The Princess Who Stays Silent

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Tristan

To hunt is to learn the art of catching fear in a bottle.

Fast-forward to last year, when I had already noticed that Eric North's company needed investors so desperately that he was basically whoring himself around the financial district for anyone willing to fund it.

His investment fund wasn't bad at all—not that I'd ever tell him—but it did take a bit of time for me to buy out everyone he approached so he'd become desperate enough to lower his price and sell it to me for barely more than a child's pocket money.

“I...I never thought you'd be the one taking it, Ashford, I have to admit.” The man shakes his head, bald and glossy with nerves, or perhaps...

uh, emotions. I'm buying his life's work like it's a sandwich on the street, and I couldn't be more stoic.

Another box checked off my list for the day.

Running, done. Investor meeting on a real estate development, done.

Buying a million-dollar company before I even get my second coffee of the day?

Just about to. What I'd give for a chess game with Nate right now.

Nah, never mind. I'll play it in my head right now.

It'll pass the time. My gaze drifts to the window, the city laid out for me to feast on and dig my teeth into.

Surely there must be more to life than this.

Buying, selling, merging. Surely there's something or someone out there who could make me feel...

something. Anything. Just to remind myself I still have a heartbeat somewhere, that it's not irreversibly broken by my relentless routines and workload.

Pinching the bridge of my twice-broken nose, the result of too much pent-up rage as a teen, and perhaps even more from recent cage fights, desperately needing to let off steam after long days of meetings, I blink hard.

These migraines are getting out of hand.

If only I had something to make it all better.

Painkillers stopped working a long time ago.

Now the only thing that works is ice packs on my forehead.

At this rate, I'll be keeping them on twenty-four seven if I don't find a way to make them go away.

Anyway, where was I? North is still talking, muttering nonsensical words about legacy and honesty.

Blurred sounds drift above the desk between us.

My lawyer is moving papers around, a pen is writing, and my assistant, Kathy, on my right, is checking my schedule.

She has new earrings that look as though they were made with tiny sticky hands, pearls, and sunflower-shaped plastic pieces, perhaps from her grandchildren. Must be nice.

Everything's in order; the machine is well-oiled and functioning at high speed, while I just stare at nothing.

Or perhaps it's the desk. Yeah, definitely the desk.

After all, it's easier to play chess in my head when looking at a blank surface.

Makes the imaginary board easier to visualize.

Voices are still talking, but I've stopped listening.

The deal is done. Silence settles around me, and I turn my attention back to the people in the room.

“Sir?” says Harbor, my decade-long, fishing-enthusiast, fifty-year-old lawyer. “Everything's settled.” I nod.

“I'll let you show Mr. North out.”

There’s an awkward silence. I mean, awkward for them. Silence has always been alright with me. There’s something about watching people squirm in the gaps of small talk that's as interesting as it is cruelly satisfying. I've always believed those who can handle silence can handle a lot.

“That's it?” the wounded man scoffs, his pen still in hand, carrying the pain of the lamb chosen for the slaughter.

“Son, I think you've got a thing or two to learn about business.” He looks up at me while I tower over him at the end of the desk, the meeting room bathed in light from every angle, shining a spotlight on what he thinks are his five minutes of fame.

“Please do,” I say, tilting my head to the side. “You have my full, complete attention.” I let my words hang in the air, crashing over him.

I watched you. I studied you. And now I've bought you.

What could you possibly teach me now that I've taken everything from you?

“No matter how much money you're making, or how well your suit looks pressed, you're just a man, Ashford. Like your father before you, and your grandfather before him. A mere mortal, even from your 32nd floor, looking down on all of us.” I listen, focusing on him, hiding everything my body could betray me with.

No twitch, no tightening of my jaw, no blinking too fast. He's using the old man card, the one telling me, Boy, remember your place, and he'd be repulsed if he even knew what’s going through my head right now.

That I agree with him. Still, I don't care.

My father taught me to hunt in the mountains near our holiday cabin.

