ago, when she attended an all-night rave and finally went to bed at nine a.m.
So when my phone lit up at 8:42 with the expected omg so sorry can we do lunch instead, my body just WOULD NOT, I was already at my desk on my second cup of shitty office coffee, running close to empty on the four hours of sleep I'd gotten after Diablo cashed out.
What can I say? I was excited about three hundred and eleven dollars. That's a lot of fucking money for me.
By noon, I'm sitting across from her at Sprout, the vegan place she picked, where they charge fourteen dollars for a bowl of vegetables picked so recently they are still warm. Birdie's already seated when I get there, which never happens, and she's glowing about it, like being on time is an accomplishment she wants a pat on the head for.
"Ag!" She's up and hugging me before I've got my bag off my shoulder, and she smells like a health-food store, all sage and patchouli and something citrus. A crystal the size of a plum swings off a leather cord at her throat. "You look tired. Are you protecting your rest? Sleep is when the body does its—"
"I'm sleeping great." I am not sleeping great. Last night, I got myself off on the strength of adrenaline at one in the morning and then lay awake until three doing math in my head. Birdie does not need the itinerary.
My sister is twenty-six and looks like a shampoo commercial that wandered off its set. Sun-streaked hair she's never paid a dime for, halfway down her back. An outfit that is, on inspection, three thrifted scarves conspiring to be a dress. Sandals worn the way you'd wear them if you'd never had a callus or a bunion.
She is, to put it bluntly, the prettier of us, which used to sting until I figured her looks were just a different sort of camouflage from mine. People look at Birdie and see a girl who couldn't organize a nap. People look at me and see a girl who could organize the Library of Congress. We both suffer from typecasting. Hers just gets better lighting.
"Okay, don't be weird about it," she says, arranging her napkin, "but I did an abundance meditation for you this morning. For the, you know, situation."
"The situation."
She lowers her voice. "I'm not going to say the L-word at the table; it's such a low-vibration—"
"The loan, Birdie. It's a loan. It has my name on it, as well as yours. It's allowed to be said at the table."
She winces like I've raised my voice, which I have not. This is a thing Birdie does, somehow makes me, the one being a responsible grown-up, feel like the aggressive one for bringing stuff up.
“Anyway. Why were you so desperate to have lunch today, Bird?” I ask.
She shimmies in her chair. "Okay. So here's the thing." She leans in, eyes lighting up the way they always do right before one of her ideas costs me money. "Don't say no yet."
"No."
"You didn't even—"
"Historically, 'don't say no yet' has cost me a shitload of money and a goat named Priscilla."
"Priscilla found a beautiful home." She says it with the wounded dignity of a woman defending her honor. "And this is completely different from the goat yoga ranch. I’m done with livestock. They are just too… unpredictable.”
“Okay. So what are you into now, Bird? Is your new focus wild animals? Are you trying to open a zoo? Be the next Joe Exotic?”
She rolls her eyes. “God, Ag, give me some credit. I’m not an idiot. And besides, didn’t that guy go to jail?”
I wait.
"It’s candles."
My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. “Candles? Like the kind made out of wax? With wicks and stuff?”
She nods excitedly. "Yes. I’m working on a candle line. Intention candles, the kind you set an intention with, and, Ag, the market is insane right now, people are starving for meaning in their lives—"
"People are starving for their money back, Bird. Some of them from us."
I open my mouth to say the number then, the real number that we owe, the one that troubles my soul, the one I think about when I first wake in the morning and before I drift off to sleep. The one that lives in my gut, that doesn’t hesitate to remind me I fucked up big-time, letting my sister suck me into another stupid business venture when I don’t even like goats, yoga, or ranches.
The number that Birdie couldn’t give a shit about even though she got both of us into this mess.
But I don’t say it, the blasted amount of our debt, because saying it out loud makes it real, and I cannot deal with any more real at the moment.
Birdie, on the other hand, has mercifully moved on from worrying about anything. This is her genius, her superpower, her entire nervous system and I will envy it until the day I die. Nothing bothers her. Nothing worries her.
In fact, someone comes into Sprout holding a little puppy and she gasps, her eyes filling with tears. “Oh my God. Life is just a miracle, isn’t it?”
It’s a miracle I don’t strangle her.
"But anyway." She turns back to me, head tilted, like she really wants to hear what I have to say. For a second, the shine goes out of her eyes and some adult responsibility thing washes over her face. It’s brief, like it always is with her. "How are you affording the payments? On the loan? I mean, it’s a lot of money, Ag, and your desk job is probably not going to cut it."
And once again, my sister leaves me holding the bag, the one full of her shit.
For a second, I consider telling her about my new money-making venture. I can hear her crowing about how being a camgirl is a reclamation of feminine power, and follow up by offering to build me a vision board. But the entire plan here is that no one knows, and the first crack in "no one" is not going to be the sister who once gave our landlord my middle name and social security number because she "felt he should have it."
