My Husband Owns Your Precinct
Language: en
It was the Labor Day weekend rush when my car got rear-ended just before the toll plaza. When I went to the police precinct on Monday to sort out the paperwork, the entitled jerk who hit me didn't even bother to apologize. Instead, he whistled at the Porsche crest on my steering wheel. "Hey, gorgeous. Sugar daddy buy this for you? Give me your number. I'll cover the repairs, and maybe we can grab dinner tonight. My treat." He reached out, his fingers brushing toward my cheek, but before he could touch me, a large, calloused hand clamped around his wrist like a vice. With a sharp click, a…