Chapter 2: King of Pride: Chapter 2

“Don’t tell me you invited me here to watch you read Hemingway for the dozenth time.” Dominic cast an unimpressed look at my book.

“You’ve never seen me read Hemingway.” I glanced at the bar, but Isabella had already moved on to another customer, leaving the gin and tonic in her stead.

Strawberries floated lazily in the drink, their vibrant red hue a shocking contrast to the bar’s dignified earth tones. I typically avoided sweet drinks; the harsh burn and subdued amber of scotch was much more to my taste. But like I said, I had a soft spot for this particular flavor.

Reluctant amusement drifted through me at the memory of Isabella’s horrified expression. I’d interrupted her and her friend Vivian’s condom conversation at last year’s fall gala, and I still remembered the interaction in vivid detail.

I remembered our interactions in vivid detail, whether I wanted to or not. She’d touched down in my life like a tornado, gotten my drink wrong during her first shift at Valhalla, and hadn’t left my thoughts since.

It was aggravating.

“I haven’t seen you read him in person.” Dominic flicked his lighter on and off, drawing my attention back to him. He didn’t smoke, yet he carried that lighter around the way a more superstitious person would cling to a lucky charm. “But I imagine that’s what you do when you’re holed up in your library every night.”

A smile pushed through my turbulent mood. “Spend a lot of time imagining me in the library, do you?”

“Only to contemplate how sad your existence is.”

“Says the workaholic who spends most of his nights in his office.” It was a miracle his wife tolerated him as long as she had. Alessandra was a saint.

“It’s a nice office.” On. Off. A tiny flame burst into life only to die a quick death at his hand. “I’d be there right now if it weren’t for your call. What’s so urgent you demanded I rush here on a Monday, of all nights?”

I’d requested, not demanded, but I didn’t bother correcting him. Instead, I tucked my pen, paperback, and notebook in my coat pocket and cut straight to the point. “I got the call today.”

Dominic’s bored impatience fell away, revealing a spark of intrigue. “This early?”

“Yes. Five candidates, including myself. The vote is in four months.”

“You always knew it wouldn’t be a coronation.” Dominic tapped his lighter’s spark wheel. “But the vote is a formality. Of course you’ll win.”

I offered a noncommittal noise in response.

As the eldest child and presumptive heir to the Young Corporation, I’d lived with the expectation of becoming CEO all my life. But I was supposed to take over in five to ten years, not in four months.

A fresh wave of apprehension swept through my chest.

Leonora Young would never willingly cede power this early. She was only fifty-eight years old. Sharp, healthy, beloved by the board. Her life revolved around work and hounding me about marriage, yet it’d undeniably been her on the video call that afternoon, informing me and four other executives that we were in the running for the CEO position.

No warning, no details other than the date and time of the vote.

I ran a distracted hand over the gin and tonic glass, taking strange solace in its smooth curves.

“When’s the news going public?” Dominic asked.

“Tomorrow.” Which meant for the next four months, all eyes would be on me, waiting for me to fuck up. Which I never would. I had too much control for that.

Though there were technically five candidates, the position was mine to lose. Not only because I was a Young, but because I was the best. My record as president of the North America division spoke for itself. It had the highest profits, the fewest losses, and the best innovations, even if certain board members didn’t always agree with my decisions.

I wasn’t worried about the vote’s outcome, but its timing nagged at me, twisting what should’ve been a career highlight into a muddied pool of unease.

If Dominic noticed my muted enthusiasm, he didn’t show it. “The market’s going to have a field day.” I could practically see the calculations running through his head.

In the past, I would’ve called Dante first and sweated out my worries in the boxing ring, but ever since he got married, dragging him away from Vivian for an unscheduled match was harder than prying a bone away from a dog.

It was probably for the best. Dante would see right through my composed mask, whereas Dominic only cared about facts and numbers. If it didn’t move markets or expand his bank account, he didn’t give a shit.

I reached for my drink while he laid out his predictions. I’d just drained the last of the gin when a burst of rich, throaty laughter stole my attention.

My gaze slid over Dominic’s shoulder and rested on Isabella, who was chatting with a cosmetics heiress near the end of the bar. She said something that made the normally standoffish socialite grin, and the two bent their heads toward each other like best friends gossiping over lunch. Every once in a while, Isabella would gesticulate wildly with her hands, and another one of her distinctive laughs would fill the room.

