by Mason, V. F.
Although our incomes allow us to pay for it ourselves, we always try our best to find different people willing to share their wealth with someone to help them achieve their dreams.
“Awesome,” I reply, still confused why she brought this subject up since my accountant handles all this.
“This man… is difficult.” She huffs in exasperation while distaste laces her words, clearly showing she has no good sentiments toward whoever that friend is. “He wants to talk to you before he signs anything.”
“Why? He has trust issues or what?” A lot of wealthy people balk at participating in the events they aren’t sure of, but usually my name attached to anything means success and security.
“He’s an asshole,” Lila says, and I chuckle, finding her all riled up over some man hilarious. Her future husband’s friend no less.
Awkward.
Dropping back onto my chair, I tap my foot on the floor and swirl from side to side, studying her. “It’s all right. I’ll meet him.” I take pity on her frustration; the bride should be nothing but cheerful before her wedding.
“Are you sure? Because I told Eugene that Lucian can choke on his proposition.”
I reach for my brush, dipping it into the water before dabbing it in the red paint to return to my painting. “Lucian….” Oddly, the name rings a bell in my head, which usually never happens, but I cannot put a face to it.
“The one and only. Asshole extraordinaire with a pinch of jerk,” she grumbles, clearly thinking I guessed who he is, but since she provides no further explanation, I refrain from asking.
Besides, who cares about his personality? That will hardly stop me from signing a deal with him and helping three students.
Raising the brush to the canvas, I splash some paint on it before starting to smear the dandelions in more blood. “If that’s all….” I trail off, hoping she’ll finally get the hint and leave, which she does with a shake of her head.
She comes closer, gives me a light kiss on the cheek, and then squeezes me tightly to my loud groan. “Love you, girl!”
My heart flips inside my chest, the warmth covering the earlier coldness and soothing it. Maybe friendships do have perks worthy of all interruptions. “Technically, I’m your boss.”
“Love you, girl!” she repeats, ignoring my statement, and waltzes toward the door, a smile shaping her mouth. “See you on Friday, and good luck with the beast! Don’t fall for his charms please.”
“I thought he was an asshole?”
“A charming asshole who women love and dream about taming.”
“Ah, a bad boy.” I place my hand on my chest and sigh dreamily. “A man after my own heart.”
Her brows furrow, and she crosses her arms. “I’m not sure if you’re serious right now, but trust me, that man is trouble.” She waves her hand up and down. “You’re the princess in a castle who deserves a Prince Charming.”
“Oh, what, no Beast for me? Bummer. Although doesn’t he become a prince at the end of that story?”
She growls under her breath, which makes me laugh, finding this whole conversation ridiculous.
Why she would even feel the need to warn me off him, when I’ve never shown interest in a man, is beyond me.
Unless he’s so handsome women just lose their heads?
How interesting.
While my body has stayed dormant toward the opposite sex, I’ve always found it fascinating which men made women all weak in the knees, and then I’ve loved to study their features to know better how to construct my defenses.
“No, no,” she groans, swirling her fingers in the air. “Do not make that face.”
“What face?”
“Quit thinking about him.”
“Oh, fine. I’m not into fairy tales anyway. Now, if he was a character straight from Greek mythology, I might have reconsidered.” She picks up a nearby paint tube and throws it at me, but I manage to duck my head in time, and she misses.
“Just remember what I said, babe.” She blows me a kiss before slipping outside and shutting the door after herself, leaving me alone in my studio while the rain splatters the window, creating a yearning inside me of wanting to run outside and enjoy it touching my skin.
Soaking my clothes under it while my toes curl in the grass, becoming almost one with the land.
Somehow, rain has the ability to clean away all the wounds, stains, and darkness surrounding you if only you let it.
Or at least that was my only reprieve in childhood whenever Grandmother preached about our family name and my responsibility toward it, since my parents failed to comply with her rules.
“Enough,” I order myself and concentrate on my painting, needing to finish it so I can move on to the ocean one.
However, when my hand moves restlessly on the canvas, a certain name sparks curiosity in my mind, craving to put a face to a man who unravels Lila so much, because she has no mean bone in her body.
Lucian.
Don’t fall for his charms, please.
Whoever this man is…
I won’t ever fall for him, because there isn’t a man alive who will own my heart.
And even if I existed in a fairy tale or a myth?
I’d be the one cursed by the enchantress and needing a brave man’s love to rescue me and lift the bad spell.
Only I live in reality.
Where Beasts and Prince Charmings do not exist.
So this particular princess will stay locked forever in a castle.
Chapter Three
“Whatever I want, I get.
And those who stand in my way?
They don’t live long enough to tell their tale.”
Lucian
Lucian
A loud knock sounds on the heavy wooden door to my office, and without turning away from the view of my garden, I call over my shoulder, “Come in.” A second later, I hear a heavy sigh along with glasses rattling on a tray.
