Lucian’s Reign: A Billionaire Romance
Lucian’s Reign: Chapter 3

“Whatever I want, I get.

And those who stand in my way?

They don’t live long enough to tell their tale.”

Lucian

Lucian

A loud knock sounds on the heavy wooden door to my office, and without turning away from the view of my garden, I call over my shoulder, “Come in.” A second later, I hear a heavy sigh along with glasses rattling on a tray.

My mouth twitches in amusement as I see Harold’s reflection in the windowpane and lift my brow. “Oh no. I missed teatime again?”

Harold pauses on the way to the table and huffs in displeasure, adjusting a plate of cake as it slips to the side. “Didn’t think you could avoid that, did you?” Then he places it on the table and motions with his head. “Go on.”

Turning around, I show him my glass of whiskey and finish it with one gulp to his frown. “I’ve already celebrated my birthday.” I point at the half-finished bottle at the bar located in the right corner. “And have enough to celebrate some more. Care to join me, old man?”

He doesn’t say anything but gives me “the look” with his gray eyes as he narrows them to just a slit, reminding me of all those times I pulled shit on him during my teenage years.

Some of it almost gave him a heart attack, especially when he discovered my basement.

He never raised his voice or anything else, but if he gave me “the look”… I knew he could make my life a living hell.

And who needs that around this house?

He must be the only member of my staff who is not afraid of my fuck-you attitude, but then again, he rarely gets it.

After all, the man has been a father figure to me for years, so I know how to keep my respect when it’s earned.

And loyalty.

I value that above all else.

Dropping into my massive oak chair brought from France specifically at my request, I reach for the plate and dig a fork into it. “Just for you.” I toast him with it before putting it into my mouth, almost gagging at the strawberry taste. My whole being rebels against the idea of eating sweets, because it always takes me back to the past.

Where sweets entailed…

Reining in the emotions slowly swirling inside me, I swallow the piece and push the plate away. “Now, happy?”

A smile widens his mouth, deepening the wrinkles on his cheeks and under his eyes, while happiness flashes on his face. He adjusts his long jacket and clasps his white-glove-covered hands. “Yes, sir. Happy thirty-sixth birthday.”

“Gracias.” I lean back on my chair, drumming my fingers on the table and debating what to do next about the information Francis spilled to me.

Bait should never stay unsupervised for long, or someone else might snatch it.

The mysterious fucker might have announced wanting to wait ‘til her birthday; however, most monsters, especially those who’ve lost their head, are unpredictable and can change in the blink of an eye.

And since she is my only key to catching him as soon as possible and preventing further distraction caused by his madness, risking it is not an option.

Harold clears his throat and takes a yellow envelope from his jacket. “A man stopped by to deliver this to you.” He puts it on the desk, and I notice a name written in large black letters on it, which explains Harold’s strained voice. “Is she… is she one of your…?”

“Victims?” I supply, and he pales, tugging on his collar, clearly uncomfortable with this subject but ironically still staying by my side despite taking such offense at what I do. “In a manner of speaking.” In the grand scheme of things, I have no plans of physically hurting her. However, who knows how she will react to the psychological pressure the kidnapping will entail?

No wars were won without great losses though, and this one has too much at stake for me to show pity toward a young woman whose greatest offense probably was looking like the monster’s ex-girlfriend or a mother.

Serial killers are predictable creatures despite their despicable deeds. They’re always seeking to replace comfort associated with their childhood, to replay the past, and always end up killing their victims because they refuse to play by the killer’s delusions.

Although, in most cases, death is inevitable no matter what victims do, because when the head is gone, even the smallest of things can trigger the madness reigning over their psyche.

“What does it mean?” Harold comes closer, and settles in the opposite chair. He taps on the envelope. “You will hurt this woman?” His hand clenches in a fist. “I forbid it.”

“You forbid it?” I exclaim dramatically with sarcasm coating my words before sliding the envelope from him and tearing it open. “Do not question my decisions, Harold.” My voice lowers, warning lacing my tone, and his lips flatten, highlighting his displeasure at my order yet not daring to speak again.

