Chapter 21 #2
Me: We’ve established this already, Princess, I’m very much in control.
Would you like a demonstration?
I hit send and satisfaction rolls though me. I’d give my right fucking nut to see her face when she reads that.
Your Royal Highness: Well, Prince Charming, I'll let you know if I’m ever in need of rescuing.
Unlikely, since I can handle it myself.
BUT I'll keep you in mind if I need back up.
Me: Did you bring your butter knife?
The image of her in the garden flashes through my mind with her clutching that dull-ass knife like she was ready to go full gladiator. I wouldn’t mind seeing her grip something else with that same intensity.
I groan inwardly. Not fucking helpful.
Your Royal Highness: … sure did!
I chuckle.
Me: Should we take bets on if you can hit the bullseye with it?
Your Royal Highness: Name your price...
My pulse spikes as I lean back in my chair, staring at the screen. I’d happily give her anything she wanted. But considering her dart skills? Yeah, I’m not too worried.
Me: A favor. No questions asked.
Your Royal Highness: Deal.
Me: And yours?
Your Royal Highness: Any favor I want.
Me: Done.
I laugh at her response, fully aware she thinks she’s winning this little game. Let her think it.
I’ll let her play along, let her feel like she’s in control. I’m already five steps ahead. And if she actually manages to hit that bullseye? Even better. I can't fucking wait.
My phone stays in my hand longer than it should, waiting for her reply. I assume she’s made it to her meeting, and my fingers itch to dig into her background. Part of me resists, wanting things to unfold naturally. But let’s be honest, that’s not how I operate.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I pull up her social media. Nothing invasive. Just enough to get a better sense of who she is. But then I hit a wall, realizing I only know her first name.
This might take longer than expected.
Thank fuck she’s staying at one of my properties. I type her name into the booking system, and there it is: Raven Taylor, staying with Rachel Allison Teller.
Raven Taylor.
Her profile’s public, which makes this too easy. The entire page looks like something out of a magazine. Polished but raw. And all her.
One picture catches me. Her arms are full—there's a box in one, a damn cat in the other— but it's her face that I can't look away from. She’s smiling, but her eyes tell the truth. She looks hollow and guarded. She looks like she's already halfway gone from whoever was behind that camera.
The caption reads: Never be so polite you forget your power.
Something in me tightens. She looks reckless with her wild hair, her white dress, and bare feet in the dirt. Her dress clings to her curves, glowing against the dark like she was made to be hunted.
I can't look away.
I find myself leaning closer, studying the picture, wondering what put that look on her face? …Or who.
I keep scrolling, letting the pictures fill in the blanks. The cat’s name is Fat Louie.
Of course it is.
She travels a lot, almost always with Rachel. Her bio mentions marketing, which explains the professional polish on everything she posts.
What doesn't surprise me is there's not a single food photo. Just imagining her rolling her eyes at the thought of posting a picture of brunch drags a laugh out of me. She'd hate that shit.
I lean back in my chair, tapping idly against the desk. I told myself I wouldn't look and thirteen photos later, here I am. Call it strategy. Call it weakness. Doesn't matter. She's a variable I can't ignore. My system boots, and I type in her name. Let’s see what I've been missing.
A quick glance tells me she’s listed as a marketing manager, straightforward enough.
She started her own company. Looks like she built it from the ground up, then sold it for a lot of money. Impressive. And yet… she stayed on as an employee, for a business she built. Interesting.
I sit forward, scanning for an explanation. Nothing. No board pressure, no legal clauses, no personal investments tying her there. So why stay?
She doesn’t linger. Women like her never do. Every step she takes is calculated, every glance of hers is like a sharp weapon. So what the fuck is this? Why is she still there?
Then I find something even more interesting. Her original birth certificate's been sealed. I dig a little deeper and find several interesting things here, but nothing that I can see that would be cause for a sealed record.
There’s a bigger story here, but that’s not what makes my blood heat.
The police report that was filed six months ago does. A restraining order was dismissed not long after. Then, a couple months later, she petitioned for a protective order, that’s still active.
I sit back, clenching my jaw, needing more answers.
Whoever put her in a position to need those orders better pray I never find them.
I roll my shoulders, taking a deep breath, pushing down the sudden rage I feel. She mentioned someone hurting her when we were doing dishes in the kitchen. Is that who these are about?
