3. Liv
CHAPTER THREE
LIV
I told him in no uncertain terms I wasn’t interested in his proposition, so I thought he’d move on, but when I’m back on the stage on Tuesday, my stranger is in the room.
Except he’s no longer a stranger at all; I have his name. I know it’s his real name, courtesy of google. Callum Noble, twenty-four, lawyer—I called it—only child and sole heir to the earl Albert Noble, and prince of the realm. I definitely didn’t call those last bits.
And he’s certainly not my anything.
I ignore him as I dance, pretending I haven’t spent the last two days mentally tallying how I’d spend his money. One hundred thousand euros for a shag. How ludicrous. Part of me is insanely curious about the details of the deal. If not him, who was it that I was supposed to screw? Why wouldn’t any other girl work? It’s all awfully mysterious. But curiosity killed the cat, and I plan on having a long life, so I’m not going to indulge myself by asking Callum any questions. I’m just not.
Even if the card he handed me includes what looks like a mobile phone number. It can’t possibly be his. Men like Callum Noble don’t hand out their private numbers to random chicks they want to buy for a night. I bet it’s a secretary’s.
I finish my last routine for the night and get changed in the back. It’s crazy hot in July, even at this time, so I’m only wearing shorts and a T-shirt, with a baseball cap to hide my face. I stuff my hair in it, before making my way to the underground parking lot underneath the club.
One of the reasons I feel relatively safe at my job is the fact that the building has a basement entrance reserved for the staff. We’re on the ground floor of a skyscraper, with a casino on top of us, and a hotel above that. Patrons can access the basement levels 2 and 3, but the first is exclusive to those who work here. I don’t need to go out on the street at the end of my shift, so creeps can’t follow me.
That’s excluding wealthy, entitled, gorgeous creeps in custom suits.
I wonder how he found me? Once he got my name, working out that I go to the park at least once a week can’t have been hard, but how did he get it in the first place? My guess is he bribed my boss, or hacked the employee records.
It should disturb me more than it does, and it would, if he were any other of my patrons. But I guess that coming from a freaking Noble , I’m not surprised. If he wants to find out who someone is, there’s no reason why he can’t.
Ugh. I sigh, frustrated with myself as I straddle my dingy little Vespa. It breaks down at least twice a month, but it gets me from A to B without having to walk at three in the morning.
Before I turn it on, I grab my phone, giving in.
Me: Is this your actual number?
I intend to immediately shove it back in my pocket, but a reply flashes before I put it away.
Royal Psycho: Why, hello, love. Delighted to hear from you. Yes, it is.
Why does it sound like he absolutely expected me to text him? I told him no, numerous times, in various ways.
And then I bloody texted him, like an idiot.
I stuff my phone back in my pocket and head home, resolutely ignoring the three beeps I feel through my pants.
It’s one thirty this time, and I enter a blissfully silent apartment. Ellie and Meg have work in the morning on weekdays, so they save all sexcapades for the weekend.
I make a conscious effort to start the kettle and brew some herbal tea, before sinking on the sofa and retrieving my phone.
Royal Psycho: It’s been some time since I indulged in middle of the night texting. Isn’t it customary to receive interesting pictures at this time?
Royal Psycho: Or filthy promises. I’m not fussy.
Royal Psycho: Come on, Liv. You wouldn’t have texted me if you didn’t want to play.
I find myself imagining his voice as I read the words, and I flush.
Me: I was driving, if you must know. And no pictures for you. You’ve seen enough of me, don’t you think?
Royal Psycho: Not nearly as much as I will, and soon. If a hundred grand isn’t enough, name your price.
My jaw drops. Name my fucking price?
Me: I told you I wasn’t a whore.
Royal Psycho: Everything is for sale.
Me: Oh yeah? How much do YOU cost?
Royal Psycho: I’d fuck anyone for a billion in cash.
I grunt in annoyance, because truth be told, I don’t think anyone would refuse that deal, even billionaires.
Me: What if that’s my price? A billion.
Royal Psycho: Now we’re talking.
Me: You’d pay it?
Royal Psycho: No, but we can start the negotiations.
Me: Cheapskate.
Royal Psycho: Any businessman worth his salt knows not to pay more than the market value on a product. I’m quite certain you’ll lower your fee.
Me: *middle finger emoji*
Royal Psycho: Now, now. That wasn’t very mature of you. Two hundred and fifty thousand.
I blink.
My brain can’t even comprehend the concept of two hundred and fifty thousand euros. I know the apartment I lived in with my father is worth sixty thousand. A little over four apartments?
I also know how much my tuition is for the next year at Crompton College: ten thousand a year. I couldn’t afford that, but it, along with the eight grand for housing, is covered by my scholarship.
I have another acceptance burning a hole in my bedside drawer: the Royal University of Anderia, one of the best colleges in the entire freaking world. They offered me a social scholarship, covering housing, but nothing for the tuition—unsurprisingly. I have good grades, but just getting in was a miracle; the merit scholarships are only given to geniuses like Jinx, or the one-in-a-million talents like Tricks.
The tuition is fifty thousand a year for Anderian. I considered getting a loan for it, but dismissed the idea. How the hell would I ever repay it, when my choice of study takes seven years?
But if Callum is serious…I could do it. His money could pay for my entire undergrad and then I’d just have to fork out for the post-grad years. And I’d have four years to save up for it.
I bite my lip hard enough to bruise.
Me: Tell me why you picked me.
I need to understand that.
Royal Psycho: That’s a complicated answer and not one I want to give via text. Meet me tomorrow?
Me: Right. So you can kidnap me, have your way with me, and get your minions to dump the body in the nearest river.
Royal Psycho: Is that why you’re saying no, love? You’re afraid of me.
I’d be insane not to be.
Before I reply, he sends me a new message: an address in the posh part of town.
Le Luminaris.
I’ve heard the name somewhere but I can’t immediately place it. A quick Google search tells me that it’s the place to be, the restaurant frequented by the famous, the wealthy, and the beautiful youth of Anderia. The crown prince and his siblings are frequent patrons.
Royal Psycho: Tomorrow, 6 pm. You can meet me at the doors, where a hundred paps will take pictures of us entering together. And if your body is found in any shallow rivers in the next few weeks, I’d be the prime suspect. Would that suit?
I stare at the message, trying to name the different feelings flooding my brain. Confusion, interest, bafflement, relief.
I might have played it off as a joke but part of me was genuinely worried about what he planned to do to me. If he’s serious about being seen in public with me, then murder, or general harm, is likely not part of his plan.
Oh my god, I’m genuinely considering that nonsense. I am a cat. I really hope it’s not lethal. At least, the word is, we have nine lives, and I’m only on my first one.
Me: I’m telling my best friend everything you say.
Royal Psycho: Tricks, right? If you must. She already has an NDA.
He knows Tricks?
I have about a million more questions now.
Me: I don’t have anything to wear someplace like that.
He’s responded almost immediately to each of my texts but now, he takes a minute.
Royal Psycho: Get something red. See you at six.
I’m about to shoot another protest, and maybe suggest my local pizza joint instead, when I get another text—from my bank.
I have an alert set up to tell me whenever I get, or spend, more than a thousand bucks.
Automatic notification: you have received 2500 euros at 1:47 am on 17th of July 2021, from Sir Callum Edward Charles Roissy-Noble.
Me: ?????
Royal Psycho: Night, love.