father. Harvard law student, articulate, smart, classy. Everything that I’m not. I don’t think I’m not smart, but I believe more in doing something that sets your soul on fire than something that will make you miserable just to keep your father happy.
That’s not me and not what I’m about at all. I tried, when I was younger, to satisfy my father and be something that he could be proud of, but every time my sister was around I would get tossed under the mat, so eventually, I stopped trying. I slowly started to realize that I don’t need to rely on family to make me feel wanted. There are lots of different ways you can make yourself feel good. Never rely on anyone else for that.
One of the security personnel pushes open the front door for me, so I walk in, slamming it closed just as the strap of my shoe comes undone.
“Shit, shit, shit.” Running my fingers through my hair to push the mass of brown strands out of my face, I hop up and down like a maniac while trying to fix my shoe. Eventually, my bouncing around moves me toward the back of the house where there’s a huge tent set up for the event. I’m still not sure what event this is for—charity, I think Lydia said.
I’m still attempting to push my damn shoe on when I see how many people are here. Finally, I hook the little buckle back into its hole, swiping a glass of wine from a passing waiter before downing it in one go. These things are bad for my diet, not because of all the food, but because of all the alcohol I consume.
“Isa.” One lady nods her head in passing. She’s wearing a bright red dress that screams ‘I’m important’, but I don’t know who the fuck she is, so I smile. “Hello,”
I respond with my own head nod. I’m so terrible at this. Maybe I was adopted or swapped at birth. I’ve always felt out of my element at these things despite the fact that I’ve been around it all my life. I have never been able to get used to it.
I look toward the front of the marquee, taking another sip of my wine when I stop.
My skin blazes to life, the air gets sucked out of my lungs and the soft melody of whatever bullshit song that was playing disappears into the background of my heavy breathing. There, standing next to my father deep in discussion, is Bryant Royal. The Bryant Royal. When I say the, I mean the egotistical ass from the other night. Can I say he was an ass, though? I mean he didn’t really out rightly be an asshole to me, but his whole “I’m Lord” attitude pissed me off, so yes, I’m sticking to he’s an arse. My father looks as though he’s talking his ears off, though. He sure is fond of Royal. I can’t help the snarky chuckle that leaves me.
Just as Bryant brings the rim of his glass to his lips, his eyes swoop to mine and then he pauses with his glass halting just short of his mouth. A sexy stupid grin tugs on the edge of his lips as he slowly tips his glass to me in a small gesture before downing all its contents. Why is it the more I see him, the more I think he looks familiar? I can’t even trust my own brain, though, because there are times when I
meet people and I think I’ve seen them before, but it turns out, they just look uncannily similar to someone I’ve seen on television.
It’s probably just because he’s ‘Bryant Royal.’
I do a small curtsy to him Jesus fucking Christ. Why the fuck did I just curtsy him?
Maybe because he’s fucking American royalty. Yes, I’ve done my research. As soon as I got home after that dinner, I Googled “Bryant Royal” and was surprised what came up.
Bryant Saint Royal
Twenty-seven years old.
Youngest New York mogul to hit US soil in decades.
Russian roots.
CEO of Royal Enterprise Holdings.
“Bryant Royal is American Royalty and is our very own high flying bachelor.
Never pictured with the woman once, we wonder how such a man keeps his activities so private.”
Yeah okay, so I googled a little deeper than what would be deemed appropriate.
Bryant’s cold hard eyes go back to my father, obviously ignoring my witty curtsy and continues his conversation. Swallowing the rest of my spritzy champagne, I head toward the table laid with food. Second best thing about these things—the Champs being number one—is the food. I’m picking at a bunch of grapes when my dad calls out to me from across the room.
“Isa!” My father’s voice feels as though it ripples through the room.
I stop my greedy food grabbing and turn to face him slowly. “Yes?”
“Come here for a second.” He come-hithers his index finger. I widen my eyes slightly at my father, and then slowly glance around the room, remembering where I am. Remembering I have to behave myself. I don’t need to cause a scene here, and I don’t want to. I try to pick and choose my fights with daddy-dearest, and this isn’t one of them.
“Crap,” I mutter annoyingly under my breath, just as another waiter passes me. I quickly swoop up another flute, bringing it to my mouth as I make my way toward them.
“Hmmm?” I murmur around the rim of my glass, just as I reach their table. My eyebrows raise slightly in defiance, but admittedly, that’s more aimed at Bryant than my father.
“This is Bryant Royal.”
Jesus, now he’s getting Alzheimer’s.
“I know, Dad. I met him at the charity thing a couple nights ago.” I take another long—very, very long— gulp of my wine.
My dad brushes off my response. “He’s the reason why we’re throwing this party, Isa, pay attention.” Wait. Pay attention? Is he joking, I haven’t missed anything at all.
“Sorry.” I am not sorry. Bringing my hands to my mouth, I swipe at the small drop of champagne that fell onto my lip, and I’m just about to end my sentence with something sarcastic, when I again, remember where I am. I really, really, hate these fucking things. Tilting my head, I humor them both. “And why is he throwing this party here?”
“Because he’s just made a large settlement, and it’s here because I offered.” My father looks to my wine glass. “How many have you had?” ‘Large settlement’ I have learned, is code for ‘this-is-something-important-that-little-people-won’t-understand,’ and I’m cool with this, because I really, really don’t care.
“Not enough.” There’s a slight snap in my undertone when I reply before I finally let my eyes rest on Bryant. “Congratulations on your…settlement.” Whatever the fuck that means. “Excuse me,” I murmur, side-stepping away from Bryant and moving to the other side of the tent to raid the buffet. I can’t pass up free food.
Piling small finger food onto my napkin, it’s not long before someone clears their throat from behind me.
I crank my head over my shoulder slightly, a grin tickling my lips when I see who it is. “Yes? Can I help you?”
Bryant steps closer to me, his hands going into his pockets. He narrows his eyes.
“Yeah, actually, you could.”
“Oh?” I pop a grape into my mouth. “Do go on, your highness.”
His eye twitches, but he keeps glaring at me, and it feels like hot fire searing through the glacial glades of the Antarctic. I’m not sure how that would feel, but I’m guessing it would be this. His razor-sharp angular jaw clenches before his dark eyes find mine quickly. “You’re going to do me a favor.”