Page 52 of Wicked King

“Marco hasn’t been back to the penthouse since our fight last night,” I murmur.

“He’s probably just blowing off some steam.”

“Or getting a blow job from that all too willing realtor.”

Ari shakes her head, a rueful grin on her lips. “No way. That little homewrecker has nothing on you, Jia.”

I don’t need Raquel; I don’t want other women. Your lips are the ones I dream of every night, spitfire. Marco’s sincere expression flashes across my mind along with the echo of his words. He couldn’t be serious. We could be good together, Jia, really good. You just have to give it a chance. It’s laughable, right? He can’t possibly be serious about having a real marriage. How can I trust the eternal playboy to change his ways? And why can’t I get his words and that desperate look in his eyes out of my mind? They’d been playing on repeat since yesterday, plaguing my sleep and haunting the waking hours.

Sure, I’d been at the shop all day, but I hadn’t been able to accomplish a single thing. After pacing the quiet penthouse all morning, I’d ventured downtown for a distraction with one of Marco’s minions on my heel. I thought for sure he would return while I was gone, but according to grandpa, he still hasn’t. So where is my fiancé?

I stare at my phone carelessly flung on the desk, desperate for a message to come through. I even texted the idiot with some lame question about the wedding, and he still hasn’t responded.

“Come on, Jia, I’ll walk you out.” Ari curls an arm through mine and hauls me out of the chair. “That big, scary, sexy guy is out front waiting.”

I snort on a laugh as I picture Nicky standing guard by the front door. Poor guy has been there all day. And judging by the text messages he’s been receiving on the hour, my fiancé is keeping tabs on my whereabouts. So why can’t—I pull free of Ari’s hold and dart to the front door.

“Where’s Marco?” I snap at the burly guard.

“Sorry, Miss Jia, I have no idea.”

I sear him with my most intimidating glare. “Next time he texts you, ask him.”

“Um… I don’t think I should?—”

Rising to my tiptoes, I do my best to loom over the guy, which is pretty much impossible at my measly five foot four compared to his towering six foot five. “Listen here, Nicky, if you’re going to be my personal bodyguard, we’re going to be spending a hell of a lot of time together. I can make that time miserable or tolerable. Which do you prefer?”

The big guy swallows hard.

“You think Marco is scary? You haven’t seen anything.” I flick my gaze to my clutch and the sleek gun stashed inside that Marco acquired for me.

“Miss Jia…”

“Don’t think I wouldn’t do it, Nicky. Don’t forget who my father was.”

He blanches, his deep caramel skin morphing into a sickly pallor. Lucky for me, Bà was known to be a loose cannon, and everyone knows the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. “I’ll let the boss know you’re looking for him,” he mutters.

“Fine,” I grit out as Arianna saunters up, clearly amused at the exchange.

“So, we ready to go?”

Nicky nods and holds the door open. “After you, ladies.”

I storm around the penthouse in my fluffy robe and slippers like a tornado ready to strike, slamming cabinets, whipping doors open and stomping across the pristine marble. It’s been two days, and I have yet to hear from my fiancé. Despite my threats, Nicky hasn’t caved on disclosing his location. Worse, our wedding is tomorrow.

Marco has ignored my text messages, my phone calls, even my rather desperate voicemails. What if I really was in trouble? I glare across the foyer at Nicky who avoids my attention, pivoting toward the door.

He’s the reason Marco has made no attempt at contact, because his little spy has had eyes on me the whole time. So of course my fiancé isn’t worried about my safety. The two of them must be laughing their heads off at my enraged state.

The familiar shuffle of approaching footsteps forces my wild pulse to calm. Yéye has already made his concerns for my state of mind apparent, and I hate worrying him.

“Everything all right, baobèi?” He scans the whirlwind of open cabinets, the barstools in disarray, and the line of dirty coffee mugs along the sink.

“Yes, of course, grandfather.”

“Are you searching for something, perhaps?”

My sanity? God, how can this man affect me so much?

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