Chapter 6

Xander

Yasmine has been yapping for over five minutes now about a Chanel bag that just came out and is available in limited quantity. I couldn’t care less. I’m sure she’s telling me this because she wants me to get it for her. That’s how it always is with her—designer bags, shoes, clothes, whatever suits her fancy. Pretty things.

It’s why she has always wanted me, ever since we were kids. This whole engagement happened because of her. I’ll never forget the day my father told me I was to marry her. That was sixteen years ago. I was twelve, and I had just told a seven-year-old Yasmine that I didn’t like her the way she liked me.

Being the little brat that she was, she ran off to her dad and told him she wanted me as her next birthday gift. As if that struck some kind of business strategy, he proposed a deal to my dad—and just like that, my future became tied to Yasmine’s.

“Xander! Are you even listening to me?” she snaps, her lips pursed in a frown. It’s the morning after our engagement party, and we’re currently in my office at the penthouse. I’m seated at my desk, papers spread out in front of me, while she’s standing beside me.

I smile. “Of course, darling. You were saying…”

She rolls her eyes. “We’re having dinner at my parents’ place tonight. 8 p.m. sharp. Don’t be late.”

She really has some nerve, bossing me around like that.

I take the hand she has resting on my desk and bring it up to my lips, kissing it. “As you wish.” Holding her gaze, I tighten my grip on her hand. “Let this be the last time you order me around like I’m one of your little minions. I give the orders—you follow. Not the other way around. Do you understand?”

I tighten my grip a little more, just to make sure she gets the message.

For a moment, I see fear flash in her eyes before she quickly masks it with irritation. “What’s your problem? Let me go,” she snaps, trying to pull her hand away, but I hold it firmly.

“Do. You. Understand?”

“Fine, fine. I’ve heard you.”

I release her hand immediately. She shoots me a sour look, rubbing her wrist and muttering under her breath. I ignore her and return to my work. I’m resuming office on Monday, and there’s a mountain of paperwork and unread emails waiting for me.

“Anyway,” she says, still annoyed, “when’s your father returning?”

My father. There are a lot of things I’ve kept secret. I’ve been away from the public eye for eight years. Nobody knows the real reason, and I made sure it stayed that way. Eight years ago, my parents and I were involved in an accident. My mom died, my father fell into a coma, and I barely made it out alive. My legs were severely damaged, and the doctor told me I might never walk again.

The only people who knew the truth were my best friend, Mike, and my aunt—my father’s older sister. She was the one who ran the company during the time I was bedridden. I couldn’t walk for four years. It was a miracle when I took my first step.

Everything changed when I learned it wasn’t just an accident, but a planned attack. Someone—or a group of people—had targeted my family and tried to kill us all. It was a massive shock. I was mentally and emotionally unstable during that period. My mother’s death broke me, and my father being in a coma with no sign of recovery nearly destroyed me. I needed that time to heal—physically, emotionally, and mentally—and to find whoever was responsible.

Luckily, Mike is an FBI agent, and he’s been helping me with the investigation, but so far, we have no trail. I decided to keep everything from the public and even from close friends. I told them my mother died of cancer and that my father went away to heal—because, as it stands, I can’t trust anyone.

“When he’s ready,” I say to Yasmine dismissively.

Realizing she won’t be getting anything more from me, she huffs and storms out of my office, her heels clanking loudly on the floor. Relieved by her absence, I exhale and stretch my neck, trying to release the tension. Dealing with Yasmine is exhausting, and I already have enough on my plate.

I lean back in my chair and close my eyes for a moment. Ever since the charity ball last night, my mind has been consumed with thoughts of her—my masked girl. When I saw her in the ballroom, I was overcome with the urge to know her. She looked ethereal, untouchable—a lamb standing alone in a room full of wolves. I was drawn to her.

Out on the balcony, I wanted to tell her everything—every single secret. She didn’t know it, but that moment felt like an escape from my reality. I wanted to know her name, her story, what she liked and disliked, what made her smile. I wanted to see her without the mask. That dress she wore was something else. It hugged her curves perfectly and made her look irresistible.

I sigh.

I should forget her. What we shared clearly meant nothing to her, and she made that perfectly clear. I return to my work, trying not to let thoughts of her distract me.

It’s not like we’ll ever see each other again.