Chapter 15
Chapter
Fifteen
AXEL
Isit back in the leather chair, glass of neat whiskey warming in my palm, and watch the woman across from me.
Crystal. That’s her name. It fits her. She’s all gloss and light reflection, sparkly in the soft lights of the restaurant.
She has perfectly highlighted cheekbones, honey-blonde waves cascading over one bare, tanned shoulder, and injected lips that seem to be a permanent pout.
Her dress clings in all the strategic places and tastefully shows off her ample cleavage.
She smells good too. Musk and something floral I can’t quite place.
She is objectively beautiful. Any straight male would find her attractive. That is, until she starts talking. And then she becomes entirely exhausting. We’ve only been here for about half an hour, and I’m already ready to leave.
“So, I told her,” Crystal says, leaning forward slightly, her manicured fingers wrapping around the stem of her wine glass.
“If you’re going to launch a skin care line, at least make sure the packaging photographs well.
I mean, that’s the whole point, right? If it doesn’t look good on Instagram, does it even exist? ”
I nod once. A precise, measured dip of the chin. A gesture that says I am listening but doesn’t exactly encourage the line of conversation to continue.
“Mmm,” I add for good measure.
For Crystal, though, it is encouragement enough. Her eyes brighten, mistaking the sound for actual engagement and the nod of my head for actual agreement.
“Exactly. I knew you would get it,” she gushes and laughs lightly, like we’ve shared a clever insight together. “The formula might be revolutionary, but if the bottle is ugly… no one is ever going to try it. I mean, branding is everything, right?”
In that moment, I curse Joseph under my breath.
Why on earth did he slip that stupid stipulation in?
I gave up everything to run his empire. It took up every waking moment of my life.
And that was fine with me because it is all I lived for.
And he knew that. He also knew I have had no serious relationships in my life for the last two years, and have absolutely no interest in starting a family, at least, for the foreseeable future.
Why on earth would he want to saddle me with a family when I’m not ready for it?
He was my mentor and a beloved father figure to me, but right now, I feel betrayed by him.
If it weren’t for his totally out of character and utterly incomprehensible stipulation about producing an heir by the end of the next year, I wouldn’t be here with Crystal.
Or devising ways of how I can rent a womb.
“Makes sense,” I mutter, because Crystal is looking at me expectantly, and I guess it costs me nothing to do so.
I find myself looking around, trying to find a distraction from Crystal.
The restaurant is dimly lit and intimate.
Low golden lighting glints off polished glass and dark marble.
It’s the kind of place where impressive deals are quietly made over a handshake.
A string quartet plays softly from somewhere near the bar.
The ma?tre d’ gave me their best table, and Crystal was visibly impressed.
Her friend has eaten here once before, and the food is Instagram-worthy.
“Oh, and then,” she continues, moving onto a whole new subject. “You won’t believe who was at Chelsea’s party last weekend.”
I already don’t care. “Who?”
She gasps, delighted by the invitation to continue. If she were even a tiny bit interesting, I would feel bad for her – she seems desperate for validation. If she didn’t babble on about vapid shit.
“Only Luca Moretti. I swear, he is even more attractive in person. I mean, I wouldn’t date him, obviously. He’s far too dramatic, but still… It’s nice to look.” Her eyes flick over me briefly, and she smiles coyly. “You’re not the jealous type, are you?”
She plays with a strand of her hair, trying to tease me. She knows exactly what she’s doing, and I am in no way getting pulled into it. I hold her gaze evenly.
“Nope.”
She isn’t expecting that level of honesty. For a second, her face drops, then she laughs, slightly too loud. I am extremely protective of anyone I care for, and I won’t tolerate anyone else’s hands on them, but Crystal couldn’t make me jealous if she tried. I couldn’t care less about her.
“Well, good,” she says gaily. “Because I do have a lot of male friends. I just get on better with men, you know? They’re less complicated.”
If irony had mass, it would crush this table. The only thing she doesn’t do is add that girls just don’t like her. Instead, she launches seamlessly into another story, something about a spa weekend in Mykonos.
