MALCOLM

I used to believe in destiny. That the world was designed, that things happened for a reason.

That was before life ripped me up and spit me out. Before, my dreams bled all over a cold stage floor.

Before I found out that being alive is not about destiny, it's about fighting for every breath of your existence.

Tonight, I'm just fighting to get through another shift.

Now I was in the middle of Bliss of Seduction with a fresh stain down my front, George glaring at me as if I personally offended his family.

"Iris!" George bellowed behind the bar, waving an empty tray wildly. "Table five is waiting! What are you dawdling for?"

I breathed hard, forcing a strained smile. "On it!"

He shook his head and grumbled under his breath. I didn't have to hear the words to know that they were not pleasant.

George didn't even put up with me. Never wanted me in the first place. He acted like I stole his job, like I was the problem, when really he just didn't like having a waitress that he couldn't intimidate.

But I had more pressing issues than his bruised ego.

Balancing the tray on my hip, I threaded between tables, not caring about the way my shoes stuck to the floor thanks to spilled drinks and bad judgment.

I set a cocktail in front of a redhead sprawled out over the booth like she was a supermodel posing for a magazine cover. She rolled her eyes up at me, unfazed. "Took you long enough."

I swallowed my sigh. "Sorry for the delay."

Polite. Professional. Get in, get out, give nobody a reason to recall you. That was the policy.

But then I turned and felt it. A change. As if the air itself had tightened.

The music never stopped, but for an instant, it might as well have. And when I looked up, I knew why.

Malcolm Slade had arrived. He didn't arrive. He didn't have to. He moved as if the room belonged to him-because it did.

Every table, every hushed whisper, every patron losing themselves in pricey liquor, it all took place under his shadow.

He loomed, a physical weight crushing down upon the space, and yet it wasn't his power that caught my breath. It was him.

Black dress shirt. Sleeves pushed up to his forearms. Silver watch sparkling under the soft club lights. Wide shoulders cutting through the mass of people like a blade.

And those eyes. Cold, cutting, glacial blue, seizing on mine. I froze.

It was more than a glance. More than the suggestive once-over men give when they're considering you pretty.

This was different. This was the kind of gaze that tore things asunder.

That stripped you to bone and marrow and had you questioning whether you ever breathed before it found you.

The second lingered. Hung. As if time itself hung on the edge of a knife. Then, as suddenly as it had come, he walked away.

And I could catch my breath again. A hand wrapped around my arm, and I nearly jumped out of it.

"Jesus, Lura!" I spat, clutching at my heart. My friend grinned up at me, green eyes dancing with laughter. "That was a moment."

"No, it wasn't."

"Oh, honey." She struck a pose dramatically, patting my shoulder. "You were checking out the boss. And he was most definitely checking back."

I winced, rubbing my temples. "Not here, Lura."

"What? It's not illegal to look." She moved in closer, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper.

"Except, technically, it is. Fewer men have been able to capture Malcolm Slade's eye and come out alive to tell the tale-"

"I get that, all right?" I broke in, trying to exhale. "It was nothing. Just... eye contact."

Lura raised her brows. "The kind of eye contact that makes you question all of your life choices?"

I gave her a look. "No. And even if it was, I'd rather have my head where it is."

She smiled but let it drop, nudging me toward the bar. "Just be careful, Iris. Some looks don't let go so easily."

I rolled my eyes, but she had planted something in my head.

For as much as it was, like I already did.

And for as much as I kept telling myself Malcolm Slade was a human death warrant, some small inner voice of reason still refused to hear.

Not good. Especially after the fact when I nearly plowed straight into Pamela.

I breathed fast, tight-fisted on my tray. "Uh-hi," I stammered out too quickly. Pamela didn't blink.

She was my boss. Sure. But beyond that, cold. Calculated. Merciless. She could end a career with one glance.

And she was glaring at me now. My stomach twisted. Had George complained? Was I getting fired?

She folded her arms, eyes as sharp as a knife. "Your shirt. It's stained."

I blinked. ".Oh."

Not what I had been preparing myself for. She sighed, unimpressed.

"Fix it. This is a high-end restaurant. Guests don't pay for luxury to see waitresses splattered with spills."

