Page 2 of His Scarlette Obsession
She was nineteen when she moved into one of the upstairs apartments. No degree. No family worth mentioning. Just long legs, a siren’s laugh, and eyes that made men promise things they’d never deliver. That’s the woman my father married.
The woman the court never forgave.
And by extension, neither did they forgive me.
It didn’t matter that I was top of my class. That I never missed a curtsy or a boardroom strike. I was her son. Born of shame. Raised under suspicion.
I learned early that perfection was the only armor I’d ever have.
“She made a fool of the king,”I once heard a courtier whisper when I was seven.“Turned a great man into her puppet. And now we have her spawn as our future ruler.”
I never let them see me flinch. Even then, I understood what was expected. What I needed to become to survive.
And for so long, that armor had not a single chink. Not even the smallest one...until now.
I stare up at the building: three stories of red brick and rain-stained windows. There’s an old-fashioned bakery at the ground floor, small-town cozy, complete with a crooked wooden sign that reads Jackie’s Bakehouse. It’s quaint. Unremarkable.
I don’t belong here.
I hadn’t planned to see it in person. The property acquisition was straightforward: profitable location, aging structure, ready for demolition. I wasn’t sentimental about it. I don’t do nostalgia. I do numbers.
But when my acquisition team flagged a historical record with her name on it, something pulled me here.
Maybe curiosity.
Or something even more foolish...like hope.
Could there be something here that would make melikemy mother, even just a little? Would I be able to find anything here that could at least explain her insatiable desire for wealth and power, even if it meant eventually condemning her son to a life of prejudice and hostility?
The scent of fresh bread hits me, warm and yeasty, laced with cinnamon and sugar. It reminds me of the palace kitchens where I’d hide as a boy, the only place where my mother’s legacy didn’t follow me.
The bakery door opens, releasing another wave of sweetness, mixed now with coffee and the crisp bite of autumn air. I hear laughter, female, bright and unrestrained.
It’s my first time in Chisa. And I hate how much I’m staring.
I glance down at the sidewalk, preparing to walk away, file this visit under wasted sentiment.
And that’s when I see her.
Across the street.
She steps out of the bakery with a paper bag tucked under one arm, a phone wedged between her shoulder and cheek, laughing into it.
I freeze.
She’s not beautiful in the way Manhattan women try to be. There’s nothing polished about her. Not the slight smudge of flour on her cheek, not the too-big cardigan slipping off one shoulder, not the loose auburn waves tumbling down her back like a cascade of autumn fire.
She turns, just enough for me to see her profile. The delicate curve of her neck. The soft swell of her breasts against her simple white blouse. The way her laughter makes her eyes crinkle at the corners.
Hunger coils tight and hot in my gut.
A gust of wind catches her hair, sending those fiery strands dancing around her face. She tucks a lock behind her ear, and the simple, unconscious gesture makes my mouth go dry.
Then she turns fully, and I see her eyes.
Clear. Blue-gray. And completely unguarded.
I’ve been looked at by hundreds of women. I’ve been wanted, hunted, worshipped.
