ROYAL BRIDE (A Billionaire Bad Boy Romance)

by Bella Grant

  “So, what brings you in today?” she asked, back to calm and collected.

  “Well, first, let me give you some background, considering you haven’t Googled me.”

  “All right.”

  “I’m a self-made man. None of that grew-up-rich shit. I’m a business god, have four cars, each more expensive than the last, and I can do anything I want,” I said smugly. Yeah, I can do anything. Including you.

  She either missed my point or ignored it and moved on.

  “Any family? Significant others?”

  “Yeah, uh… my son, Zach. My fiancée, Fiona.”

  “So you’re divorced?”

  My chest tightened. “Yes.”

  “You wrote on your intake questionnaire that you recently experienced a robbery,” she said gently. Her face showed genuine concern—concern that disarmed me. She must be good at faking it, because no human could be that concerned this quickly. “I’m sure that was difficult for you.”

  “Not really,” I lied. “I was able to recover most of my finances.”

  “I didn’t mean financially difficult. I meant emotionally difficult,” she said. An uncomfortable silence filled the room. I took a long sip of my water. She moved on. “Does your son live at home?”

  “Yes, half the week. The other half is with my ex-wife, Sophia.”

  She crossed her legs in her chair. I took notice of them—thin yet shapely, clothed in black nylon. I wondered what they looked like bare. I looked her over intently. I’d paid for a hooker before, but I’d pay a lot of money for just a minute with her legs.

  Her face was red with embarrassment. She’d noticed my staring. The familiar surge of power welled up in me, but it wasn’t the kind of power I wanted to feel around her.

  “Do you have any existing health issues? You didn’t fill it out.”

  “Besides having pain from being beaten over the head with a gun? No, not really. I’m as healthy as an ox,” I replied, smiling grimly.

  “Okay.” She wrote this down. “How are you sleeping?”

  “Like shit. But I can’t deny that my nights are action-packed. They could write screenplays based on my nightmares, I swear.”

  “Are you currently taking any medication?” she asked.

  Yes. Xanax for panic attacks. But I would never admit that to anyone. I had always put people down for taking meds, but I had turned to them when I couldn’t handle losing sleep anymore. I told myself it was just for now, but I wasn’t too sure.

  “I hate how shrinks have a book. All of you have one,” I commented, noticing a shelf in the office.

  “You’ve seen a shrink before?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Once, with Sophia. We wanted it to help. It didn’t, obviously. But I hated every minute of it.”

  “I wonder if you hated therapy or if you just couldn’t stand feeling vulnerable,” she said.

  The button was pushed. “What the fuck would you know about being vulnerable? I mean, I know women need to carry pepper spray and all that, but you couldn’t possibly know what life is like. What are you, twenty-five?”

  “Twenty-nine,” she corrected me.

  “Exactly,” I scolded.

  “Listen,” she replied softly. “I apologize. I’m not trying to push you, but I’d rather get down to it. You don’t strike me as the kind of person who needs the run-around.”

  “All right,” I responded, feeling a tad bit better. “You’re a negotiator. I can do that.”

  “Something terrible happened to you. I get that. If we’re going to proceed, you need to know that this place is safe. It’s okay here. You can be and feel safe here.”

  I wondered if all shrinks were trained in the art of hypnosis. Her voice was sleep-inducing, calming. I pulled out a cigar, forgetting the office was nonsmoking. It provided an escape that I desperately wanted. My palms were beginning to sweat. I looked pale as hell, according to the mirror near the window.

  “I need a smoke. Same time next week, Doc?” I muttered.

  She stood up. “Yes.”

  I followed her, extending my hand. “Billy the Billionaire. Pleased to meet you,” I said. I grasped her hand, feeling the jolt again.

  She inhaled softly and quickly let go of my hand. She pointed to her badge. “Just to let you know, I don’t have my doctorate yet. I am a licensed professional counselor at the Master’s level.”

  I shrugged. “All good with me, Doc.”

  “You can call me Katie. Most people do,” she said warmly.

