Chapter 9 Nicole #2
Besides, I have to use every opportunity to remind the hyenas of their place.
To make sure they don’t forget who is above them—and why.
Who knows, one of them might suddenly get the idea of becoming queen.
I can’t risk ending up beneath anyone in any sense of the word.
That’s the first step toward handing over power.
“I’m definitely getting this one.” I pat my hip with my palm and disappear into the fitting room.
Even when I’m back in front of the mirror, dressed in a gown that screams bold elegance, my fingers tremble.
I reach for the zipper and slide it down; the dress slips over my skin like silk.
The nightmare from last night resurfaces —rabbit ears, a collar, a wall with the word “BUNNY” struck out across it.
I shake my head, but it doesn’t erase the memory.
I hold the dress against my chest. My eyes flick to the corners of the tiny fitting room. I’m alone. The air remains still. But his magic doesn’t follow the rules of logic. All it took was one flick of his hand to send me into a world where voices are trapped in glass vials.
My pulse races, and I tighten my grip on the thin fabric. He might be hiding in the shadows.
I bite my lip, palms sweating, and quickly pull on my shorts and T-shirt.
* * *
By the time evening rolls around, I’m pacing my room, a headache forming at my temples. The thought finally settles in my mind as a quiet, irrefutable truth: the Black Joker is real.
Not a childhood legend. Not a nightmare from my sleep. Not a hallucination born of paranoid schizophrenia. He exists.
And if I don’t handle this right, I could end up in a psychiatric hospital—or his castle—well before the three weeks are over.
I open the text messages I received during dinner with Branimir.
Thinking about my riddle, Baroness?
I check the number they were sent from: 00290.
Goddamn bastard.
My jaw tightens. I resist the urge to hurl my phone at the wall and keep reading.
At times, I’m all you wish to see
At times, I’m what you wish to flee
But I’m mere shape, no true possession,
An entity formed at your discretion.
What am I?
What the hell is this supposed to mean? A thought… A shadow? Imagination? I pull out a notebook and start jotting down every answer that comes to mind.
I’ve scribbled down at least twenty by the time my brain starts to hum. My pulse quickens while I scan the list.
One mistake could be fatal…
I press the pen to the page before I snap the notebook shut. Should I tell someone? Should I say out loud that I might cease to exist in three weeks?
Eventually, I make my way to my father’s study. I knock, then enter at the sound of his familiar “Yes.”
He’s sitting at his desk, buried in paperwork, with his trophies shining on the tall bookcase behind him—glass plaques, gold nameplates engraved with awards, and a few tiny marble statues carved to show he’s achieved what few ever could.
There are more in his other office. All those accolades, displayed with surgical precision as proof that failure is not an option. In my father’s world, weakness has no place.
Which is why I choke up when I meet his steely gaze. My lips part for a second, but no sound emerges. Even the idea of coming to him with a problem I can’t solve myself feels like a misstep.
He puts down the document he was reading and peers at me over his glasses. “Yes, Nicole?” His tone carries that familiar hint of impatience.
I remain standing near the door, fingers twisting. “There’s a bit of an issue…”
He picks up the cigarette case that’s always on his desk and starts rolling it between his fingers.
My stomach knots up. This was a mistake. I can’t tell him about the Black Joker. I can’t admit how stupid I was. So I straighten my shoulders and add, with forced confidence, “Actually, I can handle it myself.”
My father flashes a smile—one I recognize all too well.
It’s the kind that wins clients, garners trust, and dominates boardrooms. Yet, it carries no warmth.
Besides being ambitious, as sharp in business as a shark, and unnervingly clever, my father is also quite handsome. His only flaw? He lacks a heart.
“I’m glad you’re here, actually. I wanted to speak with you.
” He gestures to the chair opposite his desk but doesn’t wait for me to sit.
“Your mother must have told you we’ll be attending the Deliberovs’ gala tomorrow.
Deliberov is about to commission the most luxurious spa complex in the Balkans. I want the contract.”
“I’m sure that’s not going to be a problem,” I say.
