3. Byron
3
BYRON
“ B yron, this is Meg Belfiore, and Meg, this is my brother Byron Belmont,” Roman said, introducing me to the woman he’d employed to advise me on all there was to know about contract law. To help prepare me for my new life in the family business and as future CEO of the Belmont Trust.
The longest second in the history of mankind ensued as she studied me like I’d just oozed from the Great Dismal Swamp.
“Oh, so you’re the asshole,” she sneered, her mouth twitching like she was contemplating a kiss…or a vicious slap. Judging by the sharp tone in her voice, it was the latter.
We stared at one another.
“I prefer the term reformed asshole, but okay,” I volleyed back.
Her gaze scrolled down from my face to my feet and up again, and for a split second, it lingered on my cane, the thing that was currently holding me up.
“I’m curious, is the truck you walked into okay?” she continued, undeterred. Seemingly unsympathetic to my mangled body and bruised face.
“No, it was totaled. Already heading for the scrapyard as we speak,” I replied, equally undeterred.
There was another long beat as she assessed me, relishing in my agony with some pleasure. “Okay, that was almost funny,” she finally said. “I’ll allow it.”
And if that backhanded compliment didn’t flood my insides with warmth.
It was my turn to inspect Meg Belfiore as she stood before me, all pluck and mistress of her own destiny. A spitfire with her own set of rules. Her name rolled around in my mind, perhaps a little too smoothly.
As if it was a name I’d been waiting my whole life to know.
Then there was the way she filled the velvet dress that clung to her curves like a second skin. My practiced eye knew it to be off-the-rack, yet she made it look as if it was expertly sewn onto her, stitch by stitch.
As much as I wanted to compliment her on making the simple dress look magnificent, this wasn’t a good time to do that. Obviously.
For the sake of convenience, let’s forget for a second the way she glowered at me with unblemished disdain, but something in me stirred. Something I wasn’t overly familiar with,
yet found very pleasant.
It started in the pit of my stomach and bloomed into this fiery glow, spreading like wildfire, scorching my insides.
Not to mention my brain pumping norepinephrine at blinding speed, causing an increase in my heart rate, and also clammy palms. Like in a fight or flight response, which was wholly inapplicable here.
Because, believe me, I had no intention of fighting or running away from Meg Belfiore.
What I really wanted to do was corner her and kiss her until she melted like a limp doll in my arms, begging for more.
Okay wait. This was not me. What the hell was happening here?
I had only known her for what, a few minutes, if that long. And, guessing from the contemptuous look she shot my way, the feeling wasn’t mutual.
Not even a glimmer of goodwill unfurled in her eyes, and a couple of things were clear… I was on my own here, and I had zero defense in my arsenal against the likes of her.
Now, of course, it was completely unnecessary to have her help me out full-time, and at the Belmont estate, no less, but she was Roman’s only link to Isabel at this point. Meg knew where Isabel was, and she wasn’t talking, no doubt adding fuel to Roman’s already tortured soul.
At the same time, I wasn’t going to complain. Admittedly, I needed some tough love, and who better to strike a nuanced balance between inspiration and harsh discipline than the merciless Miss Belfiore.
When Meg left us to go to her new office, next to mine… Yes, I stared after because her walking away with those swaying hips just became my favorite thing to watch.
Perhaps I was morally a better man, and yes, I remained a work in progress, but I was most certainly not blind or without a beating heart.
Roman caught on and explicitly warned me not to treat Meg as anything but a co-worker, and I was in no position to risk his trust.
So, what was I to do?
Accept that she was a co-worker only, albeit one who considered me a miscreant.
If you’d known me before, you’d know romantic feelings were never on my radar. I had never had to court a woman, my money being the most important attraction I needed to reel in a sexual fling.
And I don’t say that with pride but rather state it as a fact.
In the circles I used to run in, courtship wasn’t a thing. Every act, every emotion was as shallow as it was pretentious and ungratifying. And I had to wonder if my turning over a new leaf was the key to unlocking my dead, cold heart.
But even if I was a little shocked at these feelings barreling out, all I could do was accept that, for once, a situation was out of my hands.
I had liaised (if one wanted to call it that) with many women as a wealthy bachelor. Most of them pampered and polished, boring and bratty.