  She showed me out. I couldn’t help but notice that she shut the door harder than I expected. She wasn’t just a negotiator, I could see. She was a fighter, too. I was definitely in for a run for my money, if that was even humanly possible.

  The session, I reluctantly had to admit, had more of an impact than I anticipated. I knew nothing about therapy, but I knew you weren’t supposed to want to bone your therapist after the first session. Even so, as I waited for my driver to pick me up, a part of me wanted to go back to the office. Darkness was descending quickly, and I wanted to feel warm.

  My home, no matter what I did, could never feel warm. It was big, cold, and immaculate. I liked it, in a sense, because it created a kind of distance between me and everyone around me. Each room was separate from the others because the rooms themselves were huge. If you were to stand in one corner of the room, you could safely do a whole gymnastics routine from one end to the other.

  Fiona had our bedroom, but she also had her own ‘girl room,’ stuffed with clothes and shoes. Next was my son’s room. He’d had the same one since he was a kid, the smallest room in the house. Never once did he ask for a bigger one, even when I pressed about how a young, growing man needed a bachelor pad.

  “He doesn’t want to leave the room because it reminds him of his old life with your ex,” Fiona said one day, seething.

  I doubted that was true, but if it was, he did a good job of hiding it. Never once did he reminisce about our old life together. He was a practical kid. Definitely got that from me. He wouldn’t have seen the point in complaining.

  “To the villa, Mr. Carson?” my driver, Gretta, asked.

  “Promptly, dear cabby,” I said, joking around. I’d known Gretta for most of Zach’s life. She was burly and cheerful, and a more loyal driver could not be found. I originally met her on the way back from Brooklyn. At the time, she worked for a backyard, shady taxi business that wouldn’t give her benefits. I had to catch a train to New Jersey, and we’d hit traffic due to roadwork. She got out of the taxi and shuffled over to the road worker. Pointed to the car. Traffic moved as though she was a magician. I never knew what she said to him, but it sealed her fate with me. She would be my driver.

  That summer of ’98, it had been raining. She’d dropped me off at a meeting.

  “This, dear,” I said, handing her some papers, “is an employment contract. Full-time, one hundred thousand a year, benefits included.”

  Her eyes had welled up. I hated when women cried. My weakness.

  “Why?”

  “Cause they don’t make them like you very often,” was my simple reply.

  That night, she picked me up in her own car with a signed contract. We never looked back.

  Her son, Gabriel, had been friends with Zach ever since. They lived not far away in an upper-crust neighborhood. Zach was probably there now, actually.

  “I swear, that kid has a never-ending appetite,” Gretta teased. “I made pork chops and had to put in some pizza poppers. Don’t know where he puts the food. He takes after you.”

  “I told him to be home for dinner. Fiona is going to flip,” I said, exasperated. “I swear, no matter how hard she tries...”

  Gretta looked at me in the mirror and down sadly. I got the feeling, sometimes, that Zach confided in her more than me. She was a bit standoffish around Fiona—everyone was, though. I don’t know why.

  Fiona is a good woman. Her heart is big, and she is genuinely grateful for everything I give her. I can’t deny, t
hough, her desire for more and more. One month, a vacation to the coast would be okay, but the next month, she wanted Jamaica. But boy, oh boy, is she good in bed.

  The house always looked great. She’d stock the fridge with my favorite food and booze. What I liked the most about her was that, like everyone else, she was in total awe of my wealth. That therapist, though... I tried not to let myself linger on her for too long.

  My house was huge. On its own, it’s not what you’d imagine a billionaire owning. However, it was only one of six houses. I had two more in California and three scattered across the east coast. Each one was as big and extravagant as the next. This one had a lot of space. The walls were tall, and everything was ultra-modern and chrome, with a five-car garage for my toys and my own personal indoor pool and gym.

  Gretta dropped me off in front. “Give Ariel my love.” Ariel was my live-in chef. She had her own room and a salary. She was attending university, so except for meal times, we didn’t see her much.