"Freelance," I say. "Data entry. Spreadsheets. Deeply boring."
"Spreadsheets," she repeats.
She has no idea what a spreadsheet is.
She holds my gaze, and I think she’s going to share her plan for paying back the debt or at least apologize for sticking me with it, but then the person with the puppy walks by and she's gone again, cooing with tears in her eyes.
I pay the lunch check, obviously. Thirty-five dollars for two bowls of veggies, two kombuchas, and one slice of vegan carrot cake, and I don't even flinch, which is how you can tell how far gone I am. On the sidewalk, she hugs me too long, the way she has since we were small and it was just the two of us and a rotating cast of apartments and schools and Mom’s boyfriends. She says into my hair, "I love you so much, Big Sis. You always fix everything. You're more of a mom to me than Mom ever was."
She means it as the kindest thing a person can say to another person, and that’s why I always get sucked in.
“Love you too, Bird. Go home and set an intention."
She laughs and I laugh too, a real laugh, one that gets out before I can button it back into my oatmeal cardigan. She floats off down the sidewalk, trailing sage and the slap of her sandals, most likely planning the next time she can pitch her candle idea to me.
Myself, I stand on the corner, just me and everything I owe.
Tonight, I work again. Not Agnes. Diablo.
* * *
I get back from lunch smelling faintly of Birdie, her usual herbs and messed-up choices, and slide behind the front desk at Ardent Capital, where I turn back into furniture.
There's a trick to this, and I've had years to perfect it: the oatmeal cardigan, the flats that make no sound, the name tag that says AGNES in a font chosen by someone who hated receptionists or life or both. I sit here like a coatrack that answers phones, and the load-bearing beauty of it is that not one person who comes through that glass door will ever remember I was here.
On camera last night, nineteen strangers held their breath when I moved. Or rather, when Diablo moved.
Here, a courier drops a package on my desk for "somebody" and leaves without once looking at my face.
The partners, our resident masters of the universe, are back from their own lunches, which they take the way they do everything else, according to their personalities.
Beck Cross sweeps through the lobby toward the conference room, dark suit, no tie, handing out that smile like a man running for office. "How we doing?" he chirps to anyone in earshot, even if there is no one around. "Conference room mine at three?"
"All yours, Mr. Cross."
He's already past me.
Elias Thorne doesn't say anything, because pleasantries are not his thing. He crosses the lobby, drops a stack of signed documents on my desk without slowing down, and is behind his office door before I've got a hand on them. Fourteen months I've worked here. I'm not convinced he knows the desk is staffed.
Theo Marsh trails last, because Theo stops for things. Right now, it's the intern's name, which he repeats twice so it'll stick, and a "Hey, Agnes" aimed my way, genuinely kind and completely weightless, the way you'd greet a nice mailbox. Of the three, Theo's the only one who's ever pointed a whole sentence at me. Not one of them has ever been about me.
Three men. I keep their calendars. I know when they fly, who they're dodging, whose assistant quit, and whose wife stopped calling. I know everything about their days, and they don't know I have a face.
Which is exactly how I want it. You can't recognize a woman you never bothered to look at.
Then Sloane comes back from wherever Sloane goes, and the whole lobby changes temperature.
Sloane Whitaker is an associate, which means she's twenty-eight, genuinely brilliant, and dressed like the after photo in every ad ever made. She crosses the floor in heels that cost my rent and hair that moves like it's blown by a fan only she can afford.
Beck reappears out of the conference room like he's been paged. "There she is. How'd Hollis go?"
Elias passes by reception and notices Sloane. "Hey, Whitaker. My office when you have a moment."
Theo slows as he approaches the conference room, and our sprightly college intern forgets his own name.
I watch all of them turn toward Sloane like houseplants turn toward a sunny window.
In spite of this, I am absolutely, truly, not jealous of Sloane Whitaker.
I used to think I would be. Sitting here, all beige and forgettable, watching the good light land on her. But that was before Diablo. Before I learned exactly what it costs a man to look at me, the number, in real dollars, that three strangers paid to watch me not take my robe off.
Sloane gets looked at for free.
I get paid.
So I sit behind my desk in a cardigan the color of a saltine, and I let them fawn over her, and I think, You have no idea. Not one of you. The most dangerous person in this building brings your coffee.
It's the best secret I've got, and I keep a lot of them.
"Agnes?" Sloane's stopped at my desk, all warmth and kindness, because, dammit, she's not a villain, much as I might like her to be. So annoying. "Could you move Elias's four o'clock? He doesn't know it yet, but he's going to want his afternoon."
"On it."
She gives me a smile with all thirty-two of her excellent teeth and click-clicks away. I turn to Elias Thorne's calendar, which lives on my screen, under my hands. It’s mine to rearrange, and I quietly fix his whole day for him without him ever knowing it was broken.
That's the part they really can't see. Not that I'm Diablo.
That I'm the one running the room. Both rooms.
I move the four o'clock.
And in a few more hours, I get to be somebody again.
***

