Desperate Lies (Kings of London #1)

DIANA

I’ve got about thirty seconds to escape before Dad comes after me. Clattering down the steps of the Hawkston Mayfair Hotel, I nearly trip on the silk of my evening gown. If I had time, I’d take my heels off and sprint, but I can’t waste a second.

My heart pounds, sweat gathering on the back of my neck and under my arms. I need to get out of here. Now.

I’ve just sabotaged the biggest business deal my father ever had by refusing to marry the man he chose for me.

I shoot a glance over my shoulder. No sign of him. Maybe he’s inside having a heart attack. After the stunt I just pulled, it wouldn’t surprise me. But if he isn’t dead, he’ll come for me.

God knows what he’ll do if he catches me.

A cab. I need a cab.

I spot a taxi rank inside the hotel forecourt, cross the tarmac at a rapid clip and haul open the door of the nearest cab. Throwing myself inside, I slam it behind me and slump into the backseat.

My hands are shaking and I clench them into fists. Hold it together, Diana. I need to get out of here in one piece.

Until now, I’ve done everything my father wanted, including agreeing to marry Seb Hawkston, youngest son of hotel magnate, William Hawkston.

It was all arranged so the Hawkstons could build one of their fancy mega-hotels on land my father owns, and tonight he was going to parade his plans in front of the board members and shareholders.

It should have been an elegant evening of food, wine, and celebration. Dad stood to make millions. And now? Now, he probably wants to kill me.

“Where to, love?” comes the driver’s voice through the partition. He sounds casual; there’s no way he noticed my desperate, Cinderella-esque escape from the hotel.

I’m about to tell him where I want to go, where I planned to go, as soon as I was officially single again.

But heading straight to London’s most exclusive sex club when my heart is pounding, head spinning, and I’m barely keeping my shit together, feels insane.

But where else could I go? Who would want me like this? Sylvie, my sister, wouldn’t put herself in the cross-fire for me, not when she values her relationship with Dad. And what about Lizzie, my best friend?

I don’t want to drag her into this mess.

“Diana!” comes the roar of my father’s voice from outside the cab.

I jolt in my seat, an involuntary shriek escaping me as I turn to see him tripping down the hotel steps, his face a red-blotched vision of middle-aged fury, cheeks puffy, one outstretched hand violently beckoning me back to the hotel.

He holds his gut with his other hand like he needs to stop it leaking over his trousers as he runs.

“Get back here,” he yells, his eyes flashing an anger so violent that it sears me through the cab window. The driver glances over his shoulder, eyes widening when he sees the mad man that is my father.

“Where to?” he squawks, both hands gripping the wheel. The engine roars with a heavy rev like he’s as eager to escape as I am. “Where do you want to go?”

I fumble to secure my seatbelt.

“Diana!” Dad yells again, closer this time.

He’s crossing the forecourt.

Ten seconds.

Nine.

Eight.

It’s now or never.

Stick to the plan, Diana. Stick to the motherfucking plan.

The rest can wait.

“Delirium,” I instruct, giving the driver the name of the sex club.

If it means anything to him, he doesn’t let on.

“Please, quickly,” I say before panic swallows me up. “Please drive.”

Dad reaches us, shuffling foot-to-foot in front of the cab with his arms spread, like he thinks this hulking vehicle is a bull in a field he can convince not to charge.

The driver mutters something and swerves out of Dad’s way. As we pass, Dad clenches both fists and shakes them at the window, yelling a barrage of abuse at me. Some words are muffled, but selfish bitch comes through loud and clear. I cringe, curling in on myself, willing the cab to drive faster.

But this can’t be it. Come on, Diana. This cannot be the last vision he has of me—huddled in the back of a car—before I’m finally free of him.

I inhale sharply, force myself to sit straight, and flip him the middle finger as we drive away. Very mature.

He halts, shoulders falling as his mouth drops open, and I feel the tiniest bit of pride that I’ve really fucking done it. I’ve turned my back on the man who has controlled me for all of my twenty-one years.

The cab speeds up, and Dad grows smaller and smaller as we leave him behind.

I collapse again, breathing hard and trying to ignore the uneasy thump of my heart. Am I doing the right thing?

I have to believe I am. I have to believe that my freedom is worth fighting for.

The cab takes a few turns down Mayfair streets, passing redbrick townhouses lit up by the glow of old-fashioned street lamps.

I press a hand against my racing heart and sit that way for a few minutes, but as the adrenaline rush of escaping fades, a gloom as dull as the overcast night sky swoops in and takes its place.

I might not be marrying the man he chose for me, but I’m not really free at all. Dad manages my finances and controls my allowance. He controls everything, and all I have in my name is a bank account with very little in it.

Sitting in this overly warm black cab, sweaty palms now clasped between my knees, my decisions look questionable, if not downright stupid.

How the hell am I going to survive after this?

I can’t think about it now. If I do, I won’t get through the night. Even thinking about it has panic rising again.

I stare out of the window. It’s okay. I’m okay. My dad isn’t here. I can deal with him tomorrow.

For now, I’m in control. I get to be the one making choices about my life. Me, Diana Marchetti. In charge of her own destiny.

That sounds good. It’s exactly what I want.

But I still don’t feel good. I slump in the seat again, head in my hands. I should be elated that I’ve taken the first steps towards freedom, but I can’t shut out the truth, no matter how hard I try.

I am so alone.

While Seb Hawkston walked away from our engagement straight into the arms of the woman he’d been in love with for years, the world-famous supermodel Erica Lefroy, I walked away with nothing but a change of clothes and a stolen sex club membership card.

