"Your uncle has gone nuts," Alister's voice blasts from the other side of my phone, clearly holding back from breaking the neck of the next person in front of him.
Cool night air—damp with the smell of wet stone and a faint hint of rain—touches my face as I step out of the elevator onto the open terrace on the 30th floor. From below, a distant siren threads through the traffic; the low rumble of a bus rolls along the street like a tide.
My eyes take a quick glance around the space and, thankfully, there isn't anyone. Nobody's supposed to be here anyway—after a long workday, everyone just wants to crash in their beds.
"What did he do again?" I ask, not holding much interest, because there's barely anything left my uncle can do that would make me raise an eyebrow.
I take off my coat and throw it on one of the chairs and, leaning against the wall, let my gaze rest on the city lights shining all around me—glass blinking, cranes red-eyed, the Thames a dark ribbon somewhere in the distance.
Honestly, London isn't my type of place: loud, chaotic, light pollution, and, most importantly, weather that has no self-control.
"What did he do!" he gasps, annoyed. "He's spreading word that you're the one who designed Oscar Octav's case—starting from placement in five casinos across Macau and Vegas to structuring the integration and dividing it across different stocks and mutual funds."
And just because it doesn't surprise me doesn't mean it doesn't anger me.
Oscar Octav: a well-known scammer in the market who conned ten billionaires and eight presidents across Asia and Europe and parked $20 billion in black money under his nose.
He survived for nearly five years by claiming he'd put that money into startups that would bloom into unicorns.
But his bubble burst when he set his eyes on Sebastian Von Klest as his next target. And now anyone related to him becomes that psycho's enemy.
Sebastian Von Klest, currently sitting in the heir's seat of Klest Groups. The Von Klest family—richest and most powerful in Germany, with businesses all across Europe—and clearly not a preferable kind of headache to have when I'm already dealing with too many: the cold war of creating my own group of people full of talent, influence, and connections against not just one but five people within the same company, within my bloodline, plus handling the diabolic people in the mafia who have zero sense of self-preservation.
"Contact Von Klest directly," I say, keeping my voice cold, though inside my veins are surging with anger and frustration.
"You mean you will meet Sebastian?" Alister sounds skeptical. I click my tongue, take a cigarette from my coat pocket, and light it. The sulfur snap cuts the air; smoke curls and mixes with the rain-tinged breeze.
Taking a long drag, I throw my head back and fill my lungs with its ashy smoke.
"I'd prefer not to kill Sebastian," I say as I let the smoke out.
Alister gasps. "Ron, listen, I know you are not on good terms with Sebastian BUT—" On the other side I hear him pacing back and forth, rubbing his temples, trying to come up with a way to make sense of me.
"I was kidding, Alister." I take another long drag, keep my eyes closed, letting the silence settle while my friend on the other end tries to guess what kind of joke includes killing the heir of the most powerful German family—and a sweetheart of Hollywood.
"Fine, I will contact Sebastian and arrange a meeting between you two." He huffs in frustration, his voice a bit tense at the end.
I don't wait; I cut the call and toss my phone into my coat pocket. My head feels heavy, my hands itching to take out my gun and empty all the bullets into the head of that so-called uncle of mine.
The silence around me makes the noise inside my head louder. Sebastian…
That name tastes bitter on my lips because there was a time when that same name…
Ding.
The elevator stops on the 30th floor. I turn my head to the side to look at the crazy person who might have come up to scream out their frustration here.
That's what this place is for, basically.
While the pool, chairs, and plants make it look relaxing and serene, people don't come here often to just enjoy fresh air. The terrace wind carries a cool edge off the river, metal railings beading with a fine mist.
It's well known as the "Venting Pool."
Why?
I don't know why Pool was added at the end. Maybe it has something to do with the pool I installed on a whim to make it a bit extra—more than just plants, tables, and chairs.
The clicking of heels echoes, breaking the familiar silence.
And suddenly my surroundings start smelling like cocoa butter, vanilla, brown sugar, and… patisserie?