I’d thought Vegas was the place to disappear. Get lost. Never be found.
With its endless cacophony of taxi horns, slot machines, barkers announcing buffets, half-price show tickets, cheap alcohol, and cheesy bachelorette parties, I was shrouded—in a good way. I’d wanted to disappear—just melt into the sea of humanity. Become anonymous.
I’d never stand out in the shitshow that was Vegas.
Nor did I want to. For good reason.
But now, on Savage Mountain, I realized I’d one-upped Vegas. Not in the excitement category, although that depended on how you felt about nature and the great outdoors. No, this was the place to run away to, I was quickly learning. There wasn’t another soul for miles. It would take a goddamn drone or NASA satellite and a research team to find me here.
I looked up in the sky. You never know.
Satisfied technology wasn’t going to find me that particular day, I floated lazily in the shallow campsite stream just next to the tent I’d successfully, and impressively pitched.
I probably wouldn’t have gone in the water—beyond just soaking my feet—had it been deeper than, say, my thighs. But it was as if nature had given me my own perfect little personal wading pool. The rocks on the bottom were bumpy and a little painful to feet that hadn’t gone barefoot in years, but as soon as I was in deep enough, I launched myself, suspended, weightless, and watching shots of sun bust through the overhead trees like a moth-eaten canopy.
Almost made me believe there was a god.
My hair floated around my head in that way hair does in water, where you can pretend to be a mermaid or if you’re feeling more cynical, Medusa. I wasn’t quite sure which I felt like that day. Maybe both.
A couple floaty bugs alighted on the surface of the water, and took off again just as quickly.
Were they eating? Drinking? Mating? When bugs got down to it, did they do it like mammals, or more like fish, or just some sort of drive-by spawning?
Should have brought some kind of nature book.
My tits bobbed in the water as I drifted, nipples tight like little beads as I shimmied to see how much the girls would sway. Beyond my non-mountains of flesh—who was I fooling, my little tits had never bounced and probably never would—was the belly button piercing I’d gotten back when all my girlfriends were doing it. I’d been a big enough idiot to follow them. And beyond that was the small patch of hair I let grow above the area I’d had permanently lasered. Yes, I’d subjected my entire crotch to laser hair removal. Another of my dumbass ideas.
At the time it seemed sexy, and I guessed it still was. I mean, guys liked it, sure. Christ if you had hair on your pussy these days, guys would go running like you had leprosy or something. In fact, I think a guy would rather be with a girl with leprosy than one with freaking pubic hair.
How messed up was that?
But as time passed after my stupid laser treatments, it dawned on me that someday I would be an old lady with no pussy hair. And that would not be hot. Not at all.
At least the non-sagging tits would be nice, kind of. Better than the sagging softballs of silicone some of my friends had, sure that implants would be just the thing to get them where they wanted to go.
I’d made some fucked up choices for sure, many of them far worse than a pierced belly button and a permanently bald pussy. But I was grateful I’d not gone too overboard with the tattoo thing. My friend Pippa had, and now she had to cover up all the time. I’d kept mine somewhat discreet. Maybe not the hippest decision, but I’d saved some money and a little bit of hassle.
I’d made some good life decisions, too, if I thought about it, although they seemed few and far between most days. But on that particular day, I was happy as hell to be camping—yes, me, camping—in the middle of nowhere, alone. Floating in a stream. Butt naked, soaking up the rays.
Yes, I was camping alone. Tell that to anybody who knew me and they’d tell you to shut the fuck up. Jo, camping? Um, don’t think so. The closest I’d ever come to camping would have been a weekend at Las Vegas’s fancy Mirage hotel, or maybe the Bellagio if I’d done well that week at my waitressing job.
Sad truth was, I never did that well. So in reality, I’d never stayed at the Mirage or Bellagio.
Yet here I was.
Pippa was supposed to be with me. Pippa, my best friend and coworker at the shithole titty bar where we waitressed, Maid to Order. Cute name, brought tourists and locals alike from all over Vegas. The restaurant even had ads on the backseats of cabs, and doormen handed out cards with ten percent off your first drink—that’s how classy a joint we were.
I fluttered my arms around the water just enough to move closer to the embankment where I’d gotten into the stream. When I found a rock big enough to support my bum, I sat, pulling my legs up under me and pressed a finger into my opposite forearm to see if I was getting too much sun. It left a white spot surrounded by red.
Yup, time to get my bare ass out of the water and into the shade. I hated to leave the baking sensation that warmed my skin and relaxed me, but a pasty girl like me would be in misery all fried to a sunburned crisp.
I moved my towel under a shady tree—seriously, did I mention it was like someone had created a perfect, custom-made campsite, just for me?—and lay down with my book. But instead of reading, I flipped onto my back and watched the water bead up before completely evaporating from my skin.
Skinny dipping was glorious. Why didn’t I do it more often?
Pippa and I had arranged a few days off together from Maid to Order, something our boss protested like we were pulling out her fingernails. She was seriously a bitch just to be a bitch. But we’d pressured her and she’d caved even though we knew she’d make us pay later by assigning us lousy shifts, or giving us tables with the creepiest dudes. But I could handle that shit. I had before and lived to tell about it.
Plus, we had an important reason for taking time off and leaving town. A very good reason.

