Page 8 of The Heir
Chosen for the King
I'm sitting back in my chair, a quarter to five, watching my receptionist place the biggest vase of long stemmed red roses I've ever seen in my life on a table near my desk. They're apology flowers for Isobel.
Rejection is only but a temporary pain, I tell myself.
My office lights up with a bright flash of lightning and a crack of thunder, and my office darkens as the fog just outside my building thickens even more. Getting up, I walk around turning on the various table lamps and the recessed lights in the cabinets stationed around the office and behind my chair. Giving the room a rather moody feel.
"Thank you, Sylvia," I call out, seeing her recline her head politely in a nod before turning on her heel and leaving without a word. To the outsider it wouldseemrude, however I don't correct it because it's not unusual of my staff to interact with me this way. I've developeda somewhat untouchable persona, and no one wants to deal with me more than absolutely necessary when it comes to work.
It's not that I'm an asshole, but I am the best in the business and you can't be the best in the business without upholding professionalism, creating some enemies, and maintaining boundaries. It doesn't help that I come from the King Dynasty family, which is what I've named my Architectural empire after.
My family name.
We're not the mafia, but we're fucking powerful in our own right. A bloodline which dates back three hundred years. We're old money, and now thanks to my business, we're now also new money. But I get to access both of it which makes me happy. My family didn't fuck off all our inheritance over the decades, leaving the next generation broke.
No, we made sure to keep our wealth, acquire new skills, and new wealth.
Squeezing the muscle at the base of my thumb hard I turn my eyes to look out the glass window, seeing the maze of streets below me with its headlights struggling through the fog, streetlights showing me a bustling city either gearing up or winding down for the evening ahead.
I wait patiently, my visit with Isobel the highlight of my month. I've been sorely tempted on more than a couple occasions to fuck this build up in a major way to extend out our meetings so I can keep working with her, but honestly, I made my decision regarding Isobel our second month of meeting. So I carried on with work as usual, not messing anything up. I'm sure our client is thankful for that.
Sitting back down, I wonder what mood Isobel is going to bring to me today to enjoy? I shake my head, sipping my whiskey and grabbing the remote to start the gas fireplace nextto my desk.
"This woman," I scoff, rubbing my jaw thoughtfully. I'm going to make her pay for turning down my dinner invitation, but not right now. I can't play my cards too soon, but oh how I wish I could.
I've never met a woman who needs to be fucked literally until she can't scream, move, or half breathe.
When I get the chance to, I'm going to fuck her until I just about see the light leave her eyes, then I'll grant her mercy just to revel in breaking her down again. Because I'm convinced that it's the only thing that's going to cure her of what the fuck is inside of her. Whatever the fuck makes her be hell on wheels.
I'm also convinced I'm the only one capable.
Call me cocky, I don't care. I have an empire to run. One that takes smarts, skills, and arrogance to keep going. And boy, Isobel really doesn't hesitate to let me know what she thinks about that, with myAnglo Saxan self,I think sarcastically,
I huff out a breath and run my hands through my hair, looking at the clock again in a fit of anxiousness I only feel around her.
My phone beeps, and I hit the button to answer it. "Yes?"
"Sir, Ms. Brookes is on the way up. She's ten minutes early."
"Good," I say, flipping my folders open with our documents that we need to go over. "Send her in. Knock once before you do."
"Yes sir." I hang up and take another hearty sip, getting up to make her a vodka soda with a splash of grenadine that I hope she likes. I top it off with a cherry and lime for garnish. Feeling extra, I add a sprig of rosemary and turn, placing it on a coaster in front of where she usually sits and then sit back down myself, turning my attention to the documents in front of me.
I fired three people over that fucking fountain she requested, so if she gives me lip about it today, I may throw her ass off my skyscraper.She'd probably burst into a phoenix then double back and claw my eyes out. I grin at my secret joke.
I'm ready Izzy,I think to myself.The others can't handle you but I promise to the gods, I will have you begging on your knees. You are mine.
My junior associate Barnette didn't want to work with her, and neither did associate Connors. The meeting I had with the two of them after she'd apparently ripped them a new one almost rivaled the last meeting where Isobel gave me such a verbal lashing I'm surprised her hair didn't actually catch on fire and burn down my fucking office.
She all but called me racist, and that's something we don't do around here. I don't allow it in my office, I don't allow that shit in my family, and the second I sniff it out amongst my friend group I eradicate that sickness like a poisonous weed. Because that's all it is at the end of the day.
No, my associates are too weak for a woman like her.
It's pathetic, really.
They don't want her, but I do. I'm not scared of greatness at all. And there's nothing that anyone on this side of the universe can say to convince me that Ms. Iosbel Sophia Brookes isn't the cream of the crop. And unbeknownst to her, I'm about to skim her feisty ass right off the top and into the sunset.
I'm making her mine.
