Omega’s Faith (Prime Match #3)

Chapter 1

It seemed like a good idea at a time. Terrible ideas often do, especially if it’s two in the morning and you’ve been on the champagne since breakfast.

But like every other time that I’ve screwed up after midnight, the memories don’t come back straight away.

Instead, my morning starts with a pounding headache. I crack one eye open and immediately regret it. Sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse suite, stabbing directly into my brain. My mouth tastes like something died in it. Possibly several somethings.

The cotton sheets stick to my skin where I've sweated through them. I'm still wearing my boxers from last night, which is more than I remember having on at some point. My head pounds with each heartbeat. I want to crawl under the covers and die.

A knock at the door splits my skull in half.

"Go away," I croak, but my voice comes out as barely a whisper.

The knock comes again. Then the electronic beep of a keycard.

"Sir?" Ricky's voice floats through the suite. "I know you're awake. The concierge called to say you ordered room service."

Did I? I have zero memory of that.

Footsteps approach the bedroom. I drag a pillow over my face, blocking out the murderous sunshine. Maybe if I pretend to be asleep, he'll leave.

"I can hear you breathing, Alex" The mattress dips as my personal assistant sits on the edge of the bed. "Come on. Dr Morrison is here to check my stitches."

Urgh. Morrison. It’s great being rich enough to have my own doctor on staff but I wish I had one who wasn’t judging me all the time. Unfortunately, I’m not the one who pays her salary so I wasn’t able to hire someone a little more... understanding.

Wait. Did Ricky say stitches?

I lower the pillow and force both eyes open. A stark white bandage covers half of Ricky’s forehead, medical tape crisscrossing from his hairline to his left eyebrow. The skin around it is purple and swollen.

"What the fuck." I push myself up on my elbows, ignoring the way the room spins. "What happened to your face?"

Ricky's expression doesn't change. After three years as my assistant, very little surprises him anymore. "The glass table happened. At the pool. During our gladiator battle."

Gladiator... pool...

Fragments start filtering back. Tequila shots. Lots of tequila shots. Also champagne. And whiskey. The hotel pool glowing neon blue. Someone handing me a pool noodle.

"Fuck."

"Indeed." Ricky stands, smoothing down his perfectly pressed shirt. How does he look so put together when I know for a fact he was just as drunk as me last night? "The doctor is waiting in the living room. It’d be nice to have her finish before Diana summons you."

"Diana?" I swing my legs over the side of the bed. The movement makes my stomach lurch dangerously. "What did I do to summon the great Diana Norris?"

Ricky's phone buzzes. He glances at it and his jaw tightens. "Well, the video has three million views and climbing."

"What video?"

Instead of answering, he hands me his phone. The screen shows an X post with over fifty thousand retweets. The caption reads: "COLBORNE HEIR GONE WILD!!!!". A number of emojis follow. Most are laughing. Three are aubergines.

Oh no.

I hit play.

The video quality is surprisingly good for something filmed from a hotel window. There I am, in my swim shorts, wielding a foam pool noodle like a sword. Ricky faces off against me, both of us clearly hammered. Party guests form a circle around us, cheering and placing bets.

That’s not so bad? We’re just being a bit silly.

"To the death!" Past-me shouts, raising the noodle overhead.

Out of the crowd, I hear someone shout. “Cowards! Fight naked like the ancient Greeks.”

Oh no.

Video-me roars with laughter and I watch myself start tugging at my swim shorts.

And then the boxers are gone and I’m standing there, pool noodle and other parts fully on display.

"Sir..." present-Ricky says, but I wave him quiet. On screen, the crowd goes wild. Someone starts a chant. Ricky drops his shorts too and everyone screams with laughter.

Then I swing.

It's a hell of a hit. The foam noodle catches Ricky square in the chest with a fwap sound. He bursts into laughter and races at me, his own noodle waving back and forth.

I can see it before he falls. His foot slips on the wet tile. His arms windmill frantically in a ridiculously comical fashion. Video-me is killing himself laughing.

But then Ricky keeps falling. He can’t get his grip on the wet floor. He tumbles backwards and the glass table behind him explodes. I watch as the expression on my face turns from glee to panic.

"Shit." I hand the phone back. "Man, I'm sorry."

He shrugs. “All part of the job,” then he grins. “I’m just annoyed I didn’t get to finish the fight and beat your ass. Get yourself up. We need to deal with this.”

We need to deal with this. How many times have I heard him say that exact same phrase? And always because I have done something dumb.