My mouth twitches in amusement as I see Harold’s reflection in the windowpane and lift my brow. “Oh no. I missed teatime again?”
Harold pauses on the way to the table and huffs in displeasure, adjusting a plate of cake as it slips to the side. “Didn’t think you could avoid that, did you?” Then he places it on the table and motions with his head. “Go on.”
Turning around, I show him my glass of whiskey and finish it with one gulp to his frown. “I’ve already celebrated my birthday.” I point at the half-finished bottle at the bar located in the right corner. “And have enough to celebrate some more. Care to join me, old man?”
He doesn’t say anything but gives me “the look” with his gray eyes as he narrows them to just a slit, reminding me of all those times I pulled shit on him during my teenage years.
Some of it almost gave him a heart attack, especially when he discovered my basement.
He never raised his voice or anything else, but if he gave me “the look”… I knew he could make my life a living hell.
And who needs that around this house?
He must be the only member of my staff who is not afraid of my fuck-you attitude, but then again, he rarely gets it.
After all, the man has been a father figure to me for years, so I know how to keep my respect when it’s earned.
And loyalty.
I value that above all else.
Dropping into my massive oak chair brought from France specifically at my request, I reach for the plate and dig a fork into it. “Just for you.” I toast him with it before putting it into my mouth, almost gagging at the strawberry taste. My whole being rebels against the idea of eating sweets, because it always takes me back to the past.
Where sweets entailed…
Reining in the emotions slowly swirling inside me, I swallow the piece and push the plate away. “Now, happy?”
A smile widens his mouth, deepening the wrinkles on his cheeks and under his eyes, while happiness flashes on his face. He adjusts his long jacket and clasps his white-glove-covered hands. “Yes, sir.
Happy thirty-sixth birthday.”
“Gracias.” I lean back on my chair, drumming my fingers on the table and debating what to do next about the information Francis spilled to me.
Bait should never stay unsupervised for long, or someone else might snatch it.
The mysterious fucker might have announced wanting to wait ‘til her birthday; however, most monsters, especially those who’ve lost their head, are unpredictable and can change in the blink of an eye.
And since she is my only key to catching him as soon as possible and preventing further distraction caused by his madness, risking it is not an option.
Harold clears his throat and takes a yellow envelope from his jacket. “A man stopped by to deliver this to you.” He puts it on the desk, and I notice a name written in large black letters on it, which explains Harold’s strained voice. “Is she… is she one of your…?”
“Victims?” I supply, and he pales, tugging on his collar, clearly uncomfortable with this subject but ironically still staying by my side despite taking such offense at what I do. “In a manner of speaking.” In the grand scheme of things, I have no plans of physically hurting her. However, who knows how she will react to the psychological pressure the kidnapping will entail?
No wars were won without great losses though, and this one has too much at stake for me to show pity toward a young woman whose greatest offense probably was looking like the monster’s ex-girlfriend or a mother.
Serial killers are predictable creatures despite their despicable deeds. They’re always seeking to find comfort associated with their childhood, to replay the past, and always end up killing their victims because they refuse to play by the killer’s delusions.
Although, in most cases, death is inevitable no matter what victims do, because when the head is gone, even the smallest of things can trigger the madness reigning over their psyche.
“What does it mean?” Harold comes closer, and settles in the opposite chair. He taps on the envelope. “You will hurt this woman?” His hand clenches in a fist. “I forbid it.”
“You forbid it?” I exclaim dramatically with sarcasm coating my words before sliding the envelope from him and tearing it open. “Do not question my decisions, Harold.” My voice lowers, warning lacing my tone, and his lips flatten, highlighting his displeasure at my order yet not daring to speak again.
While he has more freedom than any other person in my life, even he has lines he is never allowed to cross.
Taking the papers out, I throw the envelope away while scanning through the report that has bullet points dividing it into different sections that give me a better understanding of her life.
A child prodigy.
My brows rise at the various accolades through the years, participating in art competitions since she was ten years old, and winning most of them. Various galleries showcased her art and strived to work with her by the time she was fourteen, proclaiming her a gift to the world, although she never followed anyone’s style. When she was fifteen, the Harrison family offered to open up a gallery for her, and she agreed. Soon, they had grown to four, with a heavy focus on charity.
Certainly, for a twenty-year-old woman, she has achieved a lot and doesn’t hurt financially, since wealthy people never mind paying an obscene amount of money for a rare art piece.
Although she possessed a great talent for art, judging by her other grades, she was failing in a lot of other subjects, which resulted in her family deciding to homeschool her, and later on, she refused to go to college.
Who wouldn’t fucking be failing though with so many competitions per year? It’s a wonder she even bothered to finish school.
Which leads me to the next section, causing me to put the previous paper on the table, where Harold snatches it, reading right along with me.
Shaking my head at him, as if his knowledge has the power to change my plans, I focus on her surname, and a mocking smile curves my mouth that almost turns into a snarl.
