Chapter 9: My Dark Prince: Chapter 8

In the end, I reigned in my inner asshole and took the elevator up to the 46th floor to fetch little miss trainwreck. No part of me felt particularly charitable this evening. Alas, my least flattering character trait reared its ugly head – my nagging, infuriating tendency to be the nurturer in every relationship I unwillingly stumbled into.

When Zach lost his heart and a good portion of his mind over his maid, I dragged him back to sanity, kicking and screaming, resulting in the most embarrassing grovel-slash-marriage proposal this continent had ever witnessed. When Romeo needed to distract Frankie because she dragged his then-heavily pregnant wife to international shopping sprees and bungee-jumping escapades, I gave Frankie my credit card, so she’d be out of their hair – and house.

My persona – the women, the money, the glam – was merely a Venetian jester mask, designed to subterfuge my one tragic, fatal flaw. I cared. Too much.

All. The. Fucking. Time.

If someone managed to burrow their way into my heart, they set roots in there.

The elevator doors glided open, and I came face-to-face with a thirty-something woman with hipster glasses, enough makeup to sculpt a two-year-old child in the 90th percentile, a clipboard, and a scowl.

She tipped up her chin, squinting at my face. “This is a closed set, sir.”

I squeezed past her, waltzing out of the elevator and into the wide corridor. “Is it, though?” I refused to be intimidated on my own property.

She took off behind me, steam billowing from her ears like they were manholes. “And who do you think you are?”

“The owner of this hotel.”

I hopped over camera cables and extension cords that snaked over the pristine Italian marble. Abstract murals covered the light-paneled walls in decadent turquoise, silver, and gold. At the end of the hall, a Chesterfield chair held one of the imposing double doors of the presidential suite slightly ajar. A dozen people rushed inside from every direction.

“Sorry, Mr. von Bismarck.” The woman raced at my heels, half-stumbling, half-stuttering. “I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.”

Eh, the paparazzi from the nudist beach last summer. One of my finest media moments.

“No need to be.” I brushed off invisible lint from my Canada Goose jacket. “I could think of worse existences than being a billionaire hotelier.”

“Sir, you can’t go in there.”

“Hmm. I smell a bet.”

I was obnoxious, I knew. A calculated and deliberate choice, designed to make an enemy out of everyone I met. Surely, Rom and Zach only stayed in my life out of loyalty and the fact that they were as insufferable as me, albeit in different ways.

From the distance, I heard Franklin’s ass-clenching voice grating on people’s nerves like chalk scraping over a blackboard.

“… yes. Oliver is coming to pick me up right now, Dal.” She had her sister on the phone, I presumed. “I swear the fire wasn’t even that bad. Besides, how could I possibly know that hair spray is flammable? I’m not a scientist.” Pause. “You knew that?” Another pause. “Well, a heads-up would’ve been great before I smoked pot while glamming up every single day for years.”

No way could she be that dumb. She had to be pretending, like me.

“Where are the needles?” The owner of the new voice groaned. “We need to stitch together a new skin-tone thong.”

“I got it,” a soft feminine voice called out. “Actually, I’m almost don … ew.”

“Gotta go, Dal.” Frankie gasped. “Are you okay?”

Whatever you do, lady, don’t let Franklin Townsend near you.

“Yeah. It was just a prick.”

I pushed the double doors completely open, barging inside, a smooth smirk on my face. “Did someone call me?”

My grin dropped, right along with my heart, the moment I came face-to-face with the woman sucking blood from her thumb. She held a needle between fingers I knew too well. They once gave me amateur haircuts on lazy summer days by the lake. Shoved themselves into my nostrils while I pretended to concentrate on card games I’d always let their owner win. Stroked my face when I lost my grandma, and when I broke my arm, and when I fought with my parents.

Those fingers, like the woman attached to them, were the very reason I floated in this world aimlessly. They were what I’d run away from for fifteen years and counting.

Briar Rose.

My Briar Rose.