Chapter 9
Ricard
Iswirled the amber liquid in my glass, watching the light from the chandeliers dance through the whiskey.
The main restaurant at Dove Canyon was a study in understated opulence—dark wood paneling, butter-soft leather booths, and discreet lighting that cast everyone in their most flattering glow.
Perfect for discretion, perfect for secrets.
“You seem distracted tonight, my dear boy,” Julius remarked, cutting into his perfectly seared ribeye with surgical precision. “Penny for your thoughts? Though I suspect they're worth considerably more.”
I smiled at my old friend and mentor across the table.
I still remembered the day I'd finally admitted my sexuality to him, terrified of rejection.
He'd simply poured me another brandy and shared stories of his own decades-long string of discreet male lovers.
In my world of rigid protocol and expectation, Julius remained one of the few people with whom I could truly be myself.
“Just tired, perhaps,” I lied, taking a sip of my whiskey.
The truth was more complicated. My thoughts kept drifting back to Theo—not just his physical appeal, but the vulnerability I'd glimpsed beneath his professional demeanor.
There was something in his eyes when he'd let his guard down, something genuine that I rarely encountered in my world of diplomatic smiles and rehearsed pleasantries.
Julius raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You've never been a convincing liar, Ricard. Not to me, at any rate.” He dabbed at his lips with his napkin. “But very well, keep your secrets for now. Tell me instead how you spent your day.”
Grateful for the change of subject, I cut into my own steak, a dry-aged porterhouse that practically melted beneath my knife.
“I had another massage this morning,” I said, the memory of skilled hands working the tension from my muscles still fresh in my mind.
“Different masseur this time. Equally talented, if somewhat more... enthusiastic in his attention to detail.”
Julius chuckled, a knowing gleam in his eyes. “I should hope so. The services here don't come cheaply.”
“After that, I participated in a yoga session.” I took a bite of the steak, closing my eyes briefly at the exquisite flavor. “I've never been particularly flexible, but the instructor was patient. I feel remarkably loose now.”
“Yoga,” Julius mused, swirling his wine thoughtfully. “I've never understood the appeal myself. Lying about on mats, contorting oneself into unnatural positions. Though I suppose the view of one's fellow practitioners can be... inspiring.”
“Julius,” I admonished without heat. His appetites had always been legendary. “You're incorrigible.”
“At my age, my dear, incorrigible is a compliment.” He took a sip of his wine, then fixed me with a more serious look. “Speaking of incorrigible... have you heard anything from your family? Or that perpetually worried assistant of yours?”
The mention of home sent a cold wave through me, dampening my good mood.
The subtle clink of silverware against fine china suddenly felt grating, the murmur of conversation from nearby tables intrusive.
“No,” I admitted. “Though that might have something to do with the fact that I threw my phone in the pool.”
Julius paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, then burst into laughter. “You didn't!”
“I most certainly did.” I couldn't help but smile at the memory of my phone sinking to the bottom of the villa's pool, bubbles rising like tiny declarations of independence. “It was rather liberating.”
“I can imagine.” Julius's laughter subsided into a thoughtful expression. “Though I assume the reason for this aquatic disposal had something to do with your brother's latest... indiscretion?”
I nodded, my jaw tightening. “Headlines about Remy's supposed love child.
Mother demanding I return home to 'present a united front' while simultaneously reminding me to be discreet about my 'unfortunate tendencies,' as she calls them.” I took a larger sip of my whiskey, the smoky notes burning pleasantly down my throat. “The usual.”
Julius reached across the table, his hand covering mine briefly in a gesture of support. “Living in Remy's shadow has never been easy for you, has it? But it doesn't mean you should sacrifice your own happiness.”
“Happiness is a luxury rarely afforded to those of us born to duty,” I replied automatically, echoing the sentiment my father had instilled in me since childhood.
“Horseshit,” Julius responded with characteristic bluntness. “Duty without joy becomes mere obligation, and obligation without purpose is simply a waste of a life. You deserve better than that, my boy.”
