5. Who did this to you, Kitten?

NILE

I roll the piece of diamond in my hand, staring at it intently.

From the way I have been spending hours gazing at it, recently, the poor jewel should have holes in it by now. And no, I have not been admiring it, the real reason is something I don't even want to admit to myself.

This jewel now reminds me of Dymond Hackers, the stubborn little thief.

It does not help that they actually share a name. I was pissed off at her the last time I saw her, simply because she did not give in to my sick urge to humiliate her and make her beg for mercy. But after holding her in cuffs for three days, I became more fascinated and curious than angry.

I never went back to the steel room, but there is a camera fixed in there, and I watched her through that for those three days.

Creepy? I really don't care.

I realize that despite her stubborn facade, she is really nothing but a scared girl. Those green eyes of hers occasionally shone with helplessness and tears when she though no one was watching. It makes me wonder what her true story is.

Again, I grew disgusted at myself for being so invested in some random woman, and I ordered the guards to let her go. It was night time, so I knew she would have no way to get to a good place to spend the night, so for some reason, I gave Mike some cash to hide in her pocket when she was unconscious.

My actions were completely logical, and there is nothing else behind me helping a thief. Right?

Frustrated with my own thoughts, I place the diamond back in its case and straighten up from my seat. 

I dial a number on my phone, and a guard picks up immediately, "Sir."

"How's the party going?"

"All the guests and ladies have arrived, and the party is in full swing." He answers. In the background, I can hear the loud thumps of music filtering into the phone.

I can not hear the music and noise of the party from my bedroom because it is completely soundproof.

I smile in satisfaction. "Good."

Hanging up, I grab my bottle of billionaire vodka, and move towards the door, not even bothering to button up my dress shirt.

Downstairs, it is just like the guard mentioned. The music is loud and pounding against the walls. The rhythm is sexy, with bodies gyrating under the neon lights.

There is an abundance of alcohol, just like every party I throw.

Only a few of the elites in my closet circle are present, as I detest crowds. And, of course, there is an abundance of beautiful women who are either part of my inner circle, or escorts of some of my friends.

A couple of female eyes hungrily roam over me as I make my way further into the party, and I smile to myself.

Those women definitely have dates already, but it is pretty obvious who they really want. Not that they are ever going to have me.

"Nile! There you are!" A male voice suddenly slurs in my ear, and I step sideways just in time to prevent Cole, one of my friends, from slipping his arm around my shoulders.

His breath has the heavy musk of alcohol, and he is already soaking drunk so early into the night.

"You look messed up, Cole." I say to him flatly.

"Don't be mean, Nile. We all know you are the biggest drunk out of all of us." He raises his voice over the music and yells, "Isn't that right, guys?!"

Like a magnet, everyone's attention flies in my direction. A lot of them had not realized that they were in my presence, so now, they all start calling out my name, raising their glasses in acknowledgement.

A couple of ladies send flirty smiles my way, brazenly inviting me to be with them.

Cole notices of course, and he laughs, "Wow, man. I will never understand how you pull so many women without even doing anything."

"They just like what they see." I say with a half hearted smirk and turn to get a glass from a table.

A lot of these women are sly, pretending to only want sex when all they want is to sink their fangs deep inside a man's fortune, and suck him dry. I have no problem with gold diggers. All I have a problem with is when they pretend they are not gold diggers.

They pretend to want love. To want something more intimate. Only to show their true colors when one makes the mistake of buying into their lie.

I should know.

"You don't have to be so cocky about your looks, for god's sake." Cole suddenly punches my arm, nearly losing his own balance, then asks, "When will the strippers arrive, anyway?"

"In a few minutes." I answer, pouring the vodka from my bottle into the glass.

Afterwards, I pick it up and face the rest of the party.

Instinctively, they stop whatever they are doing to give me their full attention, raising their glasses as well. Even the DJ lowers the music, and I speak up,

"Everyone in this room controls some type of wealth. A lot of people seem not to understand what it takes to control real wealth." I start, my voice cool, yet loud. "The responsibilities, and the sacrifices. But do you know what I like about every single person here?

"You do not let yourself become slaves to your own wealth. You make others make the sacrifices, and let the responsibilities fall on others. Only the benefits come to you." I smirk. "That is what I call, being smart. Again, you deserve a good time, for being one of the few to ever make it to one of my parties. A toast to you!"

"Cheers!"

The response is thunderous, as people throw gulps of alcohol down their throats. As their host, I take pride in skillfully emptying the contents of my glass in seconds.

The burn of the vodka is welcome, and I let myself drown in the music as the DJ turns it up to the highest volume.

The party goes wild.

In a minute, the doors open and the guards lead the strippers into the party. There are about six of them, barely dressed and in skyscraper heels. The male guests are more than excited to see them, and soon, cash starts flying all over the place.

The strippers disperse among the guests, gyrating and getting bathed with money in return.

I smirk to myself and turn away to refill my glass with vodka. The next hour is nothing but a feral blur of music, skimpy feminine bodies and flying cash.

Hookah smoke mixes in with the neon lights, and a couple of intoxicated people yell along to the music.

Somehow, I find myself sprawled on a leather couch, completely drunk, with two bottles of billionaire vodka sitting empty by my side. In this state, soaking drunk, with my shirt unbuttoned and my hair sprawled all over the place, I know I must look like a complete treat to the women around.

I can practically feel their hungry gazes devouring me from the distance. But none of them dared approach. Every woman who gets invited to my parties knows about the rules. No woman is allowed to approach or touch me without my permission. Going against that rule gets you kicked out and permanently removed from the exclusive invites list.