The sound worked its way into my chest, warming it more than the alcohol she’d handed me.

With her purple-black hair, mischievous smile, and tattoo inking the inside of her left wrist, she looked as out of place as a diamond among rocks. Not because she was a bartender in a room filled with billionaires, but because she shone too brightly for the dark, traditional confines of Valhalla.

A tiny smile snuck onto my lips before I quashed it.

Isabella was bold, impulsive, and everything I typically avoided in an acquaintance. I valued propriety; she had none, as her apparent fetish for discussing sex in the most inappropriate of locations indicated.

Still, there was something about her that drew me in like a siren calling to a sailor. Destructive, certainly, but so beautiful it would almost be worth it.

“Does Dante know?” Dominic asked. He’d finished his market predictions, of which I’d only heard half, and was now busy answering emails on his phone. The man worked longer hours than anyone else I knew.

“Not yet.” I watched as Isabella broke away from the heiress and fiddled with the register. “It’s date night with Vivian. He made it clear no one is to interrupt him unless they’re dying—and only if every other person on their contact list is otherwise preoccupied.”

“Typical.”

“Hmm,” I agreed distractedly.

Isabella finished her work at the register, said something to the other bartender, and disappeared into the back room. Her shift must’ve ended.

Something flickered in my gut. Try as I might, I couldn’t mistake it for anything other than disappointment.

I’d successfully kept my distance from Isabella for almost a year, and I was well-versed enough in Greek mythology to understand the dreadful fates that awaited sailors lured in by sirens’ songs. The last thing I should do was follow her. And yet…

Dammit.

“Apologies for cutting the night short, but I just remembered I have an urgent matter I must take care of.” I stood and slid my coat from its hook beneath the counter. “Shall we continue our conversation later? Tonight’s drinks are on me.”

“Sure. Whenever you’re free,” Dominic said, sounding unfazed by my abrupt departure. He didn’t look up when I closed out our tabs. “Good luck with the announcement tomorrow.”

The absentminded clicks of his lighter followed me halfway across the room until the bar’s escalating noise swallowed them up. Then I was in the hallway, the door shut behind me, and the only sound came from the soft fall of my footsteps.

I wasn’t sure what I’d do once I caught up with Isabella. Despite our mutual acquaintances—her best friend Vivian was Dante’s wife—we weren’t friends ourselves. But the CEO news had thrown me off-kilter, as had her unexpected but thoughtful gift.

I wasn’t used to people offering me things without expecting something in return.

A rueful smile crossed my lips. What did it say about my life when a simple free drink from a casual acquaintance stood out as a highlight of my night?

I took the stairs to the second floor, my heartbeat steady despite the small voice urging me to turn and run in the opposite direction.

I was operating on a hunch. She might not be there, and I certainly had no business seeking her out if she was, but my usual restraint had frayed beneath a more pressing urge for distraction. I needed to do something about this frustrating , and if I couldn’t figure out what was going on with my mother, then I needed to figure out what was going on with me. What was it about Isabella that held me captive? Tonight, that might be the easier question to answer.

My mother had reassured me she was fine during our post-conference call chat. She wasn’t sick, dying, or being blackmailed; she was simply ready for a change.

If it were anyone else, I would’ve taken her words at face value, but my mother didn’t do things on a whim. It went against her very nature. I also didn’t think she was lying; I knew her well enough to spot her tells, and she’d displayed none during our call.

Frustration knotted my brow. It didn’t add up.

If it wasn’t her health or blackmail, what else could it be? A disagreement with the board? A need to destress after decades of helming a multibillion-dollar corporation? An alien hijacking her body?

I was so engrossed in my musings I didn’t notice the soft strains of a piano drifting through the hall until I stood directly in front of the source.

She was here after all.

My heartbeat tripped once, so lightly and quickly I barely noticed the disturbance. My frown dissolved, replaced with curiosity, then astonishment as the whirlwind of notes fell into place and recognition clicked.

She was playing Beethoven’s “Hammerklavier,” one of the most challenging pieces ever composed for piano. And she was playing it well.

A cool rush of shock swept the breath from my lungs.

I rarely heard the “Hammerklavier” played at its intended speed, and the stunning realization that Isabella could outperform even seasoned professionals crushed any reservations I may have had about seeking her out.

I had to see it for myself.

After a brief hesitation, I closed my hand around the doorknob, twisted, and stepped inside.