Taming My Sugar Mommy

Liam stared at the pathetic pile of clothes on his bed. Everything he owned looked like it belonged in a charity shop bin. 'Figures. The one time I need to look decent, and I've got nothing but shite.'

The shirt he'd worn to his wedding had a curry stain that wouldn't come out. He tossed it aside with a bitter laugh. 'Not like I need it anymore, do I?'

Last night's rain pattered against the window, reminding him of his monumental fuck-up. If he'd just faced the weather instead of calling Lady Isabella about taking the package home... But no, he'd been worried about the diamonds getting nicked on his usual route.

'Smart thinking there, mate. Really brilliant.'

Six months he'd been doing deliveries for her. Six bloody months of dropping packages at her gate, where her guards would pick them up. He'd never even seen her face until today—just heard that honey-coated voice over the phone.

The pay should have tipped him off that something was dodgy. Triple his normal rate, all cash in hand. But when Mark—his old mate who'd worked security for her before the cancer got him—had passed him the job, Liam hadn't asked questions. Why would he? Mark was solid. Always had been.

'Wonder if Mark knew what she really shipped?' He shook his head. 'Probably not. Poor bastard's got enough on his plate with the chemo.'

Lady Isabella Ashworth. The name alone screamed money. Range Rovers picking up her shopping, designer everything, that massive estate with more security than Buckingham Palace. And here he was, her personal delivery boy, living in a flat where the hot water worked maybe three days a week.

The paperwork he'd signed lay on his kitchen table. Twelve years of service to clear 2.3 million pounds. The number made him want to laugh and vomit at the same time.

'At least Teresa saved me the trouble of packing,' he thought, looking at the chaos she'd left behind. His darling wife had torn through everything like a tornado on crack looking for those diamonds. 'Ex-wife now, I suppose. Nothing says divorce quite like stealing millions in rocks and doing a runner.'

His phone buzzed. Another text from Lady Isabella's people. They were coming to collect him in thirty minutes.

Liam sat on his bed, the springs creaking in protest. 'Twelve fucking years.' He could have had a kid and raised it to secondary school in that time. Instead, he'd be... whatever the hell Lady Isabella wanted him to be.

The really sad part? This was probably an upgrade from his current life. At least her place would have working heat.

'Face it, mate,' he told himself, 'you're proper fucked either way. Might as well be fucked somewhere posh.'

His phone rang again. Lady Isabella.

"Mr. Campbell," her voice purred through the speaker, "my people are outside your building. I do hope you haven't considered running. I would find you, you know."

Liam's mouth went dry, but something clicked in his head. 'Hang on. She can track down one bloke in all of London, but can't find her own diamonds? Something's not adding up here.'

"Still there, Mr. Campbell?"

"Yes, my lady. Not running anywhere."

"Excellent choice." The line went dead.

Later on, he'd probably regret not running, but right now he was too busy staring at the woman who'd just walked into his flat. Her uniform had a tag that read 'BODYGUARD.'

'Pull the other one,' he thought. She looked like she'd stepped out of a fashion magazine. Then again, maybe that was the point—who'd expect a model to break their arm in three places?

"Christina," she introduced herself, then gestured at the mountain of a man behind her. "And this is Marcus."

'Now *he* looks like a bodyguard.'

Marcus grunted something that might have been hello.

"Right then," Christina said, looking around his flat with well-concealed horror, "what are we packing?"

Liam gestured to his sad collection of clothes. "Got three pairs of jeans. All blue. Makes it easier to pretend they're different ones. Few shirts, mostly black. Same principle."

Christina's eyebrow twitched. "Anything else?"

He picked up a battered Gameboy Color. "This. Still works."

Marcus actually broke his statue impression to stare at it. "Is that... original Pokemon?"

"Red version," Liam confirmed. "Got three hundred hours on it."

Christina looked between them like they were speaking alien. "We're not bringing that."

"Lady Isabella didn't specify no electronics," Liam pointed out. "Just said no clothes."

Christina opened her mouth, closed it, then sighed. "Fine. But if she throws it in the Thames, I warned you."

As they headed downstairs, his neighbor Mrs. Patterson was coming up with her shopping. She took one look at the Range Rover outside and nearly dropped her bags.