  Fiona greeted me, redheaded and tanned, her big, brown eyes highlighted with purple liner. She looked great. She flashed me a white smile and wrapped her arms around me.

  “Hi, baby.” She oozed perfume. “How’d your day go? Did you seal the Parker deal?”

  I muttered gruffly and took a seat. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  Fiona’s entire demeanor changed. “But I don’t understand! Didn’t you see the therapist?”

  “Not until after work,” I informed her.

  “She didn’t fix you yet?” Fiona moaned. “I thought they could do that in one session.”

  “Nah. She just asked me a bunch of shit. What’s for dinner?”

  “I’m having Ariel make Thai. Your favorite,” Fiona winked.

  I sighed and took her into my arms. She once told me I had the nicest arms on a man she’d ever seen. “I know what I want for my first course,” I muttered into her neck.

  “Mmm,” she cooed. “And what’s that?”

  “A fine Irish and Italian meal,” I said, running my fingers gently over her crotch.

  “Sounds great.” She gasped as I pressed on her clit.

  I led her upstairs. I nodded to Ariel, who was going down to start dinner. Fiona giggled the whole way, rather obnoxiously, but there was nothing I loved more than giving a woman head. And, yeah, I was good at it. Fiona told me I was better than men half my age. She could barely sit still when I was at it.

  I closed the door, locking it behind me. She backed onto the bed, knowingly spreading her long, tanned legs. I loosened my tie and pulled her panties to the side, gently kissing her taut thighs as she squirmed against me.

  The smell of herbs began to fill the house, increasing my hunger. She was already moist and ready for my tongue. I glided the tip of it around her swollen labia, and she moaned in appreciation. I gently took the folds of her into my mouth, feeling them swell. My tongue finally met her engorged clit, and she sighed, her body arching into my mouth.

  Something strange happened, though. As I glanced in the mirror, seeing my head moving gently between her legs, the therapist stared back at me. I shouted and fell backwards.

  “What?” Fiona exclaimed, her face serious rather than aroused. “Oh, God. Did I not clean myself well enough today or something?”

  “No… no, it’s not that,” I said. “I guess I’m just hungry for food. Let’s eat.”

  “Okay,” she said, but I could tell she was angry. “I’ll join you after I finish myself off.”

  I handed her a towel, which she threw at me in annoyance.

  The night that followed absolutely sucked—one of the worst nights of my life, actually. I couldn’t get the therapist’s face out of my head as I poured the wine. It remained all through dinner. During the movie we chose to watch, amidst Fiona’s babbling, I imagined Katie Warren’s legs…her lips...

  My mind was starting to drift off to a pleasant place—Katie’s office. I envisioned her talking, her smooth and concise voice filling my ears. My son’s arrival interrupted my thoughts. He was already well fed and sleepy.

  “What’s up, kid?” I said. His eyes were red from playing too many damn video games. As unique as he was, he sometimes seemed like a completely normal kid.

  “Hey, Dad. Fiona,” he said.

  “One of your packages came today,” Fiona said.

  His eyes lit up. “Yes! I was expecting it.”

  “What on earth is it?” she asked.

  “Trust me. You wouldn’t like it,” Zach replied.

  “You coming to sit with us?” I asked.

  “Nah. I gotta get to sleep. Going to the flea market tomorrow.” He walked away without saying goodnight.

  That night in the shower, for the first time in a while, I almost cried. After, I met my own eyes in the mirror. “Get it together, you crazy fuck,” I said to myself. I raked a towel through my mid-length hair and took solace in the fact that I was still an attractive man. Knowing I still had it would always erase the feelings of disappointment. Tonight, though, I had uncovered a feeling of disappointment, something that cut into me.

  I held Fiona as she slept, my eyes wide open. I fumbled near my dresser, took a pill, and tried closing my eyes. Nothing worked, and soon, dim morning light filled the room. At one point, I wasn’t sure if I was awake or dreaming.