Who the hell goes around wearing such perfume in a cutthroat corporate house like Laurent&Cie?
Mixed with the ashy smell of my cigarette, I hate to admit, it makes my mind relax a bit.
The clicking of heels grows closer as the owner of the fragrance walks past me, without even looking at me.
Red blazer, white shirt tucked into straight black trousers, wavy soft brown curls reaching her waist, black platform heels finishing the outfit.
She takes off her heels and rolls up the hem of her shirt before dipping her feet into the water. From the side, I catch her profile.
Soft jawline, round face with high cheekbones, lips painted red; light catches the dark brown of her eyes and reflects like starlight on the most luxurious chocolate syrup.
She opens her pizza box and, with a hum, takes a generous bite, like she's been starving for months and finally got to eat something her soul craved.
Her eyelashes are naturally long, fluttering each time she wiggles her feet in the water; her shoulders relax by the second bite of pizza and the third sip of her lemon soda.
She looks exhausted, tired, yet something about her feels unintentionally real.
And it's rare in this world, isn't it?
To have the eyes of someone who still manages to hold on to hope for a better future, romanticize every little moment to make life more bearable?
She takes out her phone. Her phone case: carrot, croissant, chocolate bar, and strawberry.
Childish, I think.
And it almost makes me smile.... Almost
And the next moment, music starts humming in the air.
I find myself listening, reading the wiggle of her shoulders and the soft hum under her breath a bit more seriously than I should.
Her eyes sparkle as she takes the third piece of her extra-cheesy pepperoni pizza—the same woman who entered the terrace looking like she'd just survived a war and aged a decade in a day.
Suddenly, she looks light, young, and so alive.
I unconsciously gulp down a dry lump in my throat I didn't know I'd been holding since the moment she walked past me.
The golden light of the pool lamps reflects on her soft cheeks, giving a honey-like glow. Somewhere below, rain taps briefly on a ledge and fades.
I know I shouldn't care.
It might be her way of winding down.
Yet I find myself taking a step toward her, my cigarette forgotten in the tray on the platform near the wall.
"Can you turn down the music a bit?"
My voice comes out a bit rougher than I intended.
She flinches a little. Her wiggling stops, and mine does too.
My fist clenches inside my pocket.
It's absurd.
Why the fuck is my heart racing and my stomach doing jumps?
She turns her head slowly. Our eyes meet—those beautiful brown eyes, holding the depth of a lifetime I can't even name yet somehow find familiar—stare into my cold arctic blue ones, which everyone says look dangerous, detached, unwelcoming to any emotion.
Her eyelashes flutter as she scans me from head to toe, and suddenly the back of my neck heats up, conscious of how messy I look after back-to-back meetings—hair tousled from my fingers, shirt wrinkled, coat hanging like an abandoned piece of cloth…
Huh? When did I pick up my coat from the chair?
My jaw clenches, feeling her intense, shamelessly honest gaze on my legs.
"Done staring?" I say, hoping my voice didn't shake by the end. This isn't like me.
This clearly isn't like me. Don't tell me the drug from last night still flows through my veins and is making me feel hot.
Her eyes widen at that and, like a house cat caught doing something mischievous, she becomes aware of her shameless gaze and looks away.
Turning off her phone, she says, faking her confidence, "I didn't know someone was here. My bad."
Her voice shakes a bit on those last two words. Her shoulders stiffen; cheese threatens to drip, so she takes three big bites back-to-back before it can make a mess.
I stare down at her. She seems young—no older than twenty-six or twenty-seven—though her face gives away the softness and innocence of someone even younger.
"New?" I break the silence.
She turns to me and blinks, trying her best not to let her gaze dart over my body and give herself away.
"Yes, I joined today," she answers, finally taking a deep breath; she keeps her eyes on mine.
New. That explains it, because this poolside isn't going to be anyone's first choice to have pizza and soda and listen to music.
She dabs her tissue at her lips. I watch her—interested, curious, and drawn in by the woman whose eyes sparkled with happiness and satisfaction just from pizza and soda.
Hoping…
This conversation won't end just… yet.