While he has more freedom than any other person in my life, even he has lines he is never allowed to cross.

Taking the papers out, I throw the envelope away while scanning through the report that has bullet points dividing it into different sections that give me a better understanding of her life.

A child prodigy.

My brows rise at the various accolades through the years, participating in art competitions since she was ten years old, and winning most of them. Various galleries showcased her art and strived to work with her by the time she was fourteen, proclaiming her a gift to the world, although she never followed anyone’s style. When she was fifteen, the Harrison family offered to open up a gallery for her, and she agreed. Soon, they had grown to four, with a heavy focus on charity.

Certainly, for a twenty-year-old woman, she has achieved a lot and doesn’t hurt financially, since wealthy people never mind paying an obscene amount of money for a rare art piece.

Although she possessed a great talent for art, judging by her other grades, she was failing in a lot of other subjects, which resulted in her family deciding to homeschool her, and later on, she refused to go to college.

Who wouldn’t fucking be failing though with so many competitions per year? It’s a wonder she even bothered to finish school.

Which leads me to the next section, causing me to put the previous paper on the table, where Harold snatches it, reading right along with me.

Shaking my head at him, as if his knowledge has the power to change my plans, I focus on her surname, and a mocking smile curves my mouth that almost turns into a snarl.

The Hugh dynasty.

The matriarch of the family, Suzanne, might go down in history as the most snobbish woman of the elite, whose ruthless and cruel nature scares even the hardest of men as she operates her empire with an iron fist. And most of the people wouldn’t bother with her if she wasn’t smart too, which means she has shares in most corporations.

Status, power, money.

She values these things above people and anything else. She didn’t even mind cutting off her own twin children when they showed her the middle finger and decided not to follow her rules.

Her daughter chose to run off with their driver, and she lives on an island blissfully happy and raising six kids. The money is tight apparently, but she has never even called her mother for help.

Her son married his classmate, whose family was not good enough either for Suzanne, so he moved out and started a family on the outskirts of New York. Sadly, he died in a car accident years ago, leaving a wife and two daughters behind.

Which led to Suzanne getting custody of Esmeralda at the age of ten and fully embracing her in the artist world, albeit also drilling her with various etiquette and language lessons, making sure her granddaughter was presentable to society.

The status of the mother and sister are absent, leaving a lot of questions behind and perhaps the keys to the monster’s obsession with her.

Because what’s hidden always has the answers you so seek, the absolute law that’s never failed me before.

Based on this, Esmeralda moved out of the Hugh mansion at sixteen. She spent a year in France before returning to New York and buying a small house. No one knows what happened between the two, but with Suzanne’s tendency to cut off her family at the smallest sign of transgression, no one was surprised.

I give the second paper to Harold, who leans on the table and covers his mouth with a palm, sighing heavily. “Poor girl. It must have been hard for her.” He’s already forming attachments toward this woman who he probably pities, while it inspires nothing but laughter from me.

Unless one lived in hell, wishing to die every single day of his life because reality was so horrendous he or she struggled to breathe as the monsters feasted on their flesh, sinking claws so deep they left permanent scars… do not fucking tell me it was hard for someone.

Esmeralda had the whole world in her palm, and a little quarrel with Grandma dearest hardly makes her worthy of pity, mercy, or compassion.

Finding answers to my questions without getting close to this girl will be impossible.

The hunter seeking her will become more daring every day, engaging in more vicious crimes, so acting fast is my only way to stop him.

To gain his attention, I have to do something I’ve never done before, because no woman has caught my interest long enough to experience such desire.

If I seduce her, then in his anger to the point of insanity, the monster wanting her will decide to kill me, thereby showing himself as he comes out of the shadows.

Jealousy is a powerful tool designed to strip anyone of their common sense and cause them to act out of character.

Besides, I can seduce her mind without ever touching her body by creating the illusion of a Prince Charming coming to sweep her off her feet while, in fact, I’m a villain intending to steal far more valuable things.

A black-and-white photo slides out on the table, and I focus on it, studying the woman standing in profile with her head up while her long hair covers most of her face.

