Page 191 of Hate Mates

Angels Are Falling by Drethi Anis

ONE

Stefan

Sardi’s was the fanciest restaurant in town, with valet service and flickering candles at each table. My younger sister and two brothers refused to dress the part, and I let the argument slide. But after seeing the romantic ambiance, I wished I had fought harder to make them presentable. The men around us wore suits. The women looked elegant, though none compared to my wife.

Amelie was a goddess in a black, knee-length dress with black pumps, though she could wear a potato sack, and no one else would hold a candle. She walked at a leisurely pace, unlike my siblings, who were running chaotically ahead of us.

After my parents passed away, I cursed fate for dealing me a shitty hand. I didn’t even have time to deal with the gut-wrenching grief. My folks had me in their teens and waited until later to expand their family. They left behind three young children, and I had to assume responsibility for them.

Between work, raising three hell-raisers, and taking over my parents’ mortgage, my life was a living hell. The house was a mess, I never had a minute to myself, and my bank account was constantly drained.

But at least fate hadn’t been stingy where my love life was concerned. Even my financial despair couldn’t dim the brilliance of her light.

I mean, just look at her. My sophisticated princess was straight out of sunny California with her dirty blonde hair, freckles across her rosy cheeks, and golden skin stretching over her five-foot-four frame. Sun radiated from her in abundance, but more than that, she was intelligent, optimistic, and down-to-earth.

The best part? She was mine.

She was the most stunning woman in this room—no, the most stunning woman in this world—and she was inmyarms. The men were jealous of me and did a double take as we passed their tables.

However, someone stole the spotlight from her—the man we were meeting for dinner.

Kai Cavendish awaited our arrival on the mezzanine balcony overlooking the downstairs. Like Amelie, he wore all black. Few men could get away with the all-black look—suit, tie, and shirt—without looking Goth.

There was something about Mr. Cavendish that sparked curiosity in the rest of the patrons, and all he had done was grant us a glance from the balcony. Everyone stared at him for no apparent reason. In the dimly lit restaurant, he stood out in his sleek hair that matched his outfit. He was tall and confident at six-foot-three, his face exuding a regal aura that demanded respect.

He must be royalty and worth hundreds of millions, perhaps even billions. No wonder there was a commotion around him. The place was buzzing with gossip when I pulled up to the restaurant and handed the keys to my beat-up Camry to the valet.

We overheard two servers in the hallway. “I thought it was against restaurant policy to book private events without twenty-four-hour notice?”

“It’s not an event. Just a dinner for six.”

“The manager shut down the entire upstairs for six people? Wouldn’t the restaurant make more money by keeping it open to the public?”

“Apparently, Cavendish called the owner and offered him a hundred thousand dollars to rent the mezzanine level.”

The other server whistled. “Rich people.”

I hardly knew Kai Cavendish. I only met him yesterday when I picked Amelie up from work. My wife was a nurse, and he was a patient being discharged. She provided him with excellent care after he suffered an unfortunate injury with glass. She had meticulously removed the shattered pieces from his palm, and he wanted to repay the favor.

I knew he was well off when he suggested treating her family to a dinner at this restaurant. We had eagerly accepted, even hoped he would be extra generous and order a bottle of Dom Pérignon, but Mr. Cavendish had surpassed my wildest expectations by dropping a hundred thousand dollars on this dinner.

Money was no object to him, that much had been made apparent. But this kind of obscene money? He was a tribute to extravagance, a testament to wealth and abundance. The other patrons were just as stupefied and curious about the mystery man.

“Who is he?” someone asked.

“They call him the Prince of Darster.”

“A real-life prince?”

“No. No. They just call him that because he owns everything in Darster.”

“Well, he’s hot as hell.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“One of the servers said the manager initially turned him down when he asked to book the upstairs for a private dinner. So he offered them a hundred thousand dollars.”

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