Before I could formulate a response to this unexpected philosophy, a familiar figure approached our table.
Vincent Stone, the executive director of The Ranch, moved through the restaurant with the easy confidence of a man in complete control of his domain.
He stopped to exchange pleasantries with other diners as he made his way toward us, his smile warm but professional.
“Baron von Konigsberg, Your Grace,” Vincent greeted as he reached our table, inclining his head in a subtle acknowledgment that managed to convey respect without subservience. “I trust you're enjoying your evening?”
“Splendidly,” Julius replied, gesturing at his nearly empty plate. “The chef has outdone himself tonight.”
“I'll be sure to relay your compliments,” Vincent said with a smile. “And you, Your Grace? Is everything to your satisfaction?”
“Absolument,” I said with a nod. There was something in Vincent's demeanor that I found instantly likable, a charismatic ease combined with sharp intelligence.
In another life, he might have made an excellent diplomat.
“Join us for a moment,” I found myself saying, gesturing to the empty chair at our table. “If you can spare the time.”
A flicker of surprise crossed Vincent's face, quickly replaced by a gracious smile. “I'd be honored, Your Grace. Just for a moment, though. I have other guests to attend to.”
He slid into the chair with practiced ease, settling himself comfortably but maintaining perfect posture. “I must commend you, Mr. Stone,” I said, lifting my glass in a small salute. “The Ranch exceeds all expectations.”
“That's very kind of you to say,” Vincent replied. “And please, call me Vincent.”
“Very well, Vincent.” I set my glass down, studying him. “Tell me, how does one come to run an establishment like this? I imagine it's not a career path one discusses with one's guidance counselor.”
Vincent's expression shifted, revealing a glimpse of something more authentic beneath his polished exterior.
“Ibrahim and I met at several years ago at a cybersecurity conference in Dubai.” He glanced at a passing server, who immediately approached with a glass of what appeared to be sparkling water.
“Thank you, Michael,” he said to the young man, who nodded and withdrew.
“We discovered we shared similar visions about creating spaces where desire isn't shameful, where exploration is encouraged rather than suppressed.”
“And the business model evolved from there?” I asked, genuinely curious about the origins of this hidden kingdom of pleasure.
Vincent laughed, the sound warm and unexpectedly sincere.
“Not immediately. We spent two years planning, researching similar establishments worldwide, identifying their shortcomings.” His eyes scanned the grounds with evident pride.
“Most places prioritize either luxury or sexual freedom. We refused to compromise on either.”
“A noble ambition,” I commented, the irony of my choice of words not lost on me.
“Perhaps. But also a selfish one,” Vincent admitted with surprising candor.
“I grew up in an environment where sexuality was something to be ashamed of. Ibrahim had similar experiences, though for different reasons.” He gestured toward a group of men laughing freely at a nearby table.
“Every smile you see here feels like a personal victory.”
I found myself nodding, understanding more than he knew. “Sometimes personal victories are the only kind worth fighting for.”
“The Ranch represented an opportunity to create something truly unique, a place where discretion and pleasure could coexist without compromise.” He shrugged elegantly. “We found a few like-minded backers and five years later, here we are.”
“Impressive,” I acknowledged, genuinely meaning it. “From hacker to hospitality. Quite the evolution.”
Vincent's eyes flickered with amusement.
“I prefer 'security specialist' to 'hacker,' Your Grace. Less legal implications.” He leaned forward slightly, his expression becoming more direct.
“But enough about me.” Vincent set his glass down, his expression becoming more focused.
“May I ask if you're finding what you need here at The Ranch?
We pride ourselves on catering to our guests' specific... interests.”
The question, innocuous on the surface, carried deeper implications. I studied Vincent more carefully, noting the intelligence behind his charismatic facade. There was something unexpectedly authentic about him, a quality I rarely encountered in the choreographed interactions of diplomacy.
“I've been most pleased with the companions,” I said carefully, “particularly one who seems to understand intuitively what I require. It's rare to find someone who sees beyond the title to the man beneath.”