by V. F. Mason
Who I wish wouldn’t have proposed to me in front of a roomful of people.
“Valencia.” I close my eyes for a moment as Victor’s steely voice reminds me once again of the fear that runs deep in my veins for the rejection I have inflicted right now.
Glancing at him and Mom as they stand next to me, shock and displeasure evident in their expressions and stances, I address them. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do it.”
Max finally rises as the people murmur loudly, no doubt discussing my refusal, which will be the main topic of gossip in high society for days to come.
Anger simmers within me, but I quickly push it back, because I shouldn’t show those emotions.
Showing emotion usually has a catastrophic ending for me.
Victor clicks his fingers and the music starts playing again. Then he motions with his head to Jeckie, his assistant, and at once, he runs to the waiters who swiftly place drinks in people’s hands, doing their best to distract them from this fiasco.
“It’s the attention, isn’t it?” Max says, hiking his thumbs into the pockets of his pants. “I shouldn’t have proposed here,” he muses, while I shake my head in disbelief.
Does he really think that’s the only reason for my refusal?
“I’m sure she is just overwhelmed—” Mom starts, but I interrupt her.
“I don’t want to marry you. There is no other reason than that.”
My words bring hollow laughter from him. “So this three-year relationship meant nothing to you?”
For a second, guilt slips in as all our moments together flash though my mind, reminding me that this man stood beside me in so many life-changing events, first as a friend and then as a boyfriend.
When I was accepted into Juilliard. When I had an accident and couldn’t dance for the whole year. He was always there and offered his silent support. I’ve loved him dearly and have been so grateful for everything he has done for me.
But gratitude isn’t a good enough reason for me to walk down the aisle with the man and promise in front of God to love and cherish him forever, when my heart is not in it.
“I’m sorry.”
I don’t have anything else to say, but he just snarls and addresses my parents. “I’d like to go now if you don’t mind.” He doesn’t wait for their reply and heads in the direction of the gate. His anger must be written on his face if a scared-looking waiter who jumps back is anything to go by.
My parents silently run their disappointed gaze over me, their lips thin, probably wanting to say something but failing.
And suddenly, it all becomes too much. Their scrutiny, Max’s anger, my guilt that tells me to fix this for everyone and be the perfect girl who makes everyone feel good, even if she screams inside at the chains imprisoning her in their perfect image.
So I do the only appropriate thing in this situation.
I pick up the hem of my dress and run to the balcony, ignoring my mom calling after me. Once there, I hurry down the few stairs to the garden, my heels clicking noisily on the concrete.
I don’t care about the frigid air or the way goose bumps pop up on my skin from the cold. I don’t feel it, because my body is functioning on an adrenaline high.
The moonlight shines brightly, highlighting the stars above, as the garden is lullabied by the sounds of the fountains as water pours from them. The groundskeepers must keep the water hot for it to function so well, considering the time of the year. The garden design focuses more on various trees and flowers interspersed with benches and pathways that spread in different directions for people to stroll along and admire the beauty of nature.
However, I have only one place in mind, and that’s the greenhouse located in the bushes, which is only a few feet away. I found it the first time Victor hosted a party like this one, and oddly enough, the door is always open, so I’ve had a reprieve from all these social events.
While enjoying the smell of roses all around me.
A puff of air leaves me as I exhale in relief while turning the knob on the door and stepping inside, closing it quickly and leaning on the door. Warmth instantly greets me and I close my eyes, drinking in the peacefulness of this place.
Heaven.
“Well, isn’t this a surprise?” a deep, husky voice echoes in the room, and my heart stills, because if there is one person who can disturb my peace…
It’s him.
Chapter Four
Houston, Texas
Christmas 2000
Valencia, 7 years old
The minute Daddy stops the car on the side of the road, he shouts, “Valencia,” behind me as I get out and run toward the wooden bench, my eyes drinking in the beauty of the ranch spread out in front of me.
And although we are surrounded by green grass and many acres of woods and fields, all my focus is on the moonlight-colored mare that stands in the middle of the horse ring. A cowboy, his hat low over his eyes, murmurs something to her and she nickers in approval.
“Oh my God!” I scream, and the man turns to me, his eyebrows rising as I hop on the fence, grabbing it tightly in my hands as I point at her. “She is magnificent!” The mare just stares at me for a moment and then nickers again, shifting a little while the man pats her on the muzzle and then winks at me.
“We have a guest, I see.” He waves me over. “Come here, darlin’. Want to touch her?” I gasp in delight and hop down, rushing to him while the sand scatters, slipping into my ballerina flats and probably smearing dirt on my white socks, but it doesn’t stop me.
Finally, I reach my destination and my eyes widen as I stop next to her and lean my neck back to see her properly; she is so tall! The top of my head barely reaches her middle. She vibrates as she looks down at me and huffs with her nose. I giggle as her breath fans my cheeks.
“Hi, horsey!” She doesn’t seem impressed with my greeting, just goes back to the cowboy’s hand, and that’s when I notice he keeps slipping little carrots to her. “Can I do that too?”