She leans on a balcony banister, her slender form concealed by a long dress giving no clue to her shape or the secrets it might hold.

The photo raises more questions than it answers about her appearance, but something tugs inside me, something akin to possessiveness, craving to forcefully spin her around to face the camera to fully show her face and eyes.

Eyes are always the most important part in anyone’s beauty. They serve as gates to one’s soul.

One of the reasons I dislike looking at my refection is because the hollowness and darkness staring back at me reminds me of the starved, beaten boy waiting for the help that never came.

You can escape the past, but you can never truly escape yourself, and sadly, people are only able to discover this fact later in life.

Maybe then we wouldn’t have to spend so much time trying to outrun it.

The phone ringing pulls me out of my thoughts, and I wrap my hand around the receiver, motioning with my chin to Harold to leave me alone, as his heart might not survive listening to my conversations with friends.

Deprived minds should stick together in order to have someone in their corner when shit hits the fan. However, I think my butler would have a heart attack for real upon discovering how many of us actually roam the earth.

He shakes his head, puts the papers back into the envelope, and gets up.

Pressing the phone to my ear, I watch Harold bow slightly before slipping out the door as a deep voice greets me from the other side. “Lucian.”

“Por qué me estás llamando, Eugene?”

“Can’t your friend call you just because he missed you?”

Leaning back in my chair, I put my feet on the table and chuckle. “You? Never.”

“Ah, the arrow pierced my heart,” he exclaims, and I’ve had enough of this shit.

“Qué deseas?” I have no time to engage in the verbal spars he loves so much, considering I have prey to catch and bait to seduce.

“A little bird whispered in my ear that you are seeking information about Rebecca.”

“Say hola to your little bird from me.”

Whoever the fuck that is.

He ignores my statement. “Are you such a greedy bastard you cannot invest money without running a full report on the person first? Even if said person is a woman with a perfect reputation?” There is an edge to his tone now, almost warning me to tread lightly, but who gives a fuck?

Lucian Cortez follows no one’s rules but his, and sure as fuck, no one dictates to me how to conduct my personal affairs.

Besides, absolute trust toward those around you based on their word alone is a privilege not everyone in this world has, especially the likes of me. “No tengo idea de lo que estás hablando.”

“No idea what I’m talking about? Let me refresh your memory then. I asked you to invest in her scholarship program a few weeks ago, and you insisted on meeting her.”

Everything inside me goes still while the conversation flashes in my head, reminding me about the name Rebecca coming up as my friend convinced me to believe she worked for the greater good and sponsor a few of her projects while he’d be away on his long honeymoon, as he planned to travel the world with Lila.

Art and the bohemian world never interested me much. Their rose-colored-glasses view on things amuse me; however, listening to their idealistic hopes and dreams bores me more than my victims begging for salvation.

That being said, giving an opportunity to a child in need sparked my interest, although once again very mildly.

“Rebecca Esmeralda Hugh.” I taste her name on my lips,. “A gallery owner.”

“The one and only. She’s agreed to meet you, so when do you want to do this?”

Glancing at the clock hanging on the wall, I reply, “Hoy.”

Eugene stays silent for a moment, and then asks, “Today?” I hear some rustling on the other side. “Aren’t you in Chicago?”

Why would this fact stop me? I own enough private planes to fly whenever I wish.

Why prolong the inevitable?

If destiny has granted me an opportunity to meet my bait without having to fabricate anything, I should welcome this gift with open arms.

Besides, me investing in her gallery already warms her up to me, adding to the whole charming persona women love to claim I possess.

If they really knew me, their sentiment would be vastly different, but then again, I don’t care what they think.

“Sí. Tell her to be at Cosa N at six o’clock.” The restaurant would be a perfect place where no one would dare interrupt us, and it would provide us much-needed privacy without stumbling on someone we might know.

Before Eugene can object or say any other shit that would annoy me, I hang up on him and head toward the bar. Pouring myself a glassful of whiskey, and I raise it high in the air.

Let the games begin.

The victory shall be mine.

And so will she.

For a moment in time anyway.