Chapter 1 #2
We’d been staying in a hotel at the time, waiting for hazmat crews who specialize in renovations after incidents like this to clean the marble or replace it or whatever the hell they do.
The blood had been… my stomach drops, and I flick the memory away.
Anyway, it wasn’t long after my father had announced the sale, hired moving crews, and within days, my mother’s home—her pride and joy—was gone.
Her legacy had been signed over to a stranger.
It had taken me this long to find out who he sold it to because there was so little online about Aiden O’Connor.
The enigmatic billionaire entrepreneur from Ireland has next to nothing on social media.
Seriously, what sort of psycho doesn’t even have an Instagram account?
Remembering Yasmine, I type out a reply while studying my surroundings for a glimpse at the man in question. It’s not why I’m here, but I can’t stop myself. Who would want to buy the home where a famous socialite supposedly committed suicide?
Me: Not yet, but I just got here.
As though the words conjure him to life, Aiden O’Connor appears in the hall, sycophants swarming at both sides. My hand loosens on my phone and the glass of champagne I’m still holding, almost sending them both careening to the floor, but I maintain my grip at the last second.
I recognize him from the lone picture I found.
I’d studied it in rage for hours, so there’s no way I’d miss him.
I don’t hear what the people around him are saying because a swell from the band drowns out the words, but I don’t care.
I don’t need to hear anything. Seeing him is enough to make me want to leave without accomplishing a damn thing I set out to do.
Without realizing it, my feet have transported me backward into the doorway leading to the terrace.
Most of the partygoers are there, hovering around the blackjack and craps tables, dressed in gaudy gowns and ornate tuxes that remind me of Mardi Gras.
Their expressions are hungry behind their masks, eagerly awaiting the start of the gambling.
People with money sure do love to play games with it.
My back smacks into the doorframe, but I barely feel a thing.
Masked faces blur around me, a funhouse of raucous laughter and devilry.
It’s golden hour, the perfect time for an arc of waning sunlight to streak through the floor-to-ceiling windows and surround him in a brilliant halo.
Like he’s a fallen angel. His sinner’s mouth, so full and tempting, is like art as it forms a response, but there’s a buzzing in my ears drowning it out.
My vision narrows until I see only him. If we were in a rom-com, this would be our meet-cute, but it’s a jump scare instead.
His tailored black suit clings to his muscular body, accentuating his broad shoulders, trim waist, and thick thighs.
A snowy-white button-up strains over well-toned pectorals and parts at his neck, revealing a wealth of tattoos.
The only one I can discern at a distance is a death moth at the base of his throat.
The rest are shadows of ink—all black—that cover every available surface aside from his face.
The fingers of one hand, covered in rings, dance as he twists a lone black and gold casino chip around his knuckles.
He prowls through his admirers, a ready smile on his lips, but it doesn’t quite reach his stormy gaze.
It's been a long time since I could tear my attention away to note that two men are on his heels. One is dressed in an understated black suit, similar to the one worn by the attendant at the front door. A quick study dismisses him as an assistant or bodyguard, maybe? He sticks to the background, eyes attentive, and rejects offers of champagne to murmur into an earbud he touches every few seconds like it doesn’t fit quite right.
The other must be one of O’Connor’s friends, because he sticks close to his side.
His wide, manic smile is a ready punctuation to whatever he whispers in O’Connor’s ear.
He’s dressed much more casually in a pair of black pants and an untucked white button-up, only halfway fastened, at best. A variety of gold chains adorn his neck and hang over the sleek muscles of his exposed chest. His hands frequently dive into dark, riotous curls, making them a wild mess around his angular, striking face.
Even more striking are his impossibly light blue-green eyes.
To ease the ache in my stomach, I polish off the rest of my champagne and divert my focus.
A ready server is nearby, appearing as though out of nowhere, and replenishes my glass with only a smile.
I should pace myself—I’m going to need a clear head for what I have planned—but I down it in several long gulps.
When the fuzziness and warmth of the alcohol melt away my nerves, I look up and freeze.
Because Aiden O’Connor glares right back at me from beneath a blank white half-mask, his heavy brows furrowed, silver eyes piercing.
Staring at me like he knows I shouldn’t be here.