Page 3 of When Hearts Ignite

I swipe to the text message, the lead feeling heavier in my chest.

Mother

Steven, I’ve tried talking to your father about retiring. His health has gotten worse and I’m worried. He says the company may be in trouble. Can you talk some sense into him?

I stare at the message and heave in a deep breath. My father works almost as much as I do and TransAmerica, an international conglomerate which has its fingers in most industries, is his swan song, his legacy. It’s the company he devoted his life to, especially after Mother’s family infused much needed capital back into its lifeless shell all those years ago, when the old money Kingsley name was just a name with empty coffers.

The company means so much to him, he puts up with staying with a family he doesn’t care about. But now, his health is on the decline. If he doesn’t take care of himself, things won’t end well for him.

The earlier guilt makes a resurgence, and for the first time, uncertainty slithers in my veins.

Can I really stand by and do nothing while his company goes down in flames?

My sisters never knew what I heard all those years ago. I couldn’t bear to tell them. It would break their hearts. And perhaps the truth of that night has been a slow-release poison, corrupting my insides over the years.

But I have the power to help him now. If I don’t help him, no one will.

Releasing a heavy exhale, I pull up a new text to my assistant.

Steven

Get me all the analyses we have on TransAmerica as soon as possible.

I stop in front of the towering double-doors to my suite, my home away from my actual apartment on the Upper West Side. Sometimes it’s much more convenient to stay overnight here with all the amenities and waitstaff.

Furthermore, most of my friends enjoy congregating at The Orchid, a sanctuary where the paparazzi are forbidden to enter, a place for us to relax and be ourselves without worrying about an unflattering photo or an unsavory headline appearing in front of gossip rags the next day. Everything we could want in terms of food and entertainment can be found in this building. The business connections and networking are just a side bonus.

After retrieving my regular room card, I swipe the sensor before entering the grand foyer of the spacious corner penthouse.

“Welcome back, Mr. Kingsley.” Jarvis, the on-site butler, materializes from the small attendant’s quarters attached to the suite. His slicked-back hair, mostly white with streaks of gray, is immaculately coiffed, and his dark suit has nary a wrinkle in sight as if it’s four in the afternoon, not the wee hours of the morning. “May I get you any refreshments?”

“I’m fine. Go back to sleep, Jarvis. It’s still dark out.”

“Have a good evening, sir.”

I stride through the living room, currently cloaked in darkness, with nothing but a lonely moonbeam streaming in from the gap between the velvet curtains. My footfalls are soft on the cold marble floors but somehow still echo in the hollow space as I enter the bathroom, shrugging out of my clothes along the way.

Staring at the mirror, I exhale, watching my breath fog up the surface. The soft back light illuminates every harsh line on my face and my disheveled hair, the inky blackness of the strands a stark contrast to the white, sterile marble walls. My jaw is covered in a day’s worth of scruff. Faint pink scratches mar my neck and chest, no doubt from the exertion of an hour before.

But it’s my eyes that give me pause. The usual hazel appears lifeless, the green edges dulling like the falling leaves on the cusp of a barren winter. A sunken darkness gathers underneath.

I crack the joints in my stiff neck and smooth a hand over my haggard face. Sleep continues to elude me, my body automatically jolting awake after a few scanty hours of shut-eye and no amount of tossing and turning gives me any reprieve. Instead, I end up staring at the dark ceiling, the bottomless nagging want in my gut threatening to swallow me whole, except I can’t identify the source of the unease, the origin of the discontent.

In the past, my work has been my shelter. My distraction. My focus.

Lately, it seems like nothing I do is enough anymore, and everything is a meaningless routine. I can’t help but wonder, is this all there is to life?

After opening the shower door, I twist the dials precisely three times, and watch the steam cloak the room into a suffocating fog. I gently step under the hot spray, my body wincing at the scalding heat, but I make no move to adjust the temperature. My clenched muscles slowly relax under the water, the pinpricks of pain fading into the background, and I inhale a deep breath of eucalyptus scented air from the diffuser on the counter.

I welcome the pain, the scorching water turning my skin pink in a matter of seconds.

Perhaps it makes me feel alive somehow.

My mind is now clear, no longer muddled with a need to fuck, and my thoughts drift to the pile of work waiting for me in the office later today, including the call with my brother-in-law, Adrian Scott, over the management of the investment holdings in his real-estate empire which will bring in quite a few more zeros to the ledger of my firm once he signs on the dotted line.

The headline of the TransAmerica troubles shoves its way to the forefront. The hot water pelts against my skin in a pounding rhythm and I close my eyes, letting the flames wash over me as the nagging guilt slithers inside me once more.

I swallow and expel a deep breath.

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