The Hugh dynasty.
The matriarch of the family, Suzanne, might go down in history as the most snobbish woman of the elite, whose ruthless and cruel nature scares even the hardest of men as she operates her empire with an iron fist. And most of the people wouldn’t bother with her if she wasn’t smart too, which means she has shares in most corporations.
Status, power, money.
She values these things above people and anything else. She didn’t even mind cutting off her own twin children when they showed her the middle finger and decided not to follow her rules.
Her daughter chose to run off with their driver, and she lives on an island blissfully happy and raising six kids. The money is tight apparently, but she has never even called her mother for help.
Her son married his classmate, whose family was not good enough either for Suzanne, so he moved out and started a family on the outskirts of New York. Sadly, he died in a car accident years ago, leaving a wife and two daughters behind.
Which led to Suzanne getting custody of Esmeralda at the age of ten and fully embracing her in the artist world, albeit also drilling her with various etiquette and language lessons, making sure her granddaughter was presentable to society.
The status of the mother and sister are absent, leaving a lot of questions behind and perhaps the keys to the monster’s obsession with her.
Because what’s hidden always has the answers you so seek, the absolute law that’s never failed me before.
Based on this, Esmeralda moved out of the Hugh mansion at sixteen. She spent a year in France before returning to New York and buying a small house. No one knows what happened between the two, but with Suzanne’s tendency to cut off her family at the smallest sign of transgression, no one was surprised.
I give the second paper to Harold, who leans on the table and covers his mouth with a palm, sighing heavily. “Poor girl. It must have been hard for her.” He’s already forming attachments toward this woman who he probably pities, while it inspires nothing but laughter from me.
Unless one lived in hell, wishing to die every single day of his life because reality was so horrendous he or she struggled to breathe as the monsters feasted on their flesh, sinking claws so deep they left permanent scars… do not fucking tell me it was hard for someone.
Esmeralda had the whole world in her palm, and a little quarrel with Grandma dearest hardly makes her worthy of pity, mercy, or compassion.
Finding answers to my questions without getting close to this girl will be impossible.
The hunter seeking her will become more daring every day, engaging in more vicious crimes, so acting fast is my only way to stop him.
To gain his attention, I have to do something I’ve never done before, because no woman has caught my interest long enough to experience such desire.
If I seduce her, then in his anger to the point of insanity, the monster wanting her will decide to kill me, thereby showing himself as he comes out of the shadows.
Jealousy is a powerful tool designed to strip anyone of their common sense and cause them to act out of character.
Besides, I can seduce her mind without ever touching her body by creating the illusion of a Prince Charming coming to sweep her off her feet while, in fact, I’m a villain intending to steal far more valuable things.
A black-and-white photo slides out on the table, and I focus on it, studying the woman standing in profile with her head up while her long hair covers most of her face.
She leans on a balcony banister, her slender form concealed by a long dress giving no clue to her shape or the secrets it might hold.
The photo raises more questions than it answers about her appearance, but something tugs inside me, something akin to possessiveness, craving to forcefully spin her around to face the camera to fully show her face and eyes.
Eyes are always the most important part in anyone’s beauty. They serve as gates to one’s soul.
One of the reasons I dislike looking at my refection is because the hollowness and darknes
s staring back at me reminds me of the starved, beaten boy waiting for the help that never came.
You can escape the past, but you can never truly escape yourself, and sadly, people are only able to discover this fact later in life.
Maybe then we wouldn’t have to spend so much time trying to outrun it.
The phone ringing pulls me out of my thoughts, and I wrap my hand around the receiver, motioning with my chin to Harold to leave me alone, as his heart might not survive listening to my conversations with friends.
Deprived minds should stick together in order to have someone in their corner when shit hits the fan. However, I think my butler would have a heart attack for real upon discovering how many of us actually roam the earth.
He shakes his head, puts the papers back into the envelope, and gets up.
Pressing the phone to my ear, I watch Harold bow slightly before slipping out the door as a deep voice greets me from the other side. “Lucian.”
“Por qué me estás llamando, Eugene?”
“Can’t your friend call you just because he missed you?”
Leaning back in my chair, I put my feet on the table and chuckle. “You? Never.”
“Ah, the arrow pierced my heart,” he exclaims, and I’ve had enough of this shit.
“Qué deseas?” I have no time to engage in the verbal spars he loves so much, considering I have prey to catch and bait to seduce.
“A little bird whispered in my ear that you are seeking information about Rebecca.”
“Say hola to your little bird from me.”
Whoever the fuck that is.
He ignores my statement. “Are you such a greedy bastard you cannot invest money without running a full report on the person first? Even if said person is a woman with a perfect reputation?” There is an edge to his tone now, almost warning me to tread lightly, but who gives a fuck?
Lucian Cortez follows no one’s rules but his, and sure as fuck, no one dictates to me how to conduct my personal affairs.