by Lana Sky
His laugh suggests his words are in jest. But I know that look glinting in his dark eyes. It takes a backstabbing cuck to know a backstabbing cuck.
“I prefer Lorenz,” I tell him while shaking his hand. “Blake Lorenz.”
“Ah…” His eyes narrow, intensifying their stealthy scrutiny. “You wouldn’t happen to be of the Frankfurt Lorenz’s?”
“That’s the one.” I force a cold smile. “My father would be pleased to know that his humble reputation has reached all the way to the States.”
“Humble?” The man guffaws so hard he damn near falls off his chair. “Given the way your family has overtaken Europe I’m not surprised Hollings enterprises were your next conquest.”
He’s equal parts impressed and alarmed. As he should be.
“But there is the question of that messy merger situation back in your country. What’s the company again?” He pretends to mull it over, but his eyes are too sharp for true ignorance. “H.E.T.Z Corp? Run by Hanz Zipler, I think? Now there is a ruthless son of a bitch. Wasn’t he married to your—”
“Are we bringing gossip to the boardroom now?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“N-No.” The man’s cheeks redden, but like a dog with a bone, he digs in. “Though Zipler, he had a big share of your family’s company, didn’t he? Nearly half.”
I flash a smile that makes the bastard gulp. “In my experience, a businessman’s fortunes can change at the snap of an even more ruthless man’s fingers.”
And Zipler’s is already between my thumb and fucking forefinger. Case and point: we’re at the top of the Hollings building. My building. The entire world is exposed below from beyond floor-to-ceiling windows. Everything from the waterlogged harbor to the endless jungle of skyscrapers clawing at the sky. The entire world: that’s how people like the Hollings view this lone city. Any other destination is a mere detour, a pretty spot on the map. This place is where their heart lies; the proverbial nest of the snake.
“I thought it was time to try my hand at entering the American markets.” I deliberately copy the man’s callous tone.
He nods. “I can see that. Jacob Marshall, at your service.”
The other men take turns introducing themselves not that I give a damn to remember them all. They sit at this table, in these chairs and dare to look at me like an outsider.
While they dallied in corporate offices, I cut my milk teeth on the walls of this building. Harrison Lloyd may not have been my biological father, but his blood, sweat and tears formed its very foundation. The layout may have changed and the furniture more modern, but at its core this entire fucking complex is the same.
Minus the name: I bet that motherfucker couldn’t wait to drop the Lloyd surname from it.
“Blake?”
I flinch at the voice. It’s not Emily’s, my usual assistant. Fuck. Lurching forward, I hone my gaze on the figure at the door and bite down a curse.
Sure enough, Masha has her head stuck through a small crack in the door, her cheeks flushed pink. The other men watch on, barely concealing their amusement and curiosity. I catch one of them eyeing her bare legs and I have to remind myself of one thing: still need his signature. Can’t kill him.
“What is it?” I demand, fighting to keep my tone level.
She lowers her head contritely, her voice so faint I have to strain to hear her, “I need to speak with you.”
“Oh.” Any irritation I felt instantly dies. Masha knows better than to interrupt me for anything other than matters concerning two people.
The first has avoided me for two damn months, ignoring every call and letter sent her way.
And the second...
“Well gentlemen,” I say, flexing my fingers against the table, hard enough so each knuckle cracks, “I think we should cut this meeting short. I’ll be expecting your approval of the donation however.”
A second’s pause gives any fucker the chance to argue.
No one does.
Standing, I lead the way to the door as they scramble behind me. Masha is the only one who follows me wordlessly into my office across the hall.
“What is it?” I ask, approaching the large oak desk dominating the center of the room.
Facing me, she lowers her gaze, her lips pursed. She’s practically swimming in the dress I bought her, wringing her hands nervously over the navy, businesslike frock. With her blond hair scraped into a bun and little makeup, the average onlooker might peg her at sixteen—at the most. Not nearly twenty-one.
Her lips tremble, fighting to coax out words, but she doesn’t even have to fucking say it.
“He contacted you again.” My hands curl into fists and the closest victim is the wall. Bang! My knuckles sear as they meet the polished wood. Once. Twice. Again. Blood streaks my fingers when I finally unclench them. “That son of a bitch—”
“He wants me back,” she says, almost in a whisper. Her tormentor needs no introduction. Only one bastard can make her sound this hollow. This empty. “He said… Blake, he’d forgive the debt if I come back.”
“That same old lie,” I remind her. “And I told you. I would handle it.”
“You shouldn’t have to!” Her voice is too flat to hold any real emotion so she raises her shaking hands instead. Unsteady, they claw at her neatly arranged hair, ripping strands from the coif. “This isn’t your fault.”