I have heard whispers about how weird my rules are, but I do not care. I do not owe anyone one shred of explanation.

Only my favorite seven, eight rather, are exempt from that rule.

They are my little harem, and I get to unleash my very sinful pleasures on them. The only rules they have to follow is to never spend the night, and never touch any of my belongings without permission.

I do not care about them enough to know their names, so I just call them numbers. It is a very straightforward arrangement.

They provide me with pleasure, I provide them with luxury. Nothing else gets involved. Having the honor to be with me is only an added bonus for them.

A guard appears by my side and leans down so I can hear him through the music. "Sir, your women are here. Should I send them over?"

"Yeah." I mutter, then reach for my glass, only to remember that it is empty.

I lean back into the couch and close my eyes, letting out a deep exhale.

Soon, a couple of female hands slide up my exposed chest as I feel the couch sink with the weight of more people climbing onto it. Soft feminine fragrance filters into my nose, and I wrap my arm around the nearest slender waist and bury my face in her chest.

"You seem a little stressed, Mr. Garres… want a massage?" Soft lips whisper into my ear.

And, they are not allowed to call me by my first name. Our arrangement has to be as impersonal as possible.

I recognize the voice as belonging to Number Three.

I open my eyes to peer at her, and she blushes under my gaze. "Not yet." I say to her, and look around. For some reason, having eight women fawning over me did not get me aroused as usual.

"Do you want a drink, sir?" Number seven asks.

"He is drunk enough, Seven. We should take care of him." Number Four says to her in a chiding tone.

I realize the woman whose bosom is currently serving as a rest for my head, is Number eight. Our eyes meet briefly, and her eyelashes shyly flutter down as she breaks eye contact.

She is still new, that is why she is unable to hold eye contact with me. I had no idea I had increased my harem to eight women instead of seven, until the day she made the mistake of being next to me when I woke up from my drunken sleep.

"Where's Two?" I ask.

Number two has a special charm that always gets me worked up each time she does her magic on me. She is by far the most skilled of them all. And with how dead I am feeling inside, it might be the right time for her to make me feel alive again.

"I'm right here, Mr. Garres." I hear her voice somewhere, and she pushes Number eight out of the way so she can slide onto my lap and push her fingers into my hair.

She bites her lip and molds her body against mine, effortlessly making whatever the other women were doing pale in comparison. I catch a few jealous looks coming from number eight, and I smirk internally.

A little jealousy never hurt anyone.

"I'm going to take good care of you tonight, sir." She whispers, and presses her lips against my jaw, slowly kissing across my skin.

I feel the other women caress different parts of my body, and I wait to feel familiar pleasure blooming inside me. But it never came. I felt nothing. Actually, something about all of this irritates me a little.

A hand slowly grabs my crotch, and I can't stand it anymore. With one smooth wave of my hand, I slide Number two off me, and get up from the couch. The hands of the other girls fall off my body, and I can feel their shocked stares burning into my back.

"Go home." I ordered.

Cursing under my breath, I make my way out of the party, and even the few guests watching the show look startled.

As I try to climb up the stairs in my drunken state, Cole catches up to me, sounding shocked, "Did you just tell those beautiful girls of yours to go home? You should see their faces, they are devastated!"

I give him a hard stare. "Does it look like I care?"

He must sense something off about my mood, because he backs off without another word, raising his hands in surrender.

Finally getting to my bedroom, I crash into my bed.

The next morning, a frantic Mike is at my door.

It gets my attention immediately, because not much is enough to rattle my head security guard. He's a tough one.

"What happened now?" I ask, brushing past him towards my private gym.

"Sir, I am not sure if you are interested in knowing this, but I just thought I should inform you of it anyway." He starts, and I give him an inpatient look.

"Are you going to speak, or keep wasting my time?"

"Of course, Mr. Garres." He says apologetically. "We just got news that Dymond Hackers wound up in a hospital early yesterday morning."

I freeze.

I am not sure why, but my heart skips. Outwardly, my expression remains the same as I fully turn to stare at Mike.

"Why?"

"She was found by two people in a subway. She was attacked, perhaps by one of those dangerous homeless people. She has a few injuries, but nothing too serious. The money you gave her, was scattered all over the floor near where she was found, so it is safe to assume that she was robbed, and tried to fight back."

"Sounds like something she would do, that stubborn redhead." I mutter, even if I do not buy into any of that explanation. "Head to that hospital, and bring her back here."

"Yes, sir." 

A few hours later, I am leaning against the wall of a guest bedroom, trying to stamp down the anger rising in me.

A nurse is attending to Dymond, who is lying unconscious in the middle of the bed. The hospital had already fixed her scratches, but she still looks so vulnerable and pitiful with the bruises and swellings on her face and neck.

She was nearly choked to death. The nurse has confirmed that.

That anger does not leave me, even days after, when she finally wakes up. The first thing she sees is my face, and she looks shocked and scared.

"Who did this to you?" I ask flatly.

Her eyes widen, but then she goes quiet. I lean forward, "I know you are hiding something. You have to tell me, Dymond."

"What am I doing here with you? I thought I was in a hospital. I thought you let me go? Why did you take me from the hospital without my permission? Is that even legal?"

I scoff. "I get everything I want. The hospital gladly let my guards bring you here. Now, I want my answers."

"I'm fine now." She snaps, sitting up. "I want to leave. Let me go."

"You'll remain here until you tell me what I want." I say, getting up to my feet.

My real reason for keeping her here is to make sure she is safe, but of course, I will never tell her that.

She immediately protests, trying to get out of the bed, "No! You can't keep me here! I have to leave! Hey—"

I move out of the room and shut the door, locking it with her inside.