He nods. “I’m hoping tomorrow evening we’ll seal the deal on his project. He’s been circling for weeks, weighing offers, playing the strategist. But I know how he thinks. He doesn’t just want the lowest price. He wants certainty. A name that guarantees not a single coin will be wasted.”
“He doesn’t honestly believe there’s a bigger name than yours in this industry, does he?” I smirk.
“Of course not. He’s just a cheap bastard.
” My father leans back, fingers brushing the smooth edge of the desk.
“This is one of those moments, Nicole, when good planning wins the game. In our field, it’s not all about building.
It’s about persuasion. You don’t sell a service, you sell a promise.
If I show him tomorrow that I’ve calculated everything down to the last bolt and brick, he’ll sign without asking a single question.
” He pauses, then adds with a quiet, satisfied smile, “I have no intention of giving him any other choice.”
This is the business aggression I admire in him. His ability to manipulate circumstances so that he always gets what he wants is both terrifying and extraordinary. It’s that same predatory instinct that has made him the man he is today.
“By the way,” he says, “your mother mentioned you’ve heard of Daniel, the Deliberovs’ son. Smart man, isn’t he? Studied business in London, young, promising… He’ll be taking over the family company one day.”
My jaw tightens.
“I do hope you’ll be… nice to him tomorrow.
You know how important the right connections are.
If the Deliberovs are pleased with our meeting, it’ll make negotiations easier.
Of course, I’m not saying you should do anything you don’t want to…
Just be polite. A little charm never hurts.
And you’re twenty-one now. It’s about time you start thinking about a suitable match. ”
I frown. It’s not uncommon for higher social circles to arrange marriages.
Yet it never occurred to me that Dad would actually go along with it.
He’s always found those elite “fucking crackheads” insufferable, unless there’s a business deal on the table.
I’m sure it won’t take him long to realize he doesn’t want them as in-laws.
Rather than voice any of that, I merely raise an eyebrow. “Rumor has it, Daniel’s gay.”
I expect some surprise or annoyance, but he just waves my words off. “And? That doesn’t change the fact that he’s intelligent, well-mannered, and has a family name that carries weight. Business isn’t built on love, Nicole.”
I purse my lips. “And what if Daniel has no interest in women whatsoever?”
My father smiles. “Don’t be na?ve. In our world, marriage is more of a transaction than a romance.
Whether he sleeps with women or men is beside the point.
If he wants to secure his position, having a smart, ambitious wife by his side will help.
” His gaze pins me in place, measuring me.
“And that’s what you are. Smart. Ambitious.
Being seen with the future heir of one of the most powerful families wouldn’t hurt you. On the contrary, it would open doors.”
He’s actually serious about this? My hands curl into fists on my lap. “You’ve always told me to be independent, and now you want me to… choose a husband based on the weight of his last name? To become someone’s trophy wife for the sake of a business deal?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Nicole. I’m suggesting you don’t shut the door on what fate offers you.” My father tilts his head, rolling a cigarette between his fingers. “Or are you still clinging to the illusion that the world runs on love and principles?”
I shrug, that familiar knot tightening in my stomach. I don’t live under the illusion of love, but if I’m to stand beside someone, it will be because I chose them.
My father lights the cigarette and exhales a puff of smoke that drifts across the room. “If that’s the case, you’re not as smart as I thought.”
My heart lurches, an ache settling deep down, but I refuse to let him see it stung. If I lose my temper, he’ll deem it a weakness. So I keep my composure, drawing in a slow breath. The weight in my chest doesn’t lift. There’s no air for me in this house. There never has been.
His tone softens. “No one’s forcing you to marry the boy. Just talk to him. Who knows, you might even like him. I’m sure you’ll give me another reason to be proud.” And just like that, his focus shifts back to the papers in front of him, signaling the conversation has ended.
I head back to my room, a heaviness swelling in my chest until it blooms into darkness. That wasn’t a suggestion! It was a directive.
My fingers curl tighter as I walk down the hallway. I try to convince myself I have a choice. That if I want to, I can push back.