“Enough!” Irritation makes my tone harsher than I intend. “He was my goddamn father too.”
The original Blake Lorenz: a man I barely knew, who both saved my life and shackled me to his in the same fell swoop. As a Lorenz, I’m freed from the taint of the Lloyd name.
But my real father had his own demons—a crushing load of silent debt so vast it was basically a death sentence. A burden he gladly shouldered, right to the grave. Anything to save his only daughter.
I could only hope to match his selfless devotion.
But I don’t plan on dying anytime soon.
“No,” I hiss, meeting Masha’s gaze directly. “You’re not going back to him. I already have Hollings enterprises and this week alone we’ve incorporated four smaller corporations.”
“But it isn’t enough,” she says, shrugging her thin shoulders. “Unless you consume every company in the whole city it will never be enough.”
“I told you not to worry yourself about that. You leave the business to me.” Gritting my teeth, I add, “Want me to make it easier? You don’t have a choice—”
“Don’t I?” She’s jutting her chin into the air, her jaw tight. “You’ve already lost so much because of me.”
“Lost?” I nod to the windows and survey the view, shutting out the grim reality for a thundering heartbeat. The world of the Hollingses lies outstretched before me, kissed by the pinkish glow of mid-morning. “It looks like we’ve gained to me,” I say. “You need a city? I’ll buy this one, and then another. However many it fucking takes.”
“And what about Snowy Hollings?”
Her name is like a fucking switch. One flick of it and my entire perspective on the world changes. For the worse—power is a simple goal, easily obtained.
But Snow? What I want from her can’t be granted via a simple board meeting. Or with money, apparently, considering that in two months she has yet to accept the amount I offered her.
Suddenly drained, I collapse into the leather chair behind my desk. There’s a stack of envelopes lying there, along with messy piles of paper.
The irony is a bitter pill to swallow. Once, she claimed to have given me her truth through her letters.
And I can’t write a single goddamn one to explain mine. “Don’t mention her,” I finally muster the energy to reply. “Don’t—”
“What happened to her family… It’s my fault. You did that because of me—”
“No.” I turn to my desk and swipe my hand over the surface, knocking everything on it to the floor. “It was never about you.”
Always her. Beautiful, fiery princess Snow. Once, before Masha, I w
ould have given her the world. I promised it to her.
“One day I’m going to live in the heart of Mayfield,” she used to boast. “Right in the center! And I’d want a throne, of course. Red, placed perfectly to take in my servants.”
“Stop worrying.” I banish Snow with a shake of my head and stand. Masha trembles when I cross over to her, wrapping her in my arms. Mouth against her hair, I swear, “I won’t ever let him hurt you again. Ever—”
“It would be easier if you sent me back,” she insists, her face buried against my chest. “It would.”
“But I won’t,” I say, gripping her tighter. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Just promise me one thing.” Her small hands find mine and pry them from her waist, intertwining our fingers. “Just one thing.”
I nod. “Anything.”
“Promise me you won’t hurt her again. Snowy. Please—”
“I promise.” A part of me twinges, knowing deep down that it’s a lie.
Snow can run for now. Hide away. Ignore me.
But her company was just the start. Child’s play.
She was always the real prize—and some way, some goddamn how I’ll make her see reason. I’ll get her back, as easily as another fucking business.
Only this time, I won’t ever let her go.
About the Author
Lana Sky is a reclusive writer in the United States who spends most of her time daydreaming about complex male characters and legless cats. She writes mostly paranormal romance, in between watching reruns of Ab Fab and drinking iced tea. Only iced tea.
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Drain Me
When diagnosed with a fatal illness at the age of twenty-six, Eleanor Gray is resigned to her fate—at least until the enigmatic Dublin Helos appears and makes her an offer she knows she should refuse:
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Dirty Lyrics
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When their relationship strains her loyalty and his livelihood, it isn’t long before violence consumes her independence and Amy’s quest for freedom turns into just another story of a good girl caught on the wrong side of the tracks, too far gone to turn back.
Pretty Perfect
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Nearly two decades her senior, Revend Marcus, the owner of a prestigious international ballet company, has no problem with breaking Anya down to suit his own twisted idea of perfection. But, when a shadow from Revend’s past looms over their futures and Anya’s insecurities push their relationship to a violent crescendo, the resulting chaos threatens to destroy them both.
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Also by Lana Sky
The Ellie Gray Chronicles
Drain Me
Chain Me
Beautiful Monsters
Crescendo
Refrain
Mezzo
Allegro
Rockstar Rebels
Dirty Lyrics
Moth
Dragonfly
Moth
XXX
Maxim: Submit
Maxim: Obey
Savage Fall Duet
King’s Men
King’s Horses
Standalones
Pretty Perfect