One of the only good things we had going, actually.

If not for the other ninety-nine percent of the time he spent neglecting me, I could have pretended he was a good father.

Well, present, sometimes at least. But you don't build a good relationship out of two hunting trips a year.

Still, on those rare father-son occasions, he taught me a few things about life, as he would say.

Listen, son. There’s stuff I need to tell you.

He taught me that money was worth nothing if I didn't pull my weight at the right place at the right time.

Timing, he'd say. Killing prey is a matter of timing.

It's when they think they've outweighed you, outwitted you.

When they want to teach you a lesson, holding on to the moral high ground so tightly their pride refuses to let go.

That's when you strike. You strike when their ego grows too loud and their shame is an empty well with no bottom.

And he was right. After all, he trained me well to become the heir to his business.

I just had to do the whole raising-myself-to-be-a-decent-human-being part on my own.

The old man didn't care much about bonding.

He was far more interested in developing my ability to understand fine print and manipulation strategies.

To hold the fate of thousands of employees in my hands, to steer the ship and not crash it like a failure.

Like I said, at times he was a father. Just not a dad.

“Leave us,” I command calmly. My team gathers their papers and exits silently.

North contains his frustration, his fingers playing a silent piano melody on the wooden desk before he nods to his team.

Yes, leave us. He thought he'd get his last moment of fame in front of an audience.

Only I'm not the kind to humiliate people in public.

That's...tasteless. I'd rather do it behind closed doors.

The thrill is only greater when the prey thinks they've still got a chance.

He stands, smoothing his jacket with both hands, fidgeting.

Droplets of sweat gather on his upper lip as he clears his throat.

I'm this close to telling him he interrupted my next chess move, but I doubt he'd even understand the concept of multitasking.

“So, what is it?” he groans as I clench my jaw, relaxed, aware of my surroundings as if I were in the forest, listening for the faintest sound leading me on a killing trail.

“I may be mistaken, Eric, but I'm under the impression that you think you can talk to me as if I were your equal,” I tell him, standing at the end of the large desk, my hands out of my pockets. Because, come on, that'd be rude.

“I beg your pardon? I'm twice your age. You weren't even born when I started my company, and if it were not for your late father, I—”

“My late father? You invoke him as if he were ready to strike me with a whip.” A cold chuckle escapes my lips.

“Do you know what he taught me? Integrity. Ever heard of it?” I let my words hang heavily in the air, my reputation for studying my prey—I mean, acquisitions—known by all.

“Integrity is working your ass off every day until you can look at yourself in the mirror and know you didn't fail your employees, your family, or your legacy.

Integrity means not betraying your marriage by sleeping with your associate's wife. Or failing to do the homework yourself, delegating everything, and losing valuable assets in rotten investments that I now have to sort out.” I pause.

“But you're right about one thing. I do look down on you from my 32nd floor.

Only it has nothing to do with how well pressed my suits are or how much money is sitting in my bank account.

I could have slaughtered you like a pig in public, welcoming journalists and exposing your broken marriage, but I didn't. So don't come here with your so-called words of wisdom, trying to spit in the hand that fed you.” If white smoke started pouring out of his ears, I wouldn't be surprised. Fuming, he adjusts his collar.

“I forgot to offer you my congratulations on your daughter's wedding. You must be so...proud.” I catch him off guard, dangling a much prettier image in his head, tearing him apart from hot to cold.

“Thank—well, yes, I am. We are. She's—” He swallows. “Very proud.”

“I'd walk you back to the elevator, but as I've mentioned, I have much to do now.” A fake grin plastered on my face, I lift my hand halfway, showing him out. And that's my favorite part.

“Th-thank you, Ashford. I'll... Yes, I'll see myself out.” I nod once, absorbing his thanks, watching him like a deer stopping in front of a rifle, waiting for the hunter to pull the trigger.

That's the trick. Getting them to thank you after choking them to death.

I won't take the credit, though. Father taught me that.