Page 4 of Out of Office Nights
Irritatingly, that preoccupation had only grown over time, despite the painstaking distance he’d placed between them sincethe incidentin Cartana.
Hell, if it hadn’t been for the complete meltdown happening right before his eyes, the start of which had necessitated his visit to New York, he would’ve been back in Milan, his chosen home base. For now, until he achieved his goal once and for all, he was staying away from San Mirabet, Cartana’s capital city. A place he was welcome now, but hadn’t always been. In the past,the palace officials had warned that having the twin bastards of the king under the same palace roof as the crown prince, together with their mothers—unknowingly impregnated by the king during his wild-oats-sowing days—would court too much scandal. Especially when that assertion was sustained by his mother’s and the former queen’s past and current vitriolic antics and his father’s apathy.
Dios, was it any wonder he stayed clear of the palace?
While a lot had changed since his older brother, the former crown prince and now King Azar of Cartana, had ascended the throne, some things hadn’t.
He suppressed the bereft sensation and anger and instead allowed slivers of fondness to stir through his impatience, lowering the level of his intolerance. He and his brothers would be reunited soon enough.
Being with them mildly eased the knot in his chest. Although these days, with Azar nauseatingly happy in his new role as husband, father and king, and with Teo’s twin even more closed off and sullen than usual, the glaring desolation in his own life was hard to dismiss.
Whatever.Their reunions were an immovable tradition, and with his and Valenti’s joint birthday celebrations coming up, Teo intended to delve neck-deep into the oblivion it promised, even if it killed—
‘Look, can we accept that the experiment has failed? Two creative directors in the same house was never going to work,’ Cristobal griped.
‘I agree,’ Sabeen said calmly.
Cristobal pivoted towards his nemesis, eyes wide. ‘You do?’
She shrugged. ‘My time is better spent taking full control of a collection, rather engaging in a collaboration that’s akin to flogging a dead horse. I can’t remain a stand-in for ever. One of us has to go.’
Teo’s gut clenched at the pointed response, disgruntled by the dread that she might be serious about walking out on him. Or, worse, that she might be playing him.
His days of being overlooked, undervalued until it was time for his mother to use him as a pawn against his father, were far behind him. The reminder filled him with even more bitterness and regret because now he had finite time with his father, what with the old man battling a debilitating illness that was slowly marching him towards the grave. Teo despised that while his mother’s inability to handle being a parent to King Alfonse’s spare andother sparehad cost them a lot, his father’s ultimate indifference to the toxic atmosphere his twin sons had inhabited had sounded the death knell for any hope of a relationship. And that he continued to perpetuate that indifference…
‘Are you choosing to be the one to leave, Miss El-Maleh?’ he asked, the silky deadliness in his voice flowing like venom around the room, making his irksome subordinates fidget.
Satisfaction oozed through him as her façade slipped another fraction, granting him a further glimpse of her panic. A second later, the composure was back in place. But it was enough.
Twice she’d shown her hand.
So he sat back and watched, aware that he was seeking a specific reaction. Perhaps even projecting. He wanted her tofightfor what she wanted. The way no one had ever fought for him. The way he was fighting for what felt like a lost cause every day.
‘You’re the head of this house,’ she said eventually with that huskiness to her tone that tunnelled more unsettling sensation through him. ‘I stand behind the work I’ve done. And I’ve made my sentiments clear. It’s time for you to choose.’
Her challenge was also clear. Teo held up his hand as Cristobal wound up to launch another voluminous objection. Genius or not, the older man had fallen far short of expectations.
‘You’re right, this isn’t working. We have four months until the pre-season shoot is scheduled to start. You each have six weeks to finalise your collection. The collection that doesn’t make the cut will be excluded and the director fired.’ His tone was a blade, his intent unwavering.
Domene X might be secondary to his rabid devotion to the revered House of Domene haute couture brand, but they both carried his name, represented the legacy he drew pride from, despite everything his mother had done to make him and his twin detest their surname. To make them feel worthless simply because they’d had the misfortune of being born after the heir. Despite every detestable slur she’d bandied about to make them ashamed of who they were, how they’d come to be born. A situation which she’d puzzlingly clung on to and luxuriated in materially with every bone in her body.
He pushed those chaotic thoughts away as his flamboyant creative director rounded on him, face florid with outraged horror.
‘You are pitting us against each other, like some common reality show?’ he spluttered, his thick accent turning his words hoarse.
Teodor’s jaw gritted. ‘Against my better judgement, I’m giving you one more chance to do the job you were contracted to do. If you find that objectionable, the door is behind you.’
The older man’s gaze flickered to the door, then jumped away, as if alarmed he would be transported through it against his will. Teo hid a tired smirk as he waited for inevitable capitulation. Cristobal had few options, and they both knew it.
Sabeen on the other hand…
The quiet pride she wore as close as her gorgeous dark honey-gold skin might get in the way of her accepting his terms. If that happened, he had other cards up his sleeve. But while hewas almost looking forward to the challenge, he wanted her easy capitulation too.
He watched her already formidable posture straighten further as she finally locked her gaze on his. The battle he’d anticipated had arrived. Parry and thrust. Her rancorous expression ofHow dare youandYou’ll regret thisas sharp as that look of contempt she’d meted out that evening on the palace terrace.
Groin heating, he met it with an archedTake it or leave itbrow.
She capitulated with an infinitesimal nod, faint colour staining her cheeks and giving away her own recollections of that evening.
