Page 1 of Duchess
Prologue
DUCHESS
Fifteen Years ago…
I was going to kill that son of a bitch!
My hands were trembling, and not from fear, but from rage. White hot, throat-clenching fury. Who the fuck did he think he was? And doing this shit right under my nose! I was going to rip his balls off, shove them down his throat, and watch him choke on all the lies he fed me these past few years.
The city lights of Los Angeles blurred around me as the wind sliced across my face, my Harley roared between my thighs as if it, too, could feel my rage. My knuckles were white on the grips, and my heart was pounding louder than the engine. Betrayal tasted like bitter bile in the back of your throat, like a mix of smoke and blood you just couldn't swallow.
Alan...no, fuck that shit, his name wasSerhan. Another fucking lie I'd been spoon fed.Serhan Kaya.A Turkish charmer with eyes like dark velvet and a smile made to melt the panties off all gullible women, myself included. He was the reason I ended up here, thousands of miles from home. He told me he loved me. Said I was his salvation. Told me he’d make me a queen in this city of demons. Instead, he made me a fool.
I wasn’t just any woman. I was Stephanie fucking Winters! Daughter of Leo "the Guardian" Winters, founding member of the Royal Bastards MC. I was raised on loyalty, Harleys, and loaded guns. I was considered royalty in a world of outlaws. My dumbass brother Colton Winters, better known as Colt, was once the VP of the RBMC. But he had quickly burned his crown, spitting on it and my father's reputation when he betrayed Elrik Jameson, the current President, and the son of the man my father called brother. And while the club fell into chaos around Colt's betrayal, I did what I thought was the smart thing to do.
I ran.
Unfortunately, I was looking straight and ran directly into the arms of the devil himself.
Alan told me his boss was a millionaire Turkish businessman. Said he needed someone with a brain for numbers, someone who could make financial chaos look like order. And he had painted the job like a dream. High pay, no questions, under the radar, clean. But the first time I stepped into their so-called office, a luxury penthouse reeking of cigar smoke and sex, I knew something was off.
The books weren't just messy, they were riddled with bloodstains in the margins. Offshore accounts tied to ghost companies. Payments were made in cash, gold, or sometimes favors that made my stomach turn. I didn’t need a background check to know this wasn’t a business. This was blood money. Still, when I confronted him, ready to burn the whole thing down, he grabbed my hands, dropped to his knees, and begged. Told me they’d kill him. That I'd be the only reason he lived. And when he looked up at me with those pleading dark eyes, a whole lifetime of gut instinct got drowned out by the part of me that still believed in saving people. The part of me that had fallen in love with him. So I ignored the alarms screaming in my head, and I agreed.
They started small. A few discrepancies here and there. Round a number up, shift a decimal down, plug in a shadow vendor no one would ever question. I was good at it. Too good. The kind of good that makes dangerous men take notice. Within months, I wasn’t just balancing crooked ledgers; I was moving money through shell corporations, converting black funds into legitimate assets, and covering their tracks so cleanly that it looked like fucking art. They trusted me. Gave me access to files I had no business seeing. Names. Locations. Trades. Shit that could put people in the ground or buy their silence for a decade.
But I was careful. Always careful. I never left a trace, never trusted a soul. Not even the sleek, shark-smiling men who offered me gifts wrapped in threats. Only Alan. He was my blind spot. My weak link. The one person I thought would never turn on me. The only one I let see behind the curtain.
But tonight? Tonight I got the call. Some busted up, rail thin piece of gutter trash called me from a blocked number, giggling as she asked me what I was doing withherman. Sent me pictures too. Of his cock. His hands on her tits. His mouth on her neck. Eight months, she said.
Eight fucking months!
I veered off the highway, nearly clipping the concrete barrier, and gunned it toward downtown. Toward the apartment we pretended wasn’t ours, tucked between a needle exchange and a bodega that sold expired condoms.
I yanked the helmet off my head, barely aware of how hard I tossed it into the saddlebag. The garage was dimly lit, and the scent of oil and gasoline filled the air. The building itself was a converted textile mill turned high-rise lofts, all exposed brick, nestled in the cracked heart of Downtown Los Angeles.
The kind of place where nobody asked questions and everyone had something to hide. Our unit was one of a handful with direct garage access. There were no cameras, no doormanrecognizing your face, just a steel elevator with sticky buttons and a humming overhead light that never stopped flickering. Perfect for people like Alan.
My hair whipped wildly around my face, sweat clung to the back of my neck, but I didn’t stop to breathe. The fury simmering in my chest needed somewhere to go, and my boots gave it a rhythm as they pounded against the concrete floor, each step echoing off the stone walls. With each footfall, I vowed to make him bleed for every lie he’d ever told me.
The elevator creaked up to the eleventh floor. As the doors slid open, the sound of Hip Hop thundered down the hall. I paused. That was not our style. Not his style.
I spotted the neighbor coming out of her apartment. She was some yoga, thirsty-looking chick with too much gloss and not enough brain.
"How long's the music been playing?"
"Like, two hours? You should turn it down. People are pissed."
I forced a nod, pulling my keys from my leather backpack. Every instinct in my blood screamed at me to stop. To turn the fuck around because something was wrong.
But did I listen?No. I never fucking listened.
I slid the key into the lock, my fingers trembling as my nerves were suddenly on edge. I took a deep breath before giving the key a slow twist of the wrist, hearing the lock click open. I pushed the door open, bracing myself for whatever waited behind it.
Instead, the moment I opened the door, a tidal wave of sound slammed into me. The music was deafening, a pulse of bass that filled every crevice of the apartment. The scent hit first. It was that scent of thick copper and cordite. Then came the deafening silence behind the sound. The kind that presses into your ears and makes your stomach drop. It hit me like a punch to thechest, swallowing me whole, dragging me under before I could even catch my breath.
I stepped inside, my backpack hitting the hardwood floor with a hollow thud, and the door slammed shut behind me. My lungs suddenly refused to work as my eyes adjusted to the dim, flickering light.
There he was. Laid out like a sacrificial lamb in the middle of the living room, arms splayed wide, legs twisted unnaturally. My eyes landed first on his face, his eyes were wide open, staring up at the ceiling, but there was no life left in them. It was just a dull, glassy stare that cut straight through me.