Then, without a word, she turned and went away. I exhaled the air out of me as soon as she was gone. That might have been worse.

But then a worse thought came to me. What if Malcolm had seen?

I shook the thought away. No way. Malcolm Slade did not see people, let alone a waitress. But still, I went directly to the changing room.

I pushed through a whirlpool of dancers juggling sequins and tugging fishnets. There was perfume and powder in the air.

I reached my locker. Grasped the handle. Tugged. Locked. My heart locked up.

No, no, no. My hands scrounged in my pockets. Nothing. My keys. Then it hit me-Lura.

I had left them with her previously. And naturally she had locked my locker like the responsible one that she was.

Panic crawled up my throat. I had to get back in a hurry. I looked around the room, and my gaze landed on Lura's open locker.

Spare shirts. I grabbed one, jammed it over my head, and immediately regretted it. Too tight.

Lura was small, and I-wasn't. The buttons strained across my chest, fabric binding against my ribs. One misstep, and I'd be mooning the whole club.

"This is a disaster," I cursed, tugging on the collar.

I had no choice. My shift was almost up. I just had to survive ten more minutes without catastrophe.

I dashed out, right into Lura.

"There you are! Pamela's waiting for you."

I bristled. "Again? Why?"

Lura shrugged, passing me my key. "Who knows? She always glares. But she said to bring you, so..."

Anxiety writhed in my gut. I propelled my feet forward. Step by step. Past the bar. Beyond the VIP lounge.

Then Pamela turned. And instead of sweeping me to the floor, she walked towards his office.

My heart froze. I almost staggered, but Pamela steadied me. She glared at me, unfazed.

"Seriously?"

I swallowed hard. She rapped twice. A deep voice from within replied.

"Come in."

Pamela entered. Then turned around, staring into my eyes.

"Let's go."

I hesitated-just for a moment. Then, realizing I had no choice, I walked ahead. Straight into the lion's den.

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.

Silence between us, thick and heavy. I stared at Malcolm Slade, certain I'd gotten it wrong.

My head had to have gone on the fritz. Because there was no way, no way at all he'd actually proposed to me. For ten million dollars.

My heart thudded in my ears, my throat dry with caked-on grit, like I'd eaten sand. "You're joking," I pushed out, my whispery voice breaking.

He didn't blink. Didn't stir. Sat there, blade-skinny, with a kind of presence that seemed to keep a person from being able to catch a breath.

"Do I look like some sort of joke to you?"

No. No, he did not. I let a shaky breath slide out, my mind struggling to find sense. "Marry you?"

"Yes."

"For ten million dollars?"

His gaze was as unbending as his voice. "For six months."

A laugh-like scalding erupted from inside my chest, but it was more of a nervous collapse than actual laughter.

"That's absurd. This is a test, isn't it? A joke? Some kind of twisted game?"

Malcolm inched closer, slow and deliberate, his movements calculated like a predator creeping up on its quarry. "Is it?"

I tore my eyes from him, looking around the room for reasons that weren't present. The city's muted hum outside.

The faint scent of whiskey on the air. The dark-stained shelves crowded with expensive bottles, drinks I couldn't even pronounce. Everything felt unreal.

"I don't get it," I said, shaking my head. "Why me? You could have any woman. Hell, women probably line up just for the chance to breathe the same air as you."

His lips curled, not quite a smirk, not quite anything. "You don't need to understand. You just need to say yes."

A spike of irritation churned in my gut. "As a matter of fact, I do need to know. You're throwing life-changing cash at me, and I'm just supposed to... take it? No questions asked?"

Malcolm exhaled a sudden breath, as if I was pushing him. "I need a wife. You need money. It's simple."

Simple. Please. Because involving myself with a man such as him, one who radiated danger, power, and something much worse was never simple.

I exhaled a breath. "There are a hundred women who would die for this."

"There are." He shrugged. "But I don't want them."

I shivered. I needed to get out of here. Now. I rose from my seat, but no sooner was I standing than Malcolm did as well.

He didn't rush, he didn't need to. His rising was enough to make the room feel tighter and the air thinner.

I moved back instinctively. He kept coming, deliberate, deliberate, until my lower back hit the edge of his desk. I caught my breath.

He placed his hands on either side of me, not on me, but holding me in place.

