"Wouldn't I?" She leans back and folds her arms. "It was suggested after the Monaco yacht incident. Two hundred thousand in damages, but I said he didn’t mean it. Then it was suggested again after that charity auction where you bid half a million on a child's finger painting while intoxicated, but I said it was just a mistake."
"The money went to a good cause!"
"You thought it was a Picasso!"
I sink lower in my chair. "What do you want?"
"I want you to grow up." She closes the folder with a snap. "You're thirty-four years old, Alexander. Your fatherwas running this company at your age. He had a family. Responsibilities. Purpose."
"I have purpose."
"Getting drunk and screwing up is not a purpose." Her expression softens just a fraction. "Your mother would be heartbroken to see what you've become."
Low blow.
"What do you want?"
Diana slides a business card across the desk. The logo is subtle but recognizable. The Omega Match Bureau.
"No." I push it back. "Absolutely not."
“You are supposed to be registered anyway. It’s the law. You know that. I’ve pulled strings to keep you off because I didn’t think you were mature enough for a match. Perhaps I was wrong. Register with the Bureau. Show the board you're ready to settle down and take responsibility."
"I don't want a mate."
"Your feelings are irrelevant." Diana's voice could freeze fire. "You have six months until your birthday. If you're not registered and making an honest effort with any match by then, I'll file for conservatorship. As an incentive, I’m cutting your allowance immediately until you comply."
The bottom drops out of my stomach. "You can't be serious."
"I've already frozen your accounts. Your staff will be paid directly by me. You'll have access to a basic living stipend. It’s generous by any normal standard but basic by yours. You’ll get used to it."
"Diana..."
"This discussion is over." She returns to her computer. "I expect confirmation of your registration by end of the week"
I stand on numb legs. This can't be happening. "And if I don't match with anyone?"
"Then at least you tried." She doesn't look up. "That's morethan you've done in years."
The dismissal is clear. I make it to the door before her voice stops me.
"Alexander? Get your assistant some proper medical care. That scar is going to be substantial."
The ride back to the hotel passes in a blur. Ricky waits in the lobby, tablet in hand, bandage stark white against his olive skin.
“How bad?" he asks.
"She froze my accounts." The words taste like ash. "I have to register with the Bureau or lose everything."
Ricky’s jaw drops open. “You? Get married?”
“Apparently so. Apparently marriage will help me settle down.”
Ricky looks like he’s about to start laughing. The one eye that’s still visible sparkles with amusement. “That’s funny.”
I sigh. “Let’s get this over with. I want my allowance back. Where’s the nearest Bureau office?”
Ricky, the world’s most tolerant and efficient personal assistant, finds it in about three minutes. We head straight back out of the lobby and back into the car. As we take off, a pack of motorcycles roar to life, following us.
