Page 1 of When Hearts Ignite

I’m broken. Defective.

I’ve come to that realization a long time ago. The thumping organ in my rib cage is supposed to race and pound with emotions, the apparent signs of what makes us all human. I’ve never felt the agonizing want of needing another person more than I need my next breath, the crippling blow of heartbreak cutting out my knees from under me, the highs and lows waxed by poets and musicians in lofted tomes and award-winning lyrics.

Or at least, I don’t think I have.

“Steven? Are you sure you don’t want to stay? It’s only four in the morning. I don’t have any plans today,” a sultry, raspy voice murmurs from the haphazard pile of sheets in the middle of the bed in one of the premium, sound-proofed suites of the Rose floors at The Orchid, the most exclusive establishment in the world for the rich and famous.

The voluptuous figure shifts on the bed, a pair of long legs with reddened handprints on the thighs peeking out from under the comforter. A pair of handcuffs is wedged by the fluffy pillows I’ll never use for sleep. Her lacy black dress, bra, and thong are littered across the soft carpet. The room is dark except for the soft light filtering in from the ensuite bathroom.

The smell of sweat and sex lingers in the air. My skin is slick and damp from exertion. Three back-to-back sessions, dulling the inconvenient biological need inside me to the background once again. Unlike my love for gourmet food and fine dining, my time with women is a means to an end, the sex feeling something like the bland taste of porridge or chicken noodle soup when you’re bedridden with sickness. It’s necessary, but not something to be savored.

“No. You know I never do. Thank you for your time today, Liesel.”

I finish buttoning up my white dress shirt, which I carefully draped across an armchair before we tumbled onto the bed, and shrug on my bespoke suit jacket, my hands straightening out the sleeves, and dusting off a few pieces of lint stuck on the fabric.

I pull out my wallet from my pocket. After taking out a few crisp hundreds, I tuck the bills into a purple, embossed linen envelope on the dresser, careful to place it so it’s precisely aligned to the edge of the surface—because nothing annoys me more than things being out of order. The Orchid isn’t a brothel, so we can’t be too crass as to hand over money outright. The beautiful envelope represents a gift we can choose to bestow upon our women if desired.

A gift. Not a payment.

In this invite-only establishment for the rich and powerful, all our wants and needs are catered to, whether they’re the award-winning cuisine from Michelin-rated restaurants, access to the specialty bars, lounges, gentlemen’s club, or top of the line spas on-site. In addition, there’s transportation to private islands for vacation, contacts to the top surgeons, or couture designers of the world, and specialty Cuban cigars flown in directly from the source at the cigar club, among other perks. But there’s an unspoken, but popular service provided, which fits under the broad umbrella of companionship and straddles the lines of legality.

The men and women who choose to work on the Rose floors where adult entertainment reigns supreme, from specialty clubs to private suites separated out from the other luxury rooms for guests embarking on less amorous pursuits, are carefully vetted in a series of comprehensive background and physical checks and are also under iron-clad nondisclosure agreements even the Supreme Court couldn’t break.

Nor would they want to since a few of the justices are members here.

The rustling of the bedsheets and the soft footsteps alert me to her presence behind me before the whiff of expensive floral perfume hits my nose. I pick up my watch next and flip it over to the back. Delicate arms encircle my waist as I trace the engraving with my fingers.

Mind over matter.

The watch is one of the few gifts my father gave me, a classic timepiece which has withstood the test of time. He gave it to me when I graduated from Harvard, along with a terse nod of approval. “Son, we Kingsley men live with honor. We do things the right way even when the world doesn’t.” I slip it on and carefully wipe off the thumbprints on the face.

I hate those damn smudges on the clear glass.

“Are you sure? You seem tense this time. Maybe we can move up our date to next week instead of three months from now?”

I stiffen. Goosebumps pebble on the back of my neck. The warning bells in my mind blare loud and clear.

Slowly removing her hands from my waist, I turn around, finding Liesel’s blue eyes wide with a trace of hopefulness she tries her best to hide. A flush spreads over her face, half-hidden by her long locks of brown hair. She slowly bites her lip, a move normally seductive coming from her, someone who could grace the cover of magazines, but is now fraught with tension instead.

“I think it’s time we part ways, Liesel,” I say gently, my heart prodding along as if I’m talking about the weather outside instead of ending a long-term companionship arrangement.

They can’t get attached to me. Their adoration and emotions are of no use to me. And it’s something I’ll never be able to reciprocate.

Nor do I want to.

My mind flits to my older sisters, Jess and Emily, both hopelessly in love with their men, James and Adrian, respectively, and I can’t help but ask myself, don’t I want what they have?

The truth is, I couldn’t care less.

I know I’m not built that way. These tender emotions aren’t languages I comprehend, and they’re worthless to me. They are liabilities impeding common sense and logical thinking.

The closest thing to love I have for the women in the world are reserved for my sisters who’ve supported me all these years, with Jess being more of a mother figure than our mother ever was and Emily being the spark in the large, cold house we grew up in, and that’s more than enough.

Liesel’s eyes dim as she processes the meaning behind my words. She pastes a fake smile on her face, a smile no doubt trained by Sofia Kent, the manager of the Rose floors, before she unleashes the girls to work with high-net-worth clientele.

“Is it because I asked you to stay? I’m just worried about you, that’s all. You seem troubled this time. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. We can see each other once a quarter like you prefer.”

Liesel nervously twirls a thick lock of hair while she clutches the bedsheets around her body like a suit of armor, as if it’ll soften the blow or rewind time. She swallows, her smile faltering at my silence.

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