The man nods and leans forward to pick me up when Dad’s stern voice comes from behind. “Valencia!” The cowboy freezes and the horse immediately makes a displeased noise and shifts slightly, so I step back, not wanting to annoy it even more.
“Shhhh,” the man soothes the horse, then shouts over to my dad. “She is safe here.” I catch Daddy’s eyes and he shakes his head, sweeping his gaze over me, and then says, “Stay close to Levi. I’ll be back shortly.” With that, he moves in the direction of a very small house. I notice a few holes in the doors and empty stalls in the far corner.
Daddy said we needed to travel to Texas for him to help innocent people find strength through God in their difficult times. They send him letters and he can’t refuse.
“Okay, come here, little lady.” Levi picks me up, settles me on his hip, and then places the carrot in my open palm. “Feed it to her gently and have patience. She is an old mare, but she’s friendly.”
Holding my breath, I extend my open palm to her and she sniffs it, still watching me closely but then quickly nicks the carrot from me. I can’t help the laughter that spills from me from the ticklish sensation as she touches me. “She is so sweet!” I say, and Levi just chuckles.
Then he offers, “Want to ride her?”
I want to reply yes, but my dad comes back from the house, calling, “Valencia, we need to go.” I sigh heavily and wiggle in Levi’s arms to get down and, with a wave, run back to my father.
He picks me up, just as a woman with tears streaming down her cheeks exits the house, holding some kind of brochure in her hand. “Thank you so much, Pastor, for this chance.” Behind her, two small boys around my age rush outside and give me a curious stare.
Dad’s eyes linger on them for a second, and I roll my eyes. Mama always said he wanted a son but that God didn’t give them such opportunity and they only had me. That’s why Dad spoils any boys rotten, in the church or his classes.
At least, that’s what I’ve been told.
New York, New York
January 2018
Valencia
He emerges from the shadows of the greenhouse, his dominating presence shrinking the space into a tiny place that barely allows me to breathe.
The only source of light is the moonlight, and it cascades down on him, emphasizing each rigid muscle and his handsomeness that would rival anyone present in the grand room.
His silky, sun-blond hair falls down, barely touching his shoulders, creating a contrast with his ocean-blue eyes that hold me prisoner whenever he drills them into me.
He does it a lot, stares at me, and on most days, I hate him for it. Because it disturbs my peace in more ways than one.
The three-piece suit he wears hugs his body, tightly emphasizing the muscles that speak of dominance and power, while his strong, clean-shaven jaw indicates a stubborn yet playful character. Tattoos are splattered all over his hands and neck, disappearing under his collar, and I try not to wonder if he has more ink under his clothes.
More than the last time I saw him naked.
He steps closer, his familiar scent of cigarettes and expensive cologne tingling my senses as he smirks, showing a dimple on his right cheek. “Darling,” he says, and I retreat a step, my back pressing against the door, but it doesn’t stop him from coming nearer. He rests his arm above my head, leaning closer as his breath fans my cheeks, and I hate the thrill that instantly rushes through me. For a second, I find it hard to breathe, as unfamiliar images play in my mind with him and me naked on the bed and— “What is New York’s good girl doing here?” And just like that, he snaps me back from my haze and I shake my head.
This is insanity and the main reason I always stay away from him. How can my body react to someone, if I feel nothing but resentment for the guy? Or that’s what I try to tell myself.
Licking my dry lips, I don’t miss how his gaze shifts to them for a moment, and reply, “Don’t call me darling.” And then I ask before I can stop myself, “What are you doing here?” He chuckles, and my cheeks heat up as it dawns on me that it’s a secluded place and perfect for a secret rendezvous. Without thinking, I quickly scan the place for a female or clothes as she might be hiding somewhere here. Who knows with whom he has an affair? I’ve heard a lot of stuff about him, and somehow I believe he lives up to his reputation. He laughs, and I snap, “Is there someone else here?” I won’t stay and humiliate some woman, or that’s the excuse I give myself.
Because dwelling on the fact that jealously fills me and I want to scream in his face is irrational and insane and… there are just no words to explain how wrong that will sound.
“A woman I fucked here?”
I wince at his crude words, and the amusement that coats his voice annoys the hell out of me. “You are disgusting, you know that?” I spin around and open the door to get out, but his hand shuts it again, leaving me trapped between his rigid chest and the door.
Instant heat surrounds me, and I feel him move behind me, as he leans to my ear and murmurs, “So the princess is not as cold as everyone claims.” His voice creates some kind of trance as he shifts closer, and my eyes close and my breath hitches as I expect him to do something.
But instead, he steps back, leaving me alone, and says, “Don’t worry, darling. There is no one here but me.” A beat, and then he adds, “For now anyway.” He taunts me and we both know that.
Arrogant jerk who thinks the sun and moon rise with him.
My brows furrow at that last comment, and I turn around to face him again. “What are you doing in my greenhouse?”
“Your greenhouse?” He chuckles again, and I really start to hate that. “The entire place belongs to me. As does this. But be my guest and call it your greenhouse. I don’t mind.”
What? He’s the owner? No wonder though. The words luxury and power define him, so it’s only fitting he built this freakishly expensive place.