"Still afraid of me, Iris?" His voice was low and silky.

I swallowed hard. "No." A lie.

His eyes deepened. "Don't lie to me. I hate it when people lie to me."

My heart thudded in my chest. I should have been afraid. I should have flung my bag over my shoulder, stormed out of here, and never come back.

But I didn't. Because beneath the fear, beneath the cold sweat on my skin, was something else. Something I did not dare to name.

Malcolm's eyes flashed to my mouth, then above. "You can leave if you wish to."

I sucked in a quick breath. So why didn't I think I could? I sidestepped him, my shoulder accidentally bumping his in the motion.

Fire sparked in my stomach. I ignored it, fumbling to grasp the doorknob with trembling fingers.

"Think about it," Malcolm whispered against my back. "Ten million dollars, Iris. That is not want. That is opportunity."

My breath caught. I pushed the door open and strode into the corridor, slapping it behind me.

I just kept moving. Kept walking. My legs were shaking, but I didn't stop until I arrived in the dressing room, clutching the edges of the sink as if that was the only thing holding me up.

Ten million dollars. Not desperation. Opportunity. I closed my eyes, trying to push the vortex of thoughts away. What if he was right?

That kind of money could change my life. Fix my knee. Give me a fresh start. Maybe even bring back the dream I'd lost.

I inhaled deeply and straightened, grabbing my purse. My shift was over anyway. I needed to call Isabella.

I nearly ran out of Bliss of Seduction, ignoring Lura's screams behind me. I didn't ease up until I was blocks from there, gasping for breath.

When I reached my apartment complex, the adrenaline had been burned off in my system, leaving me exhausted.

The streets were nearly empty, the streetlights casting long, ominous shadows. This wasn't the kind of neighborhood you loitered in after dark.

I inserted my key into the lock and entered, banging the door shut behind me. I leaned against the wood there for a second, forehead, trying to calm my breathing.

I needed to get out of here. Not this apartment. This life. But how?

I barely managed to scrape together enough to survive. Isabella had offered me a place to stay more times than I could remember, but pride wouldn't let me.

I didn't want to be a charity case for anyone. I took off my shoes and stepped into the shower, hoping the hot water would wash away the weight of tonight.

It didn't. No matter how hard I scrubbed, Malcolm's words refused to be washed away.

Marry me. I shivered, and I wasn't sure if it was from the water or otherwise.

I dried off and rummaged through the kitchen for food, but all I could find was a stale sandwich. I sighed and sat with it on the couch and huddled around it, phone in my hand.

I called Isabella without thinking.

She picked up on the second ring. "Hey, babe! What's up?"

Her voice was sunny and bright. A clashing discord from the whirlpool in my head.

I stopped. "Isa..."

A pause. Then, quickly bitter, "Iris? What's the matter?"

I swallowed. How did I ever start this?

"It's Malcolm."

There was silence. Then, a ragged breath. "Malcolm?" Her voice turned icy. "What did he do? If he hurt you, I swear to God, I'll kill him-"

"Issa!" I stopped her before she'd gone fully into assassination mode. To my shock, a tiny smile struggled to escape my lips.

"Then what?" she demanded.

I breathed slowly. "Something happened tonight. At the club".

I laid it all out. The staring. The summoning to his office. His ridiculous offer.

When I finished, she didn't say a word.

Then finally-"Iris, what the actual fuck?"

"Yeah. That pretty much sums it up."

Isabella made a strangled noise. "And you're going to do it?"

I pinched my nose. "I don't know. But, Isa, ten million dollars. I could rebuild my knee. Start again."

"Absolutely not." Her voice was firm. "If you need money, I'll help you. You don't have to do that."

I clenched my teeth. "Isa, I can't take from you all the time."

A thick silence. Then, softer, "So what are you going to do?"

I hesitated. "I don't know. I just... I needed to talk to someone."

She breathed deeply. "Alright. Think about it. But, Iris?"

"Yes?"

"No amount of money is worth your life."

I swallowed hard. If only it were that simple. We exchanged our goodnights, and I curled under my blanket. But sleep was not easy.

Because no matter how much I tried to tell myself this was just a business deal...

I knew the truth.

I was about to make a deal with the devil himself. And I didn't know if I'd survive.