I need to stay focused. Who the hell is Meathead Mike, and why does he have her on edge?
A quick dive into her company doesn’t connect her to any marketing firms here. If this trip was work-related, there’s no record of it. Which only makes me more suspicious.
I flex my fingers against the desk, trying to figure out my next move. I know just the person who can find what I need a hell of a lot faster.
Me: Need you to run a check.
Cam: That depends. Am I breaking any laws?
Me: I’ll let you know when I care.
Cam: I love it when you talk dirty to me.
Send me a name.
I exhale, letting the tension settle into something useful. Cam will find what I need, he always does. And in the meantime, I have shit to
A sharp knock on the door pulls me from my thoughts and Carrie walks in. She moves with the same unshakable confidence she always does, carrying a stack of papers balanced effortlessly in her hands. If she were any more capable, I’d be working for her.
“Hey, boss!” She chirps, flashing a knowing smile.
“What are you up to, Carrie?”
She narrows her eyes, tilting her head. “I’m great, Kane, thank you for asking. What do you want?”
I can't help but laugh. “What I want is for my secretary to do her job and not act like my boss.” I take the stack of papers from her. “And for the record, I do actually care about how you’re doing.”
Carrie snorts, clearly unimpressed. “Uh-huh. Sure, you do.” But then, her expression softens. “I spent the weekend looking for a dog.”
“Finally.” I shake my head, not believing what I'm hearing. “I was about to go out and buy you one myself. I’ve only heard you talk about getting a dog for what, three years now? I was starting to think it was a cover.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t lose her grin. “Good things take time.”
Carrie’s one of the few people I trust completely.
Over the past six years, she’s more than proven herself.
Handling everything from boardroom disasters to my worst hangovers with a kind of ruthless efficiency that would put most CEO’s to shame.
She’s saved my ass more times that I can count and keeps my schedule, and my life, running smoothly.
If she ever tries to quit, I will bribe her. Without shame. Which is why I make it a point to stay on her good side.
“I’ve got a favor to ask,” I smile, handing her a folder. “But don’t worry, I come bearing gifts.”
She rolls her eyes, not buying it, but her curiosity wins. “Kane Robertson… this better be good.”
“I just need you to finalize the guest list and send it to Khloe. Double-check that everything is sorted. The cleaning crew, security, all of it. Maybe check with Khloe to see if she needs anything else.” I pause. “As for your present, it should arrive within the hour.”
“Oh, well if that's all…” She rolls her eyes before laughing. “For your information, the guest list has been triple-checked, cross-referenced with ticket sales, and sent to Khloe.” She lifts a single brow, challenging me. “She also wanted me to inform you that she’s deeply offended you’d doubt she had everything under control. ”
“Of course she did,” I mutter, lips twitching.
“And, yes,” Carrie continues, “everyone with estate access has been contacted and confirmed, including security. And anyone new has had a background check done.”
I lean back, watching her. It’s almost unsettling how good she is at her job. Either that, or I’m becoming predictable, which is its own problem.
Before I can open my mouth, she holds up a hand. “Don’t even think about saying it,” she warns. “Otherwise, you’ll owe me another raise.”
“You’re already overpaid.”
She scoffs. “And yet, I’m still underappreciated.”
“Debatable,” I counter, amused. Truth be told, I’d pay her whatever she wanted. “And thank you.” I add, trying not to laugh.
I made the mistake of telling Carrie how much I appreciated her once. The next day, she told the entire office I was a secret softy because I got teary-eyed when I told her. In my defense, it was windy, and I got dust in my eyes. Completely justified.
She turns to leave but hesitates, glancing over her shoulder, “Oh, and thanks for the dress, by the way. You know I could’ve bought my own.”
I look at her, caught off guard that she knew.
“If ye didn’t want to go, then buying your own dress would’ve just made ye mad at me.” I wink. “And I can’t be having that.”
She tilts her head, studying me for a beat before laughing. “Smart man.”
“I try.”
Carrie shakes her head, and walks out. Time to handle the rest of the shit on my plate.
I look at my schedule, scanning the list of meetings, calls, and security briefings I still need to get through before this weekend.
I lean back, and a sharp wave of nausea crashes over me. It's so sudden that my pulse skyrockets and I try to catch my breath. And just like that, it’s gone. What the fuck?
Maybe I need to get back in the ring with Cam sooner rather than later if my body’s pulling this kind of shit.