Why Choose / Reverse Harem
Workplace Romance
Boss/Employee Romance
Secret Identity
Double Life
Anonymous Camgirl
Hidden Identity / He Knows Who She Is
Obsessed Heroes
Possessive Alpha Heroes

So, you’ve heard whispers about this thing called Why Choose and you're wondering what the hell it is. Buckle up, babe.

Why Choose romance (also known as reverse harem) is where the heroine doesn’t pick between the hot billionaire, the tattooed bad boy, or the sensitive artist—she keeps all of them. Yep. One woman. Multiple love interests. No drama about who’s The One. Because why suffer through heartbreak when you can have a whole damn buffet?

In Why Choose, the heroine is front and center. She's adored, worshipped, protected—and yeah, probably ruined in the best possible way—by a crew of men who are usually wildly different from each other but all obsessed with her. Think about it this way: possessive, dirty-talking alpha types, emotionally available cinnamon rolls, enemies who eventually join the team... you get the picture.

It's steamy romance on steroids. And trust me, it’s not about being indecisive—it’s about being indulgent. You want jealous outbursts, group tension, angsty slow burns, and seriously NSFW scenes that might short-circuit your e-reader? Welcome to the club.

I’m Mika Lane, and this is kind of my thing. I write the sexy stuff your mother warned you about—only with more plot twists and hotter men per chapter. From rockers to brooding professors to daddy’s best friends, my heroines always get the best of all worlds.