"Winning lottery numbers finally come through, dear?" she called out.

"Something like that, Mrs. P," he answered. 'Just the reverse lottery where you win debt and indentured servitude.'

The drive was surreal. They passed through parts of London Liam usually only saw when making deliveries, each neighborhood getting posher until they hit what he privately called 'stupid money' territory.

Lady Isabella's estate made 'stupid money' look like pocket change.

The gates were something out of a Bond villain's lair, all sleek black metal and cameras. Marcus pulled up to a keypad and went through what looked like military-grade security checks. Fingerprint scan, retinal scan, probably a blood sample and his first-born child too.

'Bet Teresa wouldn't have made it past the front gate,' Liam thought with grim satisfaction. Then he remembered why he was here. 'Course, neither did I, really.'

The driveway seemed to go on forever, winding through manicured gardens that probably cost more to maintain than he'd made in his life. The house—if you could call something that size a house—loomed ahead like a modernist's fever dream. All glass and sharp angles and probably more bathrooms than his entire apartment building.

Christina must have caught his expression. "It's a bit much, isn't it?"

"Bit much?" Liam laughed. "I've delivered to smaller shopping centers."

"Wait till you see the garage," Marcus rumbled from the front, his first full sentence of the day.

'Twelve years,' Liam reminded himself as they pulled up to the front door. 'Twelve years in paradise is still twelve years in chains.'

But damn, those were some nice chains.

Liam stepped out of the Range Rover clutching his plastic bag of belongings like a life raft. He felt every bit the charity case he probably looked like.

The front doors opened, and Lady Isabella emerged in a white silk robe, some kind of green face mask making her look like an expensive alien. Her bare feet probably cost more to maintain than his monthly rent.

"Welcome, Mr. Campbell." Her voice had that same honey-steel quality it did over the phone. "Christina will show you to your quarters. Freshen up and join me for dinner at seven."

The way she said 'freshen up' made him feel like something scraped off the bottom of a shoe. But when you owe someone 2.3 million pounds, they can pretty much talk to you however they want.

Christina led him away from the main house, down a curved path through gardens that probably employed more people than his old courier company. They stopped at what looked like a small house—if you could call anything on this estate 'small.'

"The boys' quarters," Christina said, producing a key card. "Lady Isabella's staff accommodation."

'Boys' quarters.' Like they were all at some posh boarding school instead of... whatever this was.

The room she showed him into was bigger than his entire flat. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over a private terrace. The bathroom alone was the size of his old kitchen.

"Everything you need should be here," Christina said, pointing out features like she was giving a hotel tour. "Smart TV, ensuite bathroom, climate control. The kitchen is shared, but it's fully stocked. Any questions?"

'Yeah, when do the handcuffs come out?' But he just shook his head.

After she left, he stood in the middle of the room, still holding his sad little bag. The bed looked soft enough to swallow him whole. The shower had more buttons than his microwave.

He took the longest shower of his life, watching twelve years of freedom spiral down a drain that probably cost more than his car. His clothes—the cleanest jeans and black shirt he owned—looked even more pathetic laid out on the designer bedspread.

He'd just pulled them on when there was a knock at the door. Christina stood there with a garment bag.

"Lady Isabella sent this for dinner." She handed it over like it was completely normal to give someone you've imprisoned a designer suit. "She's particular about dinner dress code."

Liam stared at the bag. "Is this a hostage situation or a kidnapping? Because I'm starting to lose track."

Christina's professional mask cracked, just slightly. "Think of it as... a very long-term employment contract with excellent benefits and restrictive clothing requirements."

The suit inside probably cost more than everything he owned put together. He held it up, wondering if it came with a tracking device sewn into the lining.

'Two point three million pounds,' he reminded himself as he changed. 'You'd wear a clown suit if she asked.'

The suit fit perfectly, which was somehow more unsettling than if it hadn't. Had they measured him in his sleep? Nothing would surprise him at this point.

Looking in the mirror, he barely recognized himself. The suit transformed him from courier to... whatever the hell this was supposed to be. Butler? Servant? Prey?

'Twelve years,' he thought, straightening the tie that probably cost as much as a month's groceries. 'Welcome to your gilded cage, mate.'

At least the food would be better than prison.