Chapter Eight
Irvin
Tonight, Keanu and I are at the American Billionaire Club, having our joint bachelor party. I lean against the polished leather in the private booth, and cigar smoke, mingled with a trace of vanilla, hangs in the air.
Snow sits across from me, and Jameson sits next to him, downing liquor. A stripper straddles Jameson’s lap, and a smile spreads across his face.
“I met the girl I’m supposed to marry.” Jameson sets his crystal glass down on the walnut table.
Snow downs the shot. “Who is she?”
“Raven. She’s a sophomore. I don’t want anything to do with her, and she doesn’t want anything with me either—when I was at her house last night, she dumped juice all over my head.”
I cock an eyebrow. “What fucked-up shit did you say to her?”
He rolls his eyes. “I told her I wanted threesomes, and this marriage is what it is—arranged. I’ll pass her around like the whore she is.” He torches the end of the cigar, puffing on it and blowing cloudy smoke from the corner of his mouth. “I’m not over Bailey’s death.”
Keanu and I study Snow’s behavior. Snow’s fingers claw at his crystal glass, clearly ignoring Jameson’s response. Snow hates that Jameson was in love with Bailey before her death.
The atmosphere is awkward, soaked with tension. Reggae music drifts in the background, rattling the leather lounge chairs. We sit in silence for several seconds.
Keanu pats me on the back. “I can’t believe you’re getting married.”
I bite into my lobster sliders. “What about you? I thought marriage wasn’t for you.”
“My father’s given me no choice but to get married, and he told me that if I don’t take over as CFO, he’ll cut me off completely.”
Snow cocks his eyebrow, leaning back in the leather seat. “What about Flynn? I thought he was going to get it.”
“Flynn is irresponsible with money, and we recently found out he has a gambling problem. So I told my father that if he wants me to run the business, then I’ll choose whom I want to marry.”
I tried that with my father, and it didn’t work out for me, but I’m not worried. Everything is set up, going to plan.
“Does Lilac know she’s marrying you? Because Winter hasn’t mentioned anything about it,” Keanu shoots back.
I shake my head. “No, not yet. But I already set up the small ceremony. It’s going to be intimate.” I pour myself a glass of whiskey, jaw tightening, and glance at Snow. “Don’t tell Lyrical—she’ll ruin the surprise.”
Snow rolls his eyes, muttering something under his breath.
I’ve always hated Snow. He thinks he can do whatever he wants and get away with it. He’s always had this problem with me, which I don’t understand. We never got along, even as kids.
Jameson’s shoulders tense, and he taps his fingers on the table. “What if she says no?”
“Who says I’m giving her an option? She has no choice but to marry me.” I polish off the rest of the lobster sliders.
Jameson grins. “You’re psychotic.”
I down my liquor, slam my glass on the table, and beckon the waitress for another drink.
“I’m not denying that.”
If I outright asked Lilac to marry me, she’d say no—and I need her like I need air. She’s my dream girl, and she’s the only one who seems to see me as a person, not someone with a personality disorder.
People love their labels.
I know I’m not a good person, nor a man fit for marriage, but I’m not about to be stuck with someone I don’t care about. I see couples among the elite, unhappy as hell, coming to the club to cheat on their spouses.
If Lilac touches another man, I’ll cut off the body part he touched her with. I’ll deny her an orgasm for months, pushing her to the brink until she can’t handle it anymore. I have no plans to dabble in new pussy myself.
The elite mingle to feel powerful. People are people, no matter their status.
A stripper asks me for a dance. I shoo her away—I’m not going to embarrass my future wife like that.
Speaking of Lilac, I haven’t heard from her since this morning, so I remove my phone from my pocket and open our message thread.
Me: What are you doing, my princess?
Ten minutes pass with no response. Maybe she’s busy. I click on her contact and call her. The phone rings for several moments, then goes to voicemail, which she hasn’t set up.
That’s strange. Maybe she’s pissed, thinking I’m marrying someone else. I only told her I’m engaged to throw her off my tracks.
I check Instagram next—she hasn’t posted in the last twenty-four hours—then I glance at Keanu.
“Call Winter for me,” I ask.
“Why?” Keanu answers.
“Because Lilac isn’t answering her phone.”
He grabs his phone, dials Winter’s number, and hands it to me. She picks up on the second ring.
“Hey, Keanu.”
“This is Irvin,” I answer.
“Oh. Um… hi, Irvin.” She clears her throat. “How are you?”
I stroke my forehead. “Have you seen Lilac? Or heard from her today?”
“Yes, of course. She’s my best friend.”
“When was the last time you heard from her?”
“Around late afternoon. We had coffee, and she went home to read her thriller. She seemed out of it, but I didn’t think anything of it—sometimes she zones out.”
“It’s unusual for her not to respond to me.”
“Well… I’m sure she’s fine. She disappears for hours when she reads her books.” She pauses. “I’ll text her and let Keanu know if she responds to my messages.”
“No need. I’m going to head over to her place and make sure she’s okay.”
“Okay.”
I hand the phone back to Keanu. “Thank you.”
I dig my wallet from my pocket, throw a couple of hundred-dollar bills onto the table, slide on my Burberry coat, and head out the door.
Once I reach her condo, I punch the code into the pad. The door clicks open, and I step inside slowly, shutting it behind me.
All the lights are off. I jab the switch, and pale light fills the kitchen.
My heart slams into my chest as I spot Lilac passed out on the floor. Panic surges through me. I rush forward, tap her shoulders, and call her name, but she doesn’t budge. She’s soiled herself.
What is going on here?
I tap the side of her cheek. “Princess?”
She doesn’t move. I carry her into the bedroom and lay her on the bed, removing her shirt, pants, and undergarments. I walk into the bathroom, grab a washcloth, soap, and a bowl, and return to her room.
I’ve never seen her like this. Did she take drugs? Did she get drunk and pass out in her own vomit?
I squeeze soap onto the rag and gently stroke it over her delicate, smooth skin, cleaning the smell of vomit and urine. I grab a big T-shirt from her drawer and slide it over her body. I slide fresh panties on her and climb into bed, holding her close.
I hope no one has hurt her, and I hope she’s okay. I check her pulse—it’s normal.
She rolls onto her side and silently cries, pulling me close. I hold her trembling body in my arms.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” she mumbles. “So sorry.”
Tears drip silently down her cheeks as she continues to apologize. I stroke her hair, pressing her warm body to mine.
“I’m here, Lilac. Nothing is going to happen to you.”