Page 13 of His Scarlette Obsession
Like a man who’s lost control of his own time management.
I’m not that man.
I make billion-dollar decisions before breakfast. I’m on the boards of six companies, three of which I reshaped from the inside out. I do not loiter curbside, ogling twenty-something women with whipped cream on their noses.
Which—yes—she has now.
And no, I don’t know why I’m still staring.
This is exactly how it started for your father.
The thought slinks in like it always does. One smile. One kiss. One woman who didn’t come from the right bloodline, and the kingdom fell apart.
He called it love...while the rest of his kingdom called it sheer idiocy.
I swore I would never be so weak.
And yet here I am. Staring. Waiting. Acting like the weak always act—hoping she looks up. Hoping she smiles.
She doesn’t.
But someone else does.
A man enters the bakery, and I wouldn’t have paid him any attention if not for the way he makes a beeline toward Scarlette’s table.
What the fuck?
My lip curls as I study him. He’s the tall, nerdy, older-man-next-door-type that some women would probably kill to date. If Scarlette’s one of them, then I’d just have to kill him.
He moves around her grandmother’s bakery-slash-cafe like he’s been coming here for years. Probably has, with how Scarlette seems at ease with him.
My hands clench.
I’m not fucking jealous.
I’m just...possessive.
And when I see him lean over as he says something that makes her laugh, just befor reacing for her face—myfiancée’s face, the fuck!—to wipe something from her cheek...
All I see is red.
Who the fuck does he think he is?
Does he know merely looking at MY woman can have him beheaded in my kingdom?
I step out of the limo.
Straighten my jacket.
Adjust my cuff links.
And start walking.
The small-town square is quaint, picture-perfect in a way that feels artificial to someone who grew up surrounded by palace walls and armed guards. People stop and stare as I cross the street, conversations faltering as I pass.
I ignore them all. My focus narrows to the glass door of the bakery, to the woman sitting just beyond it, still smiling up at the man who now occupies the seat across from her.
Fine.
