Chapter Three
Royal
If there is one thing my father enjoys more than accumulating wealth, it’s making sure everyone knows exactly how much of it he has. Tonight’s charity gala isn’t really about raising money for children’s hospitals, despite the banners and speeches suggesting otherwise.
It’s about optics. It always is with Marco Madera. Another opportunity to remind the elites that the Madera family remains untouchable. As I straighten the cuffs of my tuxedo in one of the hotel’s private suites before heading downstairs, I already know why Dad insisted Riccardo and I attend.
He isn’t interested in having his sons beside him because he values family. He wants us there because we’re part of the image. The ballroom is overflowing by the time I arrive. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light across polished floors while a jazz ensemble plays softly from the stage.
Waiters weave effortlessly through clusters of impeccably dressed guests carrying silver trays of champagne. And photographers linger near the entrance, waiting for the perfect shot that will undoubtedly find its way onto society pages tomorrow morning.
Riccardo is already speaking with several executives when he catches my eye and motions me over. Standing beside him are my father, Yvonne, and Sierra. She looks breathtaking.
The deep teal silk dress she wears catches the light every time she moves, making her eyes appear even more vivid than I remembered. Her hair is perfectly arranged in curls over her shoulders. And despite the polite smile she offers everyone around her, I recognize the tension hiding beneath it.
She’s become very good at pretending over the past few days. Ever since our kiss in Father’s study, she’s managed to avoid being alone with me. At first, I respected the distance because she’s made her feelings clear.
Then the distance became a challenge. Now it simply frustrates me because the more I try to leave her alone, the more often I find myself searching every room for her.
“There he is,” my father announces. “Now we’re complete.”
The word almost makes me laugh. Marco places an arm around Yvonne while photographers begin gathering us together.
“Closer,” one of them calls.
Riccardo immediately moves beside our father, perfectly playing his role as the devoted eldest son. I take my place on Yvonne’s opposite side, which unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, puts Sierra directly beside me.
“Smile,” the photographer says.
Flash. Another camera clicks.
My arm settles lightly around Sierra’s waist for the photograph. The contact is brief, innocent for anyone watching, yet my attention immediately shifts to the way her breathing changes.
Without moving my smile, I murmur, “You might want to look happier.”
She doesn’t even glance at me. “I am.”
“No, you look like you’re plotting murder.”
“I haven’t decided whose.”
“You realize the cameras are still taking pictures. They’ll assume you’re unhappy,” I point out.
“They’d be right.” Her smile never wavers.
I fight back my own laugh. “You hide your irritation well.”
“I learned from the best.”
Before I can ask whether she’s referring to my father or her mother, the photographers thank us and begin shouting for other guests. Sierra slips from beneath my arm immediately.
“I’ll see you around,” she says sweetly enough for anyone listening.
Then she walks away without another glance. I watch her disappear into the crowd. Riccardo appears beside me carrying two glasses of bourbon, offering me one.
“Here, brother.”
We drift toward one of the quieter corners of the ballroom where our father is already surrounded by politicians and investors eager to congratulate him on his engagement.
“So,” Riccardo says, “another wife.”
I shrug. “It keeps him occupied.”
“It also keeps him distracted.”
That earns my attention. Riccardo nods toward Marco.
“The more invested he is in wedding plans and impressing Yvonne, the less involved he becomes with day-to-day operations. Guess who gets to make most of the decisions?”
“You.”
He smiles into his drink. “I’m not complaining.”
“I figured.”
“The old man trusts me more every year.” There’s no malice in his response. Just honesty. “What about you?” he asks.
“What about me?”
“Still planning to spend the rest of your life pretending tattooing is your greatest ambition?”
“It’s worked so far.”
I feel his as he studies me for a moment before following my gaze across the ballroom.
“You know if I didn’t know better, I’d think you have the hots for our soon to be stepsister,” he says.
I don’t move my gaze off her. “And why would you think that?”
“You usually have half the women in these rooms orbiting around you.”
“I’m taking the night off.”
Riccardo chuckles. “I think you’re losing your touch.” That makes me laugh.
“My touch?”
“I’ve been watching for twenty minutes. Not one flirtatious conversation. Not one admirer hanging off your arm. I’m beginning to worry.”
“I appreciate your concern.”
“So, prove me wrong.”
The challenge is ridiculous. Unfortunately, he’s right. Without another word, I hand him my drink and walk toward the center of the ballroom. The transformation is automatic. Smile. Eye contact. Confident posture.