“Oh my God, Mykonos was insane,” Crystal gushes, her eyes lighting up. “We stayed at this private villa overlooking Psarou Beach. It had an infinity pool obviously, and it was white marble everywhere, the works. Chelsea found it through this members-only concierge thing. You’d love it.”
“I doubt that,” I say mildly.
“No. No, you would,” she insists. “It’s very exclusive. They don’t even list it publicly. You have to know someone who knows someone.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “Which obviously we did.”
Obviously.
“And the spa there?” she continues, not waiting for a response.
“It is unreal. They do this volcanic ash body wrap that’s meant to detox your aura.
I don’t know if it did anything spiritually, but my skin was glowing for days.
” She leans forward again. “But the best part was the beach club. Although.” She wrinkles her nose.
“There was this whole drama about sun loungers.”
Of course, there was.
“So, we reserved this front row cabana.” She gestures animatedly. “It’s in a prime spot with a direct view of the DJ booth and the sea. But when we got there, this Italian influencer and her boyfriend were already in it. And she pretended she didn’t speak English.”
A tragedy.
“I mean, she absolutely did speak English. She’d just posted stories on Facebook in English like ten minutes earlier. So, Chelsea confronts her, very politely, and the girl just keeps smiling and saying, “No English, sorry’.”
“So, what did you do?” I ask dryly.
“I handled it,” she states proudly. “I called over the manager, the hot one with the sleeve tattoo, and explained the situation. He was mortified. They moved her immediately.”
“Efficient.”
“I know.” She beams. “Honestly, you just have to know how to talk to people.”
I take a measured sip of whiskey. It helps to drown out the incessant talking. Crystal continues with barely a pause.
“And then that night we went to this tequila tasting thing at the villa. Which was a mistake.” She laughs, tossing her hair back. “Chelsea cannot handle tequila.”
“What happened when she drank the tequila? Incapacity? Hospitalization?”
“No.” She giggles. “She just gets dramatic. After two shots, she was crying about her ex. And then she tried to jump into the pool in her dress because she said it was symbolic.”
“Symbolic of what?” I dare to ask.
“Letting go,” Crystal says solemnly, then immediately ruins it with another laugh. “She slipped before she even got to the edge of the pool. We had to help her upstairs.”
“And this was amusing?”
“Obviously. I mean, not at the time. But the next morning? Hilarious.” She grins. “You should have seen her mascara.”
I try to picture it, but my brain won’t bring anything up.
Crystal tilts her head. “You don’t party much, do you?”
“No,” I say simply.
“Oh, come on. You must do something. You’re too intense not to blow off steam.”
I consider that. My version of blowing off steam involves boxing at six a.m. or acquiring a competitor’s assets.
She studies me like I’m an interesting challenge rather than an incompatible human being.
“Well,” she says slowly. “We’ll have to fix that.”
There it is. The assumption that I require correction because I don’t think embarrassing myself in public is a fun time. Crystal takes a sip of her wine, her lipstick adding another smudged red crescent on the glass.
“You need fun in your life, Mr. Axel Rhodes,” she says with mock severity. “Balance. Spontaneity. You can’t just work all of the time.”
“I don’t,” I say.
“Oh?” Her brows lift. “What do you do for fun then?”
I pause. To engage or not to engage? “I assess risk.”
She stares at me. Then she laughs, assuming it’s wit. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
“That’s not fun.”
“It is if you win.”
She shakes her head, smiling like I’ve said something adorably strange. “You’re different. I like that.”
Blithely, she dives back into the Mykonos saga, detailing outfits, DJs, a minor feud over who got tagged in which photo.
Names blur. Anecdotes tangle. Every story she tells ends in a crescendo of laughter.
But internally, I am withdrawing. Each anecdote is weightless.
Each observation is surface-level. No depth.
There is no curiosity about the world beyond how it appears on an Instagram page.
I study her clinically. She is very easy on the eye, with symmetrical features.
