Page 1 of The Heir

Prologue

Month Four Of Meetings

"Where are you, Isobel?" I mutter as I anxiously pace my office on the forty-sixth floor of the King Dynasty building, glancing at my watch in irritation seeing my partner on this restaurant build is five minutes late. And tardiness isnotlike her. She's always early, no matter what.

Looking at my phone, I re-read her text message that was sent early this morning around six o'clock.

Good morning King. I apologize for texting you so early, but is it okay if we reschedule our meeting today? -Isobel

I hadn't responded, hoping that by not hearing from me she'd still show up. But now I'm burning a hole in my floor, anticipating a knock on the door announcing her presence. I alternate glancing out the window at the city below me- as if I could make her magically appear on the sidewalk- and staring at my office door, willing her to walk through it in a cloud of her French perfume.

After five more minutes I give up and turn to head to my desk, sitting in the leather chair with a rueful sigh.

Just when I take out my phone to reply, the knock I'd been praying for sounds out, and I breathe another sigh, this time with relief that she didn't stand me up after all.

"Come in," I call out, putting my attention to the papers on my desk and moving them around in another rare fit of anxiousness and strive for perfection when it comes to this woman.

Isobel, the beautiful interior designer I'd been meeting monthly with for the past four months has managed to dig down deep into my soul and is busy changing my chemical makeup. Altering what makes me, me.

Because I amnotthis anxious, damn near borderlineneuroticperson I've been acting like lately.

The door opens slowly.

My chest tightens as I catch a flash of the dark green fabric of her dress as she moves past the threshold, her heels clicking on the marble of my office floor. I look up from my desk and frown, my eyes freezing on her face then dragging down her body in a thorough assessment. I feel my face harden.

Though she's dressed to the nines, she's obviously under the weather.

Isobel's walking slow. My eyes snap back to her face seeing her complexion is ashen, making her freckles stand out more than normal. Her expression is weary, and her mascara is slightly smudged like she's been rubbing her eyes. The only thing vibrant about her at the moment is her beautiful, copper-colored hair.

My heartbeat picks up pace, and I clench my fists trying to get a grip over the worry that displaces the anxiety.

Worry…another emotion I'm not familiar with.

"Hey, King," she greets me in an unfamiliar soft, weak voice.

Alarmed, I stand up, rounding my desk to get to her. "Isobel, what's wrong? You don't look well," I say, closing the door behind her and then putting my hand lightly on her elbow, welcoming that familiar spark of electricity between us.

"I don'tfeelvery well," she answers, not elaborating.

My eyes narrow. "What's that mean? What hurts?"

"My stomach," she sighs. "I've barely been able to hold anything down for two days now."

My brow furrows as the worry etches deeper. "Come on, let's get you sat down and comfortable." Concern fills me, and I tuck her under my arm uncaring of her stiffening against me, or how inappropriate she might consider this to be.

Guiding her to the seat across from my desk, I pull out the chair and wait until she settles. She sits there for a second on a heavy sigh, and seeing she's not moving, I reach forward and gently slip her purse off her shoulder and place it in the chair next to her. Rounding my desk to the drinks cabinet, I pull out a can of ginger ale and a crystal glass.

I don't even bother asking if she needs ice, and pour a small amount so she doesn't feel the need to drink it all out of being polite, because that seems like something she'd do.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

"Making you a ginger ale. It's good for your stomach."

"I don't-"

"Isobel," I say sternly, turning back to her and handing her the drink. "Not today. You don't have to do this today." I purposefully soften my tone as she bows her head slightly, but she thankfully stays quiet. I don't elaborate, because she knows I'm referring to that fucking attitude she's gifted me with at every meeting we've had so far. "Just take the drink and start sipping.Slowlythough. You look dehydrated, and you need to get something on your stomach at the very least."

"I'm sorry, King," Isobel says, looking up at me through her lashes. "I thought I might be able to have the meeting… but when I woke up this morning I still felt awful. I reached out to you but didn't hear anything back, so I drug myself out of bed to come here anyway because I didn't want to be unprofessional and," she pauses to take a deep, tired breath. "I don't know that I'll be able to do this meeting today. I'm so sorry, I wanted to tell you in person because I couldn't get a hold of you to cancel."

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