Page 57 of Reveal Me
SEAN
The weights crash back onto the rack with more force than necessary, metal on metal echoing through the exclusive gym like a gunshot. It’s been twenty-four hours since I left Layla with another man. And every single second of those hours, that knowledge has niggled me, eating at the lining of my stomach.
There’s no denying it.
I’m in love with the princess.
I can’t concentrate on anything longer than thirty seconds without my mind replaying last night’s—along with fifty thousand other images of Princess Layla over the past few weeks.
‘Easy, boss,’ Ben says, adding another twenty kilos to the leg press without breaking stride. Ben and I have been working out together for the past five years. He’s one of the few men mad enough to step into a boxing ring with me. Tonight, I opted for a weight session. Given my concentration levels this week, there’s a good chance he could put me in a body bag.
I grab my water bottle and take a long pull, trying to wash away the taste of failure from this afternoon’s meeting. Theforestry deal I’ve been pursuing for six months just slipped through my fingers because I couldn’t focus long enough to counter their final offer properly. Some twat of a Lord from the golf club I attend swooped in and stole it from right under my nose—not Ashworth, thank fuck. Another stuffy “suitable” bore though.
‘Rough day?’ Ben settles onto the bench press, his movements economical and precise. Twenty years in the military followed by a decade protecting wealthy arseholes like me has given him an uncanny ability to read situations.
‘Rough twenty-four hours. Lost the Forestry deal.’ I position myself as his spotter, hands ready above the loaded bar. ‘Stupid fucking mistake.’
‘That’s not like you.’ He begins his set, the 140 kilos moving smoothly despite his conversational tone. ‘You’d normally close that in your sleep.’
That’s the problem. I didn’t sleep a wink last night.
‘Just distracted,’ I mutter, which is the understatement of the fucking century.
A brunette in expensive workout gear chooses the treadmill directly in my line of sight, her sports bra strategically chosen to showcase what are undoubtedly surgical enhancements. She catches my eye and offers a smile that’s pure invitation, but I barely register she exists.
Ben racks the weights and sits up, following my gaze. ‘That one’s been circling since we got here. Along with the blonde by the free weights and the redhead pretending to stretch by the mirrors.’
I glance around and realise he’s right. Half the women in this place are positioning themselves within my orbit, a ballet of casual proximity and meaningful looks that I’m usually much better at navigating. Dublin’s social scene isn’t exactly vast at our level—everyone knows everyone, and while I don’thave a title, my Forbes bachelor status makes me something of a target.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ I say, moving to the cable machine.
Ben follows, adjusting the weight stack with military efficiency. ‘Maybe you should … relieve some tension. I could drive you to the club.’
‘No point. Layla won’t be there until tomorrow.’
‘Just call her.’
‘We have a contract,’ I remind him.
‘Rules are made to be broken.’ Ben shrugs, like it’s that simple. ‘You’ve been checking your phone every five minutes like you’re expecting a call from the Queen herself.’
The problem is, every time I break another, I give a little bit more of myself away to a woman who will never be mine. The phone check is unconscious, even though I know Layla won’t contact me. If she was going to break that particular stipulation, she’d have done it before now. But after last night, a part of me keeps hoping for that breach in protocol—the sign that she’s as affected by me as I am her.
‘Don’t even joke about the Queen.’ I can’t contemplate the magnitude of shit I’d be in if Layla’s family got even a hint of what I’ve been doing to their darling daughter the past six weeks.
Ben settles into position for his next exercise. Silence falls between us. When I finish my set, I move to the rowing machine. The brunette from the treadmill approaches.
‘Sean Beckett, isn’t it?’ She has that polished accent that comes from the right schools and the right connections. ‘I’m Siobhan Fitzgerald. We met at the Hunt Ball last night?’
Did we? The minute I saw Layla, everyone else ceased to exist in that room. ‘What can I do for you, Siobhan?’ I can barely maintain the façade.
‘I was just thinking we should grab coffee sometime.’ Her smile suggests coffee isn’t exactly what she has in mind.
She’s attractive, confident, and if she was at the gala, then she’s from a family with the right connections. Exactly the sort of woman my mother would approve of. Safe. Appropriate. Boring as fuck. Even if I hadn’t been ruined by a certain royal brunette, I’d have no interest in this one.
‘Perhaps another time. I’m really busy at the minute.’ Busy dreaming up ways to simultaneously torture and tease my new submissive, though truthfully, she’s the one torturing me.
‘Of course,’ she recovers quickly.