Within minutes exactly what Riccardo predicted happens. Conversations shift naturally in my direction, introductions are made, compliments exchanged, laughter flows easily. And before long I’m standing in a semicircle of beautiful women hanging onto every word I say.
They laugh at jokes that aren’t particularly funny, ask questions they already know the answers to, and compete subtly for my attention. Everyone assumes I enjoy this. The truth is very different. It’s exhausting. This version of Royal Madera isn’t real.
He’s a character I perfected years ago because charming people help others to reveal things about themselves. They underestimate a flirt. They gossip freely around him. They trust him. It’s useful. But tonight, I can’t stop wondering where Sierra is.
For the first time in years, the performance feels hollow. “Excuse me, ladies.”
“So soon?”
“I’m afraid so.”
I leave before anyone can stop me.
The balcony door clicks shut behind me, and the noise of the gala drops to a low murmur. The night air is cool against my face, a welcome relief from the overheated ballroom. I grip the railing and stare out at the city lights, trying to clear my head.
“Taking a break from your groupies?”
I smile before turning. Sierra. She is standing in the shadows near the far end of the balcony, half-hidden by a potted tree. The breeze gently lifts strands of her hair.
“I needed some quiet.”
She folds her arms. “Your fan club looked devastated.”
“You were watching?”
She raises one elegant eyebrow. “I happened to notice.”
I push off the railing and walk toward her, slow and deliberate. “Why do you want to know? Looking to join them?”
She laughs, but it sounds tight. “Hardly.”
I stop in front of her, close enough to catch her perfume. Something dark and floral that makes my mouth water. “Because if you are,” I say, lowering my voice, “I’ll make sure every woman in that room is jealous of you.”
She tilts her chin up, meeting my eyes. “How benevolent of you. But I prefer real men, not playboys.”
The word ‘Playboy’ lands like a challenge. I step closer, crowding her against the balcony wall. Her breath catches, just barely, but I hear it.
“Is that why you dislike me?” I ask. “Or is there more to it?”
She opens her mouth to answer, but her eyes drop to my lips, and I know.
I know the way I know my own name. She wants this.
She wants me. Her pupils are blown wide, her breathing shallow.
And when I reach out to brush a strand of hair from her face, she leans into my touch before she can stop herself.
“Tell me to stop,” I murmur.
She doesn’t. I kiss her. It’s not gentle. It’s weeks of tension and stolen glances and that sharp tongue of hers that drives me insane. She makes a small sound against my mouth, and then her hands are in my hair, pulling me closer.
I break the kiss and trail my mouth along her jaw, down to her throat. She tilts her head back, giving me access, and I take it. I suck at her pulse point, feeling it flutter beneath my tongue.
“Royal,” she breathes.
“Hmm?”
“Someone could see.”
I lift my head and look at her. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips swollen. But her eyes, her eyes are bright with something that isn’t fear.
“Do you want me to stop?” I ask again.
She shakes her head, just barely.
I smile against her neck. “Then let’s give them a show.”
I slide my hand up her thigh, beneath the silk of her dress. She gasps, her hand gripping my shoulder.
“Royal…”
“Shh,” I whisper against her ear. “Just feel.”
She’s warm and wet beneath my fingers, and the realization makes my cock ache. I circle her clit with my thumb, light and teasing, and she bites her lip to keep from crying out.
“You’re so wet,” I murmur. “Is this from arguing with me? From pretending you hate me?”
She shakes her head, but her hips buck against my hand.
“I think it is,” I say, pressing harder. “I think you love fighting with me. I think it gets you off.”
“You’re…” She breaks off with a moan as I slide one finger inside her. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet here you are,” I say, adding a second finger. “Clinging to me. Fucking my hand.”
She whimpers, her head falling back against the wall. I can see the struggle in her. The battle between what she thinks she should want and what she actually wants. I lean in and bite her earlobe.
“Anyone could walk out here,” I whisper. “Anyone could see you like this. See what a slut you are for me.”
She flushes crimson, her eyes wide. “I’m not…”
“You are,” I insist, curling my fingers to find that spot that makes her see stars. “You’re my little slut, aren’t you? Getting off while anyone could see.”
She moans, loud enough that I have to cover her mouth with my other hand. Her eyes are glazed, her hips moving in rhythm with my fingers.
“That’s it,” I coax. “Take it. Take what you need.”