Chapter 2 Malcolm's POV

Power is subtle. It doesn't scream its presence. It doesn't have to. The weak call-out for attention. The desperate plead for it.

Bliss of Seduction throbs with sultry, slow music, the acrid scent of expensive perfume and bad decisions heavy in the air.

The VIP lounge is crowded, but upon my arrival, conversation gives way to silence, glasses hover suspended in mid-air, and two men stand at attention, backs stiff with implicit respect.

Tonight, it was my sanctuary. I wasn't here on company business, not yet. I needed a drink.

A moment of peace in a world that never stopped demanding. But the minute I walked in, I knew serenity wasn't on the menu.

Jackson intercepted me by the bar, posture rigid, face unreadable.

"Boss."

I took slow breaths. "What is it?"

"A call was received." His voice fell. "The Arab wants to talk to you."

My eyebrows furrowed. "Fahad?"

Jackson gestured. "Yeah. He says it's an emergency."

A quick flash of annoyance crawled up my back. "Our transaction closed last month. What in the world does he want now?"

"No clue. But he requested you by name."

That was never a good thing.

"Fine. I was headed to my office anyhow."

I spun, cutting through the throng of people like a blade. The club pulsed around me, music, low titters, the buzz of backroom deals cut in heavy language. Nothing that happened here went on without my knowledge.

And then I felt it. A glance. Not the type generally directed at me, the ones containing fear or greed. This one was a burn. Too constant. Too curious.

I allowed myself to be pulled toward it, my gaze slicing through the people in the room. And then I saw her. A girl.

A child who didn't belong where she was.

She stood frozen, a tray still held in her hands, gasping for breath. Wide eyes, too wide for her face, locked on me like she'd discovered something she wasn't supposed to know.

Most everybody else looked away the instant I caught their gaze.

She didn't.

Interesting.

"Boss."

Jackson's voice snapped me out of my reverie.

I yanked my eyes from hers with no hesitation. "Let's go."

Whiskey and old leather wafted through my office, the scent I had grown accustomed to. I sat down in my chair, the ice clinking in my drink as I stirred it. And then I picked up the phone.

"Malcolm speaking."

"Ah, my brother!" Fahad's voice was laced with false warmth. "Finally, you answer."

"I'm a busy man, Fahad. If this isn't urgent, you're wasting my time."

"Oh, but it is." A pause crept into his voice. "There's a problem with the last shipment."

The air in the room stung.

"Be specific."

"We inspected the cargo this morning. Some of it is missing."

Ice ran through my veins.

"No way." My voice was steel. I leaned forward, tension coiling in my muscles. "I personally oversaw that shipment before it went out. Nothing was lost."

"I know," Fahad admitted. "And I double-checked on my end, too. But between last week's inspection and today... something was lost."

The silence hung, cold and heavy.

Fahad's voice softened. "Malcolm, you know I would never lie to you. This has never happened before."

That was exactly the problem.

"I'll handle it," I said, and I hung up without saying another word.

Nicholas, my second-in-command, shifted position next to me. His voice was low and charged. "The South is stirring. We have spies in our own backyard."

A slow smile curled on my lips but there was no amusement in it. The South had gone reckless. Pushing boundaries that weren't meant to be pushed.

"Then let's remind them who owns this city," I whispered, finishing my drink.

Jackson stood in the doorway. "Boss, the others have to be told. Want me to set up a call?"

I nodded once. "Tell them what's happening. We'll discuss it later."

This would not go unmentioned. The six of us-Aiden, Yves, Hayden, Ethan, Matteo, and I, had been trained to be kings.

Raised to rule. The world viewed us as enemies, ever standing around one another like lions poised to attack.

They didn't understand. We were not allies. We were brothers. And if war was what the South wanted, we'd give them war.

Nicholas cleared his throat. "Your father's on the phone."

I breathed slowly. "Of course, he is."

"Should I tell him you're in a meeting?"

I was tempted.

But my father didn't call unless he had something to say. And when Edward Slade said it, ignoring him had repercussions.

"Give it to me."

Nicholas handed me the phone, and I brought it to my ear.

"Father."

"Do you want to lose your place to another house?" The words were clipped, edged with disapproval.

Here we go. I leaned back in my chair, fingers drumming against wood. "What are you saying?"

"Your position is not secure until you wed. It's time the delays stop. Maria Sloane is the obvious choice. You haven't proposed. Why not?"

I pushed the bridge of my nose. "I said it once already, I am not marrying a Southern princess to advance your political schemes."

"Is that so?" His tone dropped to something icier. "You have a month. If you don't find yourself a wife then... A hesitation. A menacing, low one. "I'm sure your mother will call."

Click. The phone went dead.

My hold on the phone tightened until my knuckles were white. And then, with a harsh gasp, I tossed it. It shattered on the wall before hitting the floor.

"Boss," Nicholas warned.

I spun around, my expression neutral. "He threatened me with my mother." My voice was low, controlled, but with a strand of venom in it.

"He actually thinks I'll marry Maria to maintain peace. That I'll give up my future to a marriage I never agreed to."

Nicholas didn't say anything. He didn't need to. I breathed slowly. Dismantling the game in my mind.

"He wants a bride?" A slow, wicked smile curled my lips. "Fine. He'll get one."

Nicholas' brow went up a fraction, but he said nothing.

"Call Pamela."

Nicholas nodded and left without a word. I leaned back in my chair, fingers together, waiting.

Pamela arrived first, a sharp-eyed woman who understood the business better than most.

"You summoned me, boss?" she asked.

"Yes." I let the pause hang. "There's a waitress here. She spilled something on her shirt earlier." My gaze flashed up. "Bring her here."

Pamela paused, sensitive enough to catch the shift in my voice. "Everything all right?" I merely raised an eyebrow.

She nodded once. "Understood."

Minutes ticked by, then the knock came.

"Come in."

Pamela stepped in, and behind her, reluctant, eyes darting like a trapped animal, was Iris Taylor.

Pamela nodded towards her. "Here she is, boss."

I rested my head. "Leave us."

Pamela gave her a brief look before she exited. Nicholas followed, shutting the door behind him.

Now, it was just the two of us.

"Sit."

She hesitated, then sat down.

"Your name?"

"I-Iris, sir," she stammered.

"Iris," I repeated, rolling the name around in my mouth. "Like the flower."

She swallowed hard.

"You married?"

Her fingers fluttered. "No, sir."

"Parents?"

A pause. Then, softly, "No. I'm an orphan."

Ah. That explained a lot.

I stood up, walking around to stand behind her. She stiffened, her breathing hitching.

"Are you afraid of me, Iris?"

A shaking breath. "No... no, sir."

"Liar."

She flinched.

I stepped closer, close enough to catch the sweet smell of strawberries on her skin.

"Be my wife," I said. "For ten million dollars."

She was frozen. Her lips parted, but she didn't say anything. And I just smiled.

"Sir... I-I don't understand. Why me? Why-"

I interrupted her tactfully. "It's simple. I need a wife. You need money. Problem solved."

She just sat there, stunned into silence, her mind clearly racing to try and keep up with what I'd just said.

I steepled my fingers and waited, watching as realization settled in on her.