Seb’s a good guy, don’t get me wrong. I begrudge him nothing, but he wanted out as much as I did. He’s just lucky that someone was there to catch him at the end.

“All right, Miss?” comes the driver’s voice, and I sit up, meeting his gaze in the mirror.

“Fine. Yes.”

“That was…” His eyes dart away. “That was rough back there.”

“Yes.” I rub the thumb of one hand against the palm of the other, over and over. “Yeah. Pretty rough. I’m okay now though.”

“You don’t need me to stop? I can pull over.”

“No.” I take a deep breath. “I’ll be fine, really. Thank you for asking though.”

He gives me a nod in the rearview and focuses on the road, while I rifle through the messy contents of my handbag. Finally, I find what I’m looking for: the gold membership card with Delirium in black script on the front, and my sister’s name embossed in the bottom right corner.

Sylvie Marchetti.

Her boss gave her the membership as a job perk, but as far as I’m aware, she’s never used it.

Probably because it’s weird and creepy that he would do that.

She has no idea I know she has a membership at all, let alone that I might pilfer her card and come myself.

Or that I’ve been doing exactly that since I was eighteen.

I’ve never told her because we don’t really see eye-to-eye on these things.

She’s the good girl; the one who always stays in Dad’s favour and does exactly what he wants, including agreeing to date a man he chose for her.

She’d probably think it’s unhinged to want to go to a sex club at all, let alone on the night you’ve publicly ended your engagement.

Maybe it is a bit unhinged, but then, I feel unhinged. Out of orbit. Overwhelmed. Delirium is the one place I know I’ll be able to lose myself in the experience. Forget who I am. Forget everything I’ve been through.

When I get there, I won’t have to be Diana Marchetti, runaway almost-bride, prodigal daughter.

Disgrace.

I can let all of that go. Pretend to be someone else. Nameless. Unanchored and unknown. Complete anonymity. No attachments. For a few hours, I can pretend that I don’t have to wake up tomorrow and face the mess I’ve made.

The fact that I’ll get to have sex and, with any luck, a few decent orgasms, is a bonus. I might not have mastered the financial independence step on the path to freedom, but I can choose the next man I sleep with.

My body. My choice.

No more arranged marriages for me.

I drop my bag to the floor and sit for a while longer, breathing steadily, flicking my nail repeatedly over Sylvie’s membership card.

Once I’m feeling calmer, and even a little excited at the prospect of my night of sexual freedom—unhinged as it may be—I grab my bag again and pull out the change of clothes I packed earlier today when I was planning this escape, and start stripping.

I’m ready for this. I, Diana Marchetti, am ready to symbolically—and sexually—reclaim my independence.

The driver’s gaze meets mine in the rearview mirror as I yank off the formal peach silk dress I was wearing while still playing the role of the future Mrs Hawkston.

Future Mrs Nothing.

“Eyes on the road,” I say with a smirk, getting into character as I shimmy into tonight’s dress: a glittering magenta sequin number.

Thin straps skim my shoulders, and the hem doesn’t reach mid-thigh.

I’m more skin than anything, but given where I’m going and what I’m going there for, it seems appropriate.

He makes a clicking sound with his mouth and shifts his focus back to the road. “Right you are.”

I change my shoes, spritz a bit of my special night-out perfume (a little heavier and muskier than my usual), slick on another layer of bright pink lipstick, then pull out the Venetian mask.

It’s masquerade night at Delirium; I was delighted when I realised the happy coincidence of timing. Total freedom on the very night I want it most.

I fix the pink and gold feline mask in place and edge up in my seat to get a glimpse in the mirror.

It covers the upper half of my face; enough to make me unrecognisable, at least to people who don’t know me.

And even if they did, they probably wouldn’t be able to tell me apart from Sylvie unless they knew me really well.

“Better without the mask,” the driver grumbles.

Laughter pops out of my mouth. “Why, thank you kindly, sir,” I say, testing out my American southern drawl.

Fuck pretending to be Sylvie tonight. That’s far too close to home.

Tonight, I’m channelling some Scarlett O’Hara and hoping no one questions me on it, which they won’t.

My mother is from Atlanta, and I’ve been mimicking her perfectly for years.

The driver laughs at the change in my voice, and for a second, I feel a happy burst of connection with another human that chases away some of the shadows in my mind.

As our laughter settles, the cab rolls up to the destination address—an enormous white gated property not far from Hyde Park.

London is a small place, especially when the astronomical membership cost to this particular club filters society even further. There’s a chance I might know someone in here, but I’m willing to take the risk. Besides, if they’re here too, then we’re after the same thing.

No shame in that.

I thank the driver, tuck my bag over my shoulder, exit the cab, and head up the steps to the black lacquer front door, reminding myself of my three rules:

1. No married men.

2. No names.

3. No repeats.

They keep me safe, and I stick to them like glue. No deviation. I’m good at picking the right men, and so far, my instincts have never been wrong.

I nod to the bouncers; two large, well-dressed men with close cropped beards. Handsome, stylish; discreet but powerful. That just about sums up the vibe of this place. Sexual liberation, money, power, and absolutely no fucking shame.

I swipe the stolen membership card on the door, wait for it to open, and pass inside the grand entrance, my stilettos tapping on the tiled floor.

My body starts to hum. I’m so close to getting what I need: a really good fuck and a mind-blowing orgasm to distract me from today’s nightmarish events.

I might not be truly free, financially at least, but this is the start.

The last thing I want replaying in my mind on my first night as an untethered, single woman is my father’s furious face.

In fact, I wouldn’t be sorry if I never, ever saw it again.