  Katie

  “Kathleen Warren, MA, LPC,” I said to my mom on the phone. I ran my hand over my Master’s degree, feeling proud of my accomplishments. I had made it as a mental health professional. Every day I went to work and enjoyed the experience so much that I nearly forgot my stupid loans.

  “It’s a good thing you took some time off from school,” my mother said. “You needed to work rather than study.”

  The original plan was to get my master’s degree, after which I would become a counselor. Then, I would immediately go for my doctoral degree. I was as surprised as anyone when I had decided to take two years off to work as a counselor before getting my doctoral degree and becoming a psychologist.

  “How is school going now?” she asked.

  “I’m in the project phase of my dissertation now, and it’s a pain in the ass,” I complained, my head hurting just thinking about the pile of notes at home.

  “How exciting,” she said, always applauding me.

  “How’s Amelia?” I asked.

  “She’s good. Still stressed from work.”

  “And Brandon?” I asked.

  “He barely has time to see us lately. They have a lot of crime down in Philly.”

  My older sister was a psychiatrist, my younger brother a police officer. I’d see them every other weekend at home in Pennsylvania. Though we were all adults, nothing much had changed. We were still the same dysfunctional, loving Italian family.

  “And Dad?”

  “Yesterday your father helped one of our friends with their plumbing. You know how he is. Always busy.”

  I’d spoken to my father on the phone the night before. He was retired now, but still did some heating and cooling work on the side. He’d trade his HVAC services for a good Italian meal. My parents were uncommonly kind people, and I always tried to emulate their goodness.

  As admirable as they were, they didn’t do a good job hiding the traumas of the family from me. I grew up to be a fixer, trying to make everything right. I’d learned to separate my desire to fix from my role as a counselor, but if I had to be honest, it was sometimes difficult.

  “Do you have any sessions today?”

  “No. Not today. I feel burned out.”

  “You have to make sure to take care of your own needs, sweetie,” my mother warned.

  “When you’re right, you’re right,” I said. “It’s even in the code of ethics.”

  “When was the last time you took a day off?”

  “Um…” I thought, trying to remember. “I can’t really say. Maybe a couple of months ago?”

  “Well, I know you’re busy, but don’t be afraid to come home for some TLC.”
<
br />   I smiled. “Thanks, Mom. I gotta go, though. Lots to do.”

  We said our goodbyes, and I looked around my office, relieved to have some time to myself.

  My burnout had never been as clear to me as it was yesterday. That session with Mr. Carson had disturbed me. I hadn’t been disturbed by the man, though; my quickened breath and feelings of arousal were my main concern. To feel these things for a client was downright wrong, never mind illegal.

  The phone rang again. “Hey there,” Kent greeted.

  “Kent, my fellow counselor. Are we still on for tonight?” I teased.

  “Yes indeed. I’ll be at the spot in a couple of hours. Hope the train time doesn’t do you in,” he teased.

  “I’m used to it. I can’t wait. I could use some self-care.”

  “I’ll be pleased to help take care of you. See you then,” he said. He hung up, leaving me to my thoughts.

  Kent went to an Ivy League school, but he was modest. His gentleness and modesty had drawn me to him. He had a quiet way of looking at things, an attribute I related to. We’d been friends since I started, but I’d be open to more if it was there.

  I lived in a small blue Victorian house in Yonkers, where I planned to host my own sessions one day. I’d been renting it, but I hoped to own it eventually. I never saw myself buying a house—all throughout college and graduate school I had hopped from dorm rooms to couches, sometimes alternating between them and my car. I dreaded the idea of being settled, but it was such a feeling to savor now that I was an adult.

  My favorite part of my house was my office, an old, rustic study where I took my doctorate classes online. Bookshelves as tall as the ceiling lined one wall, and I had filled them with old feminist books and politically incorrect books from the Victorian era. I wrote my assignments on a typewriter and scanned them into software that would feed it into a word processor. Though doing this made the process more complicated, it kept me focused. I also enjoyed the feel of writing on old typewriters, and it served as a motivator. I had a 3.9 GPA thus far, on top of a full-time job and various responsibilities, so I was doing something right.