Of course those types of women perfectly suited the likes of the arrogant asshole I used to be, with emphasis on used to be , thank you very much.
It was clear, though, that Meg Belfiore was in a league of her own, and sure, I had a few questions. Ones I knew would be too improper to ask.
But let’s get back to being an arrogant asshole, I have a secret to share. Being one was tiresome, and it consumed a lot of energy, believe it or not. There was never any rest for my wicked soul. I always had to be ready to defend my fragile ego, my victimhood on the frontlines as I battled all that was happy and good in this world.
What exactly I was angry about remained life’s biggest secret. Everyone had to suffer because I was too much of a brat to realize that all this resentment I felt was self-imposed and for no good reason too.
So fine, my father treated me like the useless spare to the heir, and a loving relationship between us was not a thing.
My big brother, Roman, dealt with me with a mix of tolerance and annoyance. Looking back, I now have to commend him for not completely cutting me off from the Belmont Trust. Something I’m sure he contemplated many times.
Instead, he made the size of my spending account dependent on seeing a psychiatrist twice a week.
What he didn’t know was thatwhile my newly-divorced shrink was delving into my psyche, trying to dig out the cause of my scandalous mental issues , I was seducing her to stop her from psychobabbling me to death.
Which, after three months, eventually led my highly respected, middle-aged, and very attractive psychiatrist to question her moral compass and qualifications, which rattled me a bit.
I realized I was wrecking decent people’s lives, just for the fun of it.
But it wasn’t until six days ago, when I laid out for Isabel Le Roche the harsh reality she was about to face in her future with Roman, that uncertainty took root inside of me and blossomed into the full-blown realization of what a horrible man I’d been.
My goal in talking to Isabel was to take revenge, getting back at Roman for brushing me off, and yet I achieved zero satisfaction as I was spewing poison.
Which was very confusing at first because my compassionate side was left in the dust a long time ago.
The excruciating pain in Isabel’s eyes tore at my insides without warning. I realized what I was doing went beyond despicable, and the tiniest trace of humanity left inside me flickered back to life.
Instead of going to the party on the yacht I was destined for that night, I went for a very long drive along the coast until I ended up at a dead end and then walked for miles along the rocky shore.
Designer shoes be damned.
For once, my thoughts were my only company, and I sifted through them, one by one, until I concluded that being an intolerable prick ate at your soul like a ravenous, insatiable beast, leaving an empty shell of a man.
Suddenly, I was exhausted from all the useless anger devouring me. And when all those realizations came together, I decided enough was enough.
But before I could face my family and beg their forgiveness, two thugs clobbered me senseless outside a restaurant a couple of nights later. It was so fast, so brutal, and I saw my life flash before my eyes.
The worst of it all was realizing I’d pissed off so many people I had no clue who’d been responsible for landing me in hospital. When Roman admitted to being the one setting it all in motion, if indirectly, all I could think waswhat took him so long.
Of course, I owed my family and the world a huge apology, and undoing all the damage I’d done meant I had to start taking accountability.
When I asked Roman for his forgiveness, his response was unexpected, if not totally overwhelming. All he wanted was his brother back and a partner by his side to help the empire grow even more powerful.
And here I was, ready to do just that.
But now that I’d turned over a new leaf, with ZERO plans of ever going back, I felt a little betrayed by Fate. If you chose to be a better person, why would it immediately throw you a challenge like Meg Belfiore?
She proved to possibly be very distracting, which was a giant obstacle on my path to becoming a decent man with only good intentions.
Not five minutes of knowing this woman, and I was fantasizing about intimate dinners, long walks on the beach, and very hot sex.
That was just not me.
Well, the hot sex was me, but none of the dopey-eyed stuff surrounding it that had now infiltrated my mind.
But what was being reformed if not a commitment to myself and my family that nothing, absolutely nothing, would get in the way of me staying on course and becoming worthy of bearing the Belmont name.
Since I owed this second chance to my brother, Roman, I had every intention of staying professional and keeping my cool with Meg Belfiore.
The last person I ever wanted to disappoint was Roman.
Besides, it had become crystal clear that Meg hated my guts and would never in a million years want anything to do with me. Which worked well considering the circumstances, because the Devil only knew the circus this would evolve into if she was as attracted to me as I was to her.