My Father Sold Me to a bunch of Crazy Alphas

I might ruin the Prime Minister.

Not figuratively—no, I’m talking career-ending, legacy-shattering, front-page scandal with enough dirt to bury every attempt at redemption.

All I have to do is open my mouth. Hand everything to my aunt.

She’d love that. Might even smile, if her facial muscles haven’t fossilized yet.

Of course, giving her that win would be like handing a butcher your neck and thanking her for the cut.

But leaving things as they are? That’s not an option either.

"I’m trying to thank you here," Damian whines.

"You’re also failing spectacularly."

He pouts and gets back to it—mouth working, hands desperate, like he thinks effort will compensate for the obvious. It won’t.

I wanted a drained-of-fluids body clarity.

Instead, I got a headache and a lecture.

His kisses trail along my neck, all slow and theatrical, like I haven’t seen that move a thousand times. He nips at my earlobe like he’s discovered seduction. Cute.