I drag myself out of bed and follow him out of the bedroom.

In the living room, a woman in her fifties sits on the white leather sofa, medical bag at her feet. She doesn't bother hiding her disapproval as I shuffle in wearing yesterday's boxers and nothing else.

"Mr. Colborne." Her tone could freeze helium. "Charming as always."

"Doc." I collapse into an armchair, trying not to vomit. "How bad is it?"

She's already examining Ricky's forehead, peeling back the bandage. "Hmm. The emergency room doctors did a decent job but it’s fifteen stitches. It'll scar."

Three years Ricky’s put up with my shit. Three years of damaged hotel rooms and bribing witnesses and smoothing over my messes. It’s impressive. Before Ricky, I hadn’t managed to keep a personal assistant more than two months, no matter how much I paid them.

Ricky is the perfect combination of saint and sinner that makes him perfect for the job, but this is different. This is his face. I need to sort my life out. It was just meant to be a pool noodle fight.

I blink and grit my teeth. I need to stop making excuses for my shit.

The doctor applies fresh bandages as I watch. "Keep it clean and dry. Come see me in a week to remove the stitches."

She leaves without looking at me or saying goodbye.

My phone starts buzzing on the coffee table, the screen showing seventeen missed calls from Diana Norris. My stomach clenches.

"The video made the morning news," Ricky says quietly.

Of course it did. Great. Now, the whole country has seen my penis. Or at least the blurred out version.

I pick up the phone just as it starts ringing again. Diana's name flashes on the screen like a warning sign.

"Alexander." Her voice could cut diamonds. "My office. One hour."

"Diana, I can explain..."

How many times have I used that line too? I have no idea.

"One. Hour." The line goes dead.

I drop my head into my hands. The headache has evolved into a full brass band performing behind my eyes. "How bad is it?"

Ricky's already pulling up information on his tablet. "Colborne Industries stock dropped twelve percent at market open. The board is meeting for an emergency session. Three major news outlets are running the story." He pauses. "The Sun is calling it 'Pool Noodle Gate.'"

I roll my eyes. “That’s a terrible headline. Whatever happened to standards in journalism?”

I push to my feet, immediately regretting it as the room tilts. "Fuck. I need a shower. And coffee. And possibly a new identity."

"I'll have coffee ready when you're done." Ricky stands, all business despite the bandage covering a third of his face. "Your suit is hanging in the bedroom closet."

"Ricky..." I catch his arm as he passes. "I really am sorry."

“I know.”

Steam from the shower does nothing to clear my head. I stand under the scalding spray, trying to piece together the rest of last night. There was a party for someone's birthday. Or engagement. Or divorce. These things blur together after a while.

By the time I emerge, Ricky has laid out my clothes and left a tray with coffee and aspirin. The man deserves a raise. Several raises. Hazard pay at minimum.

The Armani fits perfectly, custom-tailored to make me look like I have my shit together.

I down the coffee in three burning gulps and dry-swallow the aspirin. By the time Ricky is done putting me back together, the mirrored doors in the hotel elevator show a man who could grace magazine covers and frequently does.

I slip my sunglasses on while still in the lobby and Ricky hands me a baseball cap. It doesn’t hide who I am but it does hide any dark circles under my eyes. The combination will make for a terrible photo for the paparazzi waiting outside.

I ignore the shouts and the camera flashes as I slip into the back of the chauffeured car.

Diana's office occupies the top floor of Colborne Industries. The receptionist doesn't bother announcing me, although her eyes do slip downward to my groin when she sees me and the corners of her mouth turn up in a smirk.

I give her a friendly grin and a wink. Clearly, she like what she saw.

"Sit." Diana doesn't look up from her computer screen. No wink or a smile from her. At seventy-three, she's sharp as a surgical scalpel. She was my mother's best friend, my guardian after both parents died, and the only person on earth who genuinely terrifies me.

I sit.

"Twelve percent." She finally meets my eyes. "Do you have any idea what a twelve percent drop means for a company this size?"

"Diana..."

"Billions, Alexander. Billions in market value gone because you can't keep your clothes on at a pool party."

"It could be worse?"

Her glare could melt steel. "This is not a joke. The board is discussing ways to remove or at least nullify your voting rights."

That gets my attention. "They can't do that."

She shrugs. “They’re talking about a conservatorship.”

“You must be joking.”

“I am not.”

“Come on, Diana. Yes, I party a lot but I don’t come near the company. I vote the way you tell me to and that’s it. You know that.”