"Meeting you was start of my happily ever after, my beautiful moon."
Splash.
I jerk open my eyes, my body freezing, yet my pulse throbbing so fast as if I had just run twenty miles. A low, painful groan leaves from deep in my chest as I try to sit up through the neck pain and sore waist.
Splash.
Blinking a few times to adjust to the bright light pouring through the window, I turn my neck to look at my surroundings.
Dark paneled walls frame the room, each inset with golden floral murals.
The ceiling is ornate, copper-toned, and textured, with recessed spotlights casting a warm glow.
In the center lies a long, rectangular stone-framed bathtub. Its mosaic base is designed with vivid red blossoms and green leaves, creating the illusion of flowers floating in water—in which I'm currently sinking.
To the right, a marble vanity with carved drawers and brass handles supports a vase of pale blossoms. Beside it, a large mirror framed in dark wood throws back my reflection, staring at me in disdain.
On the far wall, a single wooden door blends into the dark paneling. The space is intimate, richly decorated, and designed as a private retreat.
The air is thick, perfumed with the expensive, creamy sweetness of sandalwood and vanilla from flickering candles—a scent that feels like it costs more than most people make in a week.
Through the sheer glass wall, the shower and toilet gleam like pristine exhibits, polished gold fixtures shining like treasure.
On a dark teak stool beside me, a pyramid of impossibly plush, bone-white towels is stacked with geometric precision, a silent promise of comfort I have no intention of accepting yet.
I hold my head between my palms and curse under my breath at the pathetic situation I find myself in after waking up.
"How did I end up in the bathtub?" I mumble, trying to recall last night.
It was a success party thrown in my honor by my younger brother Julian at the Lanesborough hotel at Hyde Park Corner.
Monumentally prestigious, sitting between Mayfair and Knightsbridge with direct views into Hyde Park. Julian had booked the entire Royal Suite, his intention clear:
"I know your worth and mine. And brother, you are not the only one with power and connection in this war of succession."
My mouth tastes of ash, remembering how everyone congratulated me, praising me for managing a hostile takeover with ease.
Expensive suits and glittering gowns whispered wealth and status. I drank wine, maybe ate roasted chicken—it didn't matter when I was busy handling two-faced vipers who would kiss my feet and then Julian's ass if it suited them.
As night deepened, I grew hazy, my body burning, aroused in a way that was clearly a reaction to drugs.
I was conscious enough to know it was a trap. Julian is a bastard, but he wouldn't stoop that low, not when he knows I can go even lower—and not at such a crucial time, when we are secretly creating our own army. He wouldn't risk making me openly angry.
That meant someone else from the party wanted to get inside my pants—and most likely baby-trap me.
I left the suite and locked myself in this room. Didn't even strip off my suit. Walked straight into the bath. Turned the water freezing cold.
Better to feel like I'm dying than to have a one-night stand with a stranger and regret it.
Anger slips into my veins like a whisper.
But it's not last night that fuels my fury.
It's the words of a woman in my unconscious state.
Her voice—soft, genuine, wrapping around me like the gentlest blanket. My stomach flipped, my pulse thundered in my ears.
I whisper them now, my voice weak and shaky:
"Meeting you was the start of my happily ever after, my beautiful moon."
My heart stings at the sound of my own voice.
A bitter chuckle escapes me at the absurdity of my dream. Not because it might have been some forgotten love—had that been the case, I could almost convince myself that, for a while, I'd been loved. That I brought happiness to someone.
But no.
I inhale sharply, running my fingers through my damp hair. Standing from the bathtub, water splashes everywhere, my bones aching from cold, my suit clinging heavy and tight to my skin.
My reflection in the mirror mocks me—black hair stuck to my forehead, damp skin, stubble replacing my usual clean shave, meant to soften the intimidation after the daughter of Monaco's president cried when I merely glared at her. Sharp arctic-blue eyes stare back, assessing, condemning. The body of a man sculpted by discipline and posture.
It might sound arrogant, but I do deserve to be called the most handsome Laurent. Yet what use is this handsomeness if I don't claim the chairman's seat?
I let out an irritated huff and strip off my wet suit.
Her voice still lingers at the edges of my mind as I step into the shower, letting hot water work away last night's ache.
Damn it.
I hate that I'm missing the ghost of a woman whose face I can't even see.
Alister was right. I should change therapists. With all the drama in my life, I'll go insane.
Today it's just her voice. Tomorrow, she'll appear in full to ruin my sanity.
I dry my hair, towel around my waist, body lighter than before.
I step out of the bathroom, shutting the door with a soft thud. Lavender and chamomile scent the warm air.
Crimson drapes frame tall arched windows, opening to a stone balcony with a view of green.
The ceiling glitters with gilded molding and a painted dome, chandelier at its heart.
The bed dominates—an ornate gold frame with a tufted crimson headboard, layered in deep red embroidered bedding.
Walls paneled, hung with classical artwork. A vast patterned rug covers the floor, echoing crimson and gold. Upholstered chairs and carved tables complete the opulence.
"You're alive? I thought I'd be taking your dead body back to Geneva."
The mocking, amused tone belongs to the man I call my best friend.
Alister smirks, taking a bite of a pink macaron. "Cause of death—drowning in bathtub after being drugged."
I roll my eyes, tossing the towel I'd used for my hair. "You want to die?" I glare.
He catches it easily, emerald eyes glittering with mischief. Standing, he smooths his navy wool sweater and cream trousers.
"Not really. I'm still unmarried and have too much left to do—including saving your ass from scandal. Would've ruined that perfected image of yours: cold, brooding, merciless Aaron William Laurent." He winks.
I brush past him, grabbing the three-piece suit he brought, neatly pressed. I pull on my white shirt and underwear as he scrolls his phone.
"It was Isabella Frank who drugged your wine," he says lightly. "She followed you, but you locked the door."
Isabella Frank. Jason Frank's daughter. Tall. Slender. Blonde hair glossy, shoes polished. The kind of beauty made for a man's bed—but not for me.
"Any dirt on her?" I ask, fastening my trousers, eyes on the mirror.
Alister smirks, eyes sparking. That look never fails to mean trouble.
"She's pregnant. One month in. By her Italian bodyguard."
My brow twitches. If Alister says it, he has proof.
A dark chuckle rumbles from my throat as I knot my tie. She wanted to trap me with another man's child. Now she'll get what she deserves.
"Do it."
Alister grins wide. "You'll enjoy the show, Ron. Poor Bella." His tone carries the cruelty that makes judges pale in court.
"How far?" he asks.
Fixing my ruby cufflinks, I meet his gaze, blood running hot with the familiar thrill of an enemy's downfall.
"Far enough that she's forever the talk of high society."
Alister pauses. Lips part, then close again. He wisely says nothing.
I never claimed to be a saint. I never pretended.
Survival demands perfection.
Perfection demands cruelty.
And cruelty demands moral ambiguity.
I am neither devil nor angel.
Based on your actions—
I am either your salvation, or your destruction.