Kaden Scott is a king who rules his kingdom with an iron fist, or at least that’s how I see him amongst his company and the people who like to be attached to him.
A powerful businessman who owns companies worldwide. Notorious bad boy who loves extreme sports and makes the press talk about him for days.
And let’s not forget about the women. I heard he has those in spades too, everyone so willing to grace his bed as long as he lavishes them with attention. But that information is based only on rumors. I’ve never seen him with one.
Come to think of it, no one knows much about him period, other than all those exaggerated stories.
His brow lifts at my stupor, and I wish I could go back, leave him alone, just so he won’t have the satisfaction of being right or ending up in my company. But just the idea of facing the mess I’ve left behind gives me a headache. “You can help me put orchids in the soil and prepare everything for spring. I think they should bloom by then.” I blink a few times at such an unexpected change of subject, and then I cast my gaze on the table full of terra-cotta pots. “Or is princess afraid to get her hands dirty?”
“I’m not.” I’m quick to defend myself, and I groan inwardly, because this is so childish, and by the amusement flashing in his face, he thinks so too.
“The gloves are there. Join me in the back.” He scans me from head to toe. “Good thing you don’t have a phone with you. I wouldn’t check it if I were you.” He waits a beat. “The fiancé might send a not-so-flattering message.”
“You know,” I whisper while he half smiles, although it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I know everything that has to do with you.”
Ignoring his statement, I say, “He’s not like that.” Max doesn’t have a mean bone in his body, and although he is hurt now… he’ll never go and post his heartache. One of the reasons I kept coming back to our relationship was because Max was a hundred percent safe.
“Right. I forgot our Max is a saint.” The way he says it makes it seem as if he has never heard a dirtier word than that. “Yet you still don’t want to marry him.”
“Marriage shouldn’t be about convenience.” Where the hell do these words come from?
“Yet convenience is exactly what played a factor in you leaving me and going back to him,” he says casually, putting on gloves as he grabs a pot and bag of soil.
“We had to be something in order for me to leave you.”
I can’t believe we are having this conversation, as we’ve ignored our connection during any meetings for the last six months. And he’s never even given me an indication he remembered we spent an entire week in Italy, exploring the city and making love every single day.
Until the reprieve from the real world ended and I came back to New York to my life where everything was organized. And doesn’t make me question myself, and my entire existence, like I experience around Lachlan.
That’s his middle name, but he always prefers me to use it.
“Kaden,” I moan, pulling at the ropes as he skims his lips down my stomach and settles between my thighs while his fingers slide down my hips.
“Lachlan, darling. When you are in my arms about to be fucked hard, you call me no other name but Lachlan.”
“That’s true,” he agrees, and then crooks his fingers at me. “Come help me out. Gardening clears the mind.”
I join him as he hands me a pair of gloves. As I put them on, he dispenses the soil into both pots, settling it inside. “Why orchids?” I wonder, quite surprised by this. I had no clue he was interested in gardening.
The only thing we did in Italy was make love, eat ice cream, and visit all the historical and artistically fashionable places. I’d bought the ticket to Florence on a whim after a breakup with Max and fights with my teacher, wanting to let go for a while and have a proper vacation.
I got more than I bargained for when a blue-eyed stranger bought a coffee for me and mesmerized me with his charm and attention.
“Beautiful flowers that can last for a long time.”
I watch him carefully and repeat his actions, but the soil spills on the table a
nd I curse. But then I feel his heat behind me as he places his hands on mine, pressing them into the pot. “Before you pour more, dig it with your fingers, firmly planting it inside,” he instructs, and immediately electricity zaps between us. He leans over my shoulder, pointing at the orchids. “Plant them now and check them out in spring. Or whenever else you feel like hiding here,” he jokes, leaving me as I gulp for breath.
Lachlan always does this.
Envelops me with his presence as if punishing me for the past.
He grabs his jacket and throws it over my shoulders as I look into his eyes, our lips a breath apart. “Don’t get cold on the way back, princess. There is a narrow path in the garden in the east. You can use it and not face everyone else.”
“Thank you.” That’s the most we’ve spoken in all this time. “Lachlan—”
“When you get tired of this good-girl image, come to me,” he whispers and brings us flush against each other. His hand slides down my bare back as goose bumps break out on my skin. He dips it slightly above my ass, and then before I can even react, he nips my mouth and licks my lips as I open them with a gasp, soaking in the feeling of protection yet danger that always surrounds him.
Lacing his fingers through my hair, he firmly holds me as his mouth devours mine, planting ownership on it without meaning to. With each touch and lick of his tongue, press of his lips, and his burning hands that send fire through me, he reminds me of what we could have been and that I refused it because I was too scared.
He lets go. I sigh and then fist his tie, craning my neck, rising on my tiptoes and seeking him again as our mouths meet greedily. He drinks from me, fueling fire and life into me.
With him, in this moment, nothing else exists, just two people who cannot resist the needs that drive them insane.
But too soon, the moment is gone and he pushes me away as I still search for him. “Valencia,” he rasps, his thumb rubbing my swollen lips. “You should have never gone back to New York without me.”