Chapter 99: My Dark Prince: Chapter 98

Not again.

I dropped my duffel bag to the carpet with a soft thud and wiped my keycard on the edge of my shirt. A yawn ripped past my throat.

Cooper and I swapped stories past sunset, only stopping when the twins begged for dinner. As much as I wanted to join, I could barely keep my eyes open. Marcy, the director, would kill me if I showed up late to the morning meeting. Besides, my family would be in their Grand Regent suite all summer, courtesy of Ollie’s arrangement.

I swiped my keycard again and waited for the telltale green light. Nothing. With a frown, I swiped yet again, this time slower. The lock stayed red. A dull, angry beep confirmed my suspicion. My blood pressure spiked. The fast thump-thump of my heart ricocheted between my ears.

“No, no, no. Not again.” I pressed my forehead to the cold door. “Fucking Oliver.”

I’d kill him.

After I thanked him.

A maid backed out of a room down the hall, pushing a cart stacked high with towels.

“Hey, there.” I flagged her down, trying to keep my voice level despite feeling like I’d just stepped on a Lego barefoot. “I’m so sorry to ask, but can you let me into my room? I think my keycard broke during my work trip.”

“I’m not allow—” The maid cocked her head, her eyes brightening a moment later. “Oh, of course, Mrs. von Bismarck. Welcome back.”

Mrs. von Bismarck?

I wanted to groan. What did Oliver tell his staff?

She swiped her master key while I weighed the pros and cons of strangling Oliver versus kissing him senseless.

Relax, Briar. You don’t know whether he did what you’re accusing him of.

Except he did. The maid proved it the second she swung open my door, revealing an empty unit. My mouth tumbled open. Everything – and I meant everything – was gone. Not just my unpacked boxes, mountain of clothes, and random knickknacks, but also the couch, bed, television, and coffee table. Things I didn’t even own.

Even my candles, half-burned on the counter, had disappeared. Someone had scrubbed away every trace of my fourteen hours here, emptying the floors of objects and replacing the walls with a fresh coat of paint that still reeked of chemicals.

“Oliver, you absolute madman.”

I resisted the urge to throw my keycard against the door. He’d done it again. It had to be him. Only he would have the utter audacity to cancel yet another lease of mine on a whim.

The maid patted my forearm. “Is everything okay, Mrs. von Bismarck?”

“Just peachy.” I pasted on the calmest smile I could, tucking the name she’d used to address me into the giant folder of existential crises I needed to sort through. “Thank you.”

She bid me farewell with a half bow, leaving me alone with my impressive collection of empty space. The woman probably thought I had an avant garde approach to minimalism.

What did Oliver mean by this? Surely, he didn’t expect me to move back to Potomac just because he liked playing Monopoly with my leases. We’d only gotten thirty days deep into our long-distance trial, and already, he’d pulled this stunt.

I kicked my duffel bag into the entryway, shut the door behind me, and palmed my phone, calling my self-appointed landlord on my warpath to the elevators.

He answered on the first ring, infuriatingly cheerful. “Cuddlebug. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Three seconds. I allowed myself exactly three seconds to close my eyes and enjoy the sound of his voice hugging me through the other line.

I miss you. Thank you, and thank you, and thank you. I will never be able to repay you enough for reuniting me with my father.

Then, I sobered, ready to iron out this mess.

“Pleasure? Try nightmare.” I tried to keep my tone fierce, though all I wanted to do was throw myself into his arms (and possibly strangle him while there). “Explain yourself, Oliver.”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

My patience frayed like a cheap shoelace. “Why does my condo look like the aftermath of a heist?”

“Did you like what I did with the décor?” His pleased smirk practically curled through the phone like smoke.

The elevator dinged open.

“Love it.” I hopped inside and stabbed the lobby button. “It’s always been my dream to live in a storage unit.”

“I knew you’d appreciate the open concept.” He raised his voice to be heard over the crowd around him, undeterred by their volume. “All that extra space for your temper to run wild. Consider it therapy without the copay. You’re welcome.”

The elevator doors slid open. I stormed out of the alcove, headed for the nearest receptionist. My wallet would weep at the price of The Grand Regent’s cheapest room, but I could barely keep my eyes open.

Since noon, the hotel venue spaces had churned out event after event. I passed a welcoming party for new recruits, some influencer’s sweet sixteen, a wedding reception with well-wishers cruising in and out, and a legal conference that just ended.

Guests gathered in small groups around the lobby. It hummed with classical music, networking, and awkward chuckles from people trapped in small-talk hell. I barely noticed that the staff had replaced the tulips – a soft pink this morning – with striking indigo roses.

“The only one who needs therapy here is you. For your chronic lease-breaking addiction.” I weaved through the crowd and sidled into the line behind an elderly woman in a demure Chanel pantsuit. “Seriously, Oliver, what the fuck?”

The woman clutched her pearls, clearly scandalized by my colorful language.

“Would you believe me if I told you I had good intentions?”

“Oh, absolutely.” I crept up in line, wondering where he was with all that noise in the background. “As much as I believe you’ve taken up knitting and yoga.”

“I did take up knitting, actually.” Oliver didn’t miss a beat, still cheerful as ever. “Did you think my double-XL cock warmer made itself?”

“You’re disgusting,” I informed him at the same time some woman shrieked through the line.

I frowned, wondering how that came through my phone speaker so loudly. Near the entrance, a woman jumped back, failing to dodge a wave of coffee as it splashed her.

She swiped as much of the liquid as she could from her evening gown while the perpetrator dabbed at the stain with the edge of his sleeve.

The lethal heel of her stiletto stomped on the marble. “You ruined my dress.”

It took a second for me to register that I’d heard her words through the line, as well. When I did, I almost dropped my phone. My head whipped up. I scanned the crowd for the source of my headache.

And there he was.

Oliver von Bismarck – his gaze locked on mine and that maddening signature smirk plastered on his kissable lips.