Page 8 of Royal Sin

“How do they escape the dungeon?”

My heart did a little flip. This wasn’t part of the plan. But the authentic repartee, his genuine interest, and the damn martini made me feel all fuzzy and warm.

I smirked. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

The saxophone emitted a particularly mournful note, its sound resonating with a deep, soulful wail that echoed through the room.

“She should be the one to save him. Bring out her hidden power,” he mused and reached out to brush a lock of hair over my shoulder.

But the way he looked at me made me reckless. “Maybe she will.”

With that, I turned and fled.

The cool night air hit my face as I left the jazz club, a welcome relief from the heat that had been building inside me. I pulled out my phone, fingers trembling slightly as I created a new contact. Leonard Baldwin. I typed his number from the card, hesitated, then erased it to writeShadowPrince.

My car was parked a block away, and I took my time walking to it, replaying our conversation. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. I was supposed to be calculating, in control. Instead, I found myself genuinely flustered by his presence, the way his eyes seemed to see right through me.

“Get it together,” I muttered to myself as I slid into the driver's seat. “It’s just a game.”

But as I drove home through the quiet streets, the memory of his hand on my waist, his voice claiming me as his wife, played on repeat in my mind.

Chapter 4

“Where are you going?” my mother snapped from down the hall.

I winced. So much for sneaking out. “I was going to meet some friends at the Providence.”

The petite pert nose gracefully planted on my mother’s face twitched. “There are no events at the club tonight.”

“It’s just dinner,” I added. “I won’t be out late.”

“Fine, but next time, check first. Your father has a business associate coming for dinner, and it would have been nice for the family to be here to support him.” My mother sailed past in a cloud of Chanel.

“Who’s coming?” I asked, tiptoeing after her and holding my breath. I might not conform to the preset standard, but my curiosity about the business knew no bounds.

Mother stepped into the kitchen and began fussing over the preparations, much to the dismay of the new housekeeper. “Allen Whitkop.”

“So Uncle Tim will be here too,” I surmised, plucking an hors d’oeuvre off the tray.

“No, he’s tied up with a fiasco. Some company we were supposed to merge with backed out at the last minute.”

“Oh, who?” I plucked another treat when she wasn’t looking.

“Parkland Press,” my father said, struggling with his tie. “They are in talks with a competitor, and I fear they’ll involve an acquisition company to organize a rebrand, which they think will make them viable for the modern era.”

As if the sneer in his tone wasn’t enough, my father’s face was scrunched in disgust.

“Isn’t change a good thing for businesses like ours?” I muttered without thinking.

Both my parents stopped short and gawked at me.

“You shouldn’t talk about such things.” The ice in my mother’s voice was cutting.

That was my cue to leave.

As she helped my father do his tie, scolding him for coming down in such a state of undress, I disappeared. Uncle Tim’s spawn would inherit the company. Not me. Never me. It didn’t matter I chose business to study instead of English and literature. It didn’t matter that I kept abreast of the Fortune 500 lists. My future was mapped out and it didn’t involve talking business strategy with my father.

The pizza parlor was decked in Old World decor. The theme was Italy, and red, green, and white exploded on the walls. Cheesyknick-knacks decorated every visible space. And even though it was a weeknight, Pizzeria Ostiense was packed.

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