Clear skin. Nice teeth. Healthy, by all visible metrics, and she would probably produce an aesthetically pleasing offspring, but she is entirely unsuited to keeping around long-term.
Unless I can buy the baby off her and send her packing, she is no good for what I need.
She has been chattering about her upcoming shoots, the latest campaign she’s booked, and the magazine spread she’s been promised, and I have been nodding at the appropriate moments, but none of it has reached me. My mind refuses to engage with her.
Because – and here it is - she is not Jo. In my mind, I can still see her walking in the foyer, little brown specks of varnish peppered across her cheeks like freckles, and a rogue smattering of blue paint chips in her hair. Her eyes are sharp and alive with intelligence.
If she were here, God knows I would be reacting to her in a totally different way.
It’s not that she is wildly beautiful. In fact, there is nothing about her that screams ‘look at me’.
I even suspect she goes out of her way to tone it down.
Her hair is locked away in a no-nonsense bun, her clothes are conservative and understated, her make-up is almost non-existent, she only speaks when spoken to, and she smells of chemicals and rabbit glue.
And yet, as soon as she walks into a room, she makes every other female in it look colorless and undesirable.
Her beauty is quiet, but unmistakable. It is as if there is an unquenchable fire burning inside her, and every time I look at her that fire reaches out and burns me too.
It’s not a polite desire. What I have for her is…
something I’ve never experienced. Definitely not a passing fancy.
It’s something darker, something primal.
I want to take her, feel her against me, make her gasp, make her curse me, make her mine even for a moment.
I want to make her lose control. I want to hear her scream my name. Again and again.
All fucking night long.
But I hate it. I hate that she has this effect on me.
How is it that the one woman who makes me feel something is the one woman I actively dislike?
And I am under no illusions that she’s the one who has ruined this night for me.
I mean, yeah, Crystal is shockingly shallow, but she didn’t stand a chance compared to Jo.
The meal drags on...
I sip my whiskey and let her chatter flow over me while my mind conjures lustful scenarios and fantasies of Jo that I would never admit aloud.
I feel a low heat start to simmer in my chest, a restrained desire that pulses with the memory of her violet eyes, the way she moved that day with such natural authority in front of centuries-old and priceless things.
She commands them. Hell, she commands me… without even trying.
When the waiter finally sets the bill down, my date leans forward, her eyes glinting with a combination of flirtation and expectation.
She’s already made it obvious that she’s willing to come home with me.
A little smile, a tilt of the head, a subtle touch of the hand across the table, an invitation in its purest form.
There was a time I would have taken her home and had sex with her even knowing it wouldn’t be going anywhere, but that was years ago.
I’ve grown past that silliness now. She is not what I want.
And I’ve learned not to waste time on irrelevant women.
She’s nothing to me. Everything I want, everything that’s consuming me, is the exact opposite of the woman before me.
I want Joseph’s chaotic daughter.
And she is the only woman I want.
I curse Jo under my breath. She has the audacity to be perfect - beautiful, clever, infuriating - and now she’s ruining everyone else for me. How the hell am I meant to find someone to be the mother of my child when I can’t get her out of my head?
Then I makeup my mind that I’m not going to waste another moment of my time with any more of these kinds of ‘dates’.
I pay the bill and ask Crystal if she needs me to call her a cab. She pouts and twirls a lock of hair around her finger, a little girl’s voice emerging as she speaks.
“Why don’t you want to take me home?”
“You’re too good for me. Goodnight, Crystal.”
I get up as her mouth drops open in shock. The cool night air hits me the moment I step outside. The city is fading into the evening.
I walk towards my car, adjusting my jacket slightly, my jaw tight, my mind still circling around the varnish-scented Jo.
That girl has made every other woman I’ve met since the reading of the will utterly meaningless.
Every inviting smile, every flirtatious laugh, every sparkling eye has been eclipsed by her.
And I hate her for it. And that contradiction of want and hate, that dark, gnawing pull of desire mixed with irritation, will not leave me. Certainly not tonight. And I’m starting to worry, not ever.