Chapter 2

"Mr. Anderson!"

The throng of reporters rises to their feet, their hands waving in the air, all clamoring for attention like a bunch of overzealous pigeons scrambling for breadcrumbs thrown by tourists in Central Park. I wish for the thousandth time to be back in the serenity of the grasslands from this morning.

Flashes of blinding lights dot my vision as I paste on my fake smile for the camera—unfortunately for me, smiles are necessary at these events—my hands curling around the podium in the large conference room inside the Kensington Hotel in downtown Los Angeles. I spent the past twenty minutes announcing our IPO plans to the public.

"Mr. Anderson, please! Over here!"

A shrill-voiced reporter separates herself from the crowd and I squint, eyeing the familiar curvaceous blonde in the front row, my loyal fan from CBC News, who apparently has followed me here from New York City.

I point to her. "Maggie, fancy seeing you here. Yes?"

She flushes a pretty pink, clearly surprised I remember her name. Little does she know, before every press conference, I'm given a small dossier containing the names and photos of the reporters and cameramen who'll show up. As the face of the company, I'm here to answer their questions and dance the tightrope between being friendly enough and standoffish with the press, who can change their opinions like a toddler's random meltdown.

"Mr. Anderson, why did your family suddenly decide to go through an initial public offering for the nightclub branch of your business? Isn't that divesting some control from your family?"

My fingers adjust the cuff links peeking out from under the sleeves of my navy Italian bespoke suit. At least this isn't a stupid question for once.

"This isn't a sudden decision and there's significant work to be done before we take Fleur Twilight, our nightclub subsidiary, public."

I grip the sides of the podium. "Fleur Twilight is twenty percent of our overall business and is rapidly expanding as consumers clamor for unique nightclub experiences where they can frequent the same location and expect a different atmosphere each time. We offer them that. No two nights at our nightclubs are the same. An IPO allows the public to partake in this exciting venture and will also let us grow at a quicker speed to better serve our consumers. It's a win-win situation."

The success of the IPO is life or death for Fleur Twilight, but there's no way I'll volunteer that information.

More clicks of shutters and bright flashes, the furious scratching of notes on notepads, and the cycle begins anew, another annoying chorus of "Mr. Anderson."

"When will we see Maxwell or your father in public?"

I arch my brow at the question, which should come as no surprise since it always comes up at every press conference. My answer remains the same each time.

"I'm not their keeper. Your guess is as good as mine." I soften the barb with a quick smile before glancing away.

"What about you? Any girlfriend in the works? When will we see you settle down?" a loud voice hollers from the back, followed by a smattering of laughter.

A muscle twitches on my forehead and I fight the urge to loosen the crimson tie around my neck. Gritting my teeth, I level a glare at the reporter in question, Brad something from Gossip Times, the premier gossip channel and website in the country. Why the fuck were they invited to this press conference in the first place?

"It's better to control the information than to let them make up their own,"Lana's voice whispers in my mind. My sister is a PR genius, but fuck, I'm the one who has to deal with these inane questions.

"You should know better than to ask me that, Brad. No comment on my personal life. Let's focus on the IPO instead."

My nostrils flare as I keep my eyes pinned on his and while his complexion pales at whatever he sees on my face, he doesn't back off.

"You're practically American royalty, the prince of the USA. The public has the right to know. Are you hiding a lady somewhere? Or a boyfriend? Or a secret family?"

And there go the rest of the reporters, all predators seeking their next kill, and right now I look like defenseless prey under the glaring spotlight on stage. Sweat gathers on the back of my neck and a sticky heat crawls up my spine. I fight the urge to snarl and give them a piece of my mind.

I live my life with precision and control so I'll never have to feel powerless, and yet, in moments like this when I'm forced to play a role for the sake of my family, I feel like a rabbit cowering in the presence of a hawk.

I refuse to be the prey.

"If there are no other questions about our IPO plans, I bid you goodnight."

Spinning around, I button my suit, my free hand fisting at my side and I stride off the stage toward Cedric, my assistant, who's waiting by the staff corridor, his face paling as he takes in my foul mood.

More questions are hurled at me as I disappear into the hallway, knives thrown at a retreating back. Zero sportsmanship. Fucking cheaters.

"Do a better job at screening reporters in the future. This is fucking ridiculous," I bark at Cedric, who nods, his eyes widening with fear, as my blood heats further. The predator in me always senses the fear inside the prey, and with humans, it's no different.

A few minutes later I'm whisked away in a town car to my temporary oceanfront condo in Manhattan Beach. I crack open a window, my lungs sick of the circulated air of the AC.

The clouds are thick tonight; the news reporting the first storm of the season may be upon us soon. I feel the dampness and restrained energy in the air. I love storms—nature's ultimate light show and demonstration of unleashed power.

Unchained. Untethered.

The secret I've carried in the back of my heart makes a reappearance.

I want to live for myself.

Tugging my tie from the choke hold around my neck, I take a deep breath before unbuttoning my dress shirt. You fucking hypocrite, failing to live the advice you've given Maxwell before.

My fingers grasp the small platinum pendant and my mom's parting words ghost in my ears. "Live for yourself, Ryland. Be brave." A heaviness settles in my chest.

My phone pings with an incoming message. Letting out a deep breath, I crack the joints in my neck.

Steven

American royalty? Prince of the USA? Man, they have shitty standards. And yes, CBC telecasted your press conference live and, of course, I had to tune in and watch you flounder.

I smirk, my tight muscles relaxing slightly, and I type a response to my good friend, Steven Kingsley, a Wall Street titan at Pietra Capital, one of the top investment firms in the nation.

Ryland

Why do you think my family calls me "Your Highness" as a fucking joke? You can have the title if you like.

Steven

Better you than me. Press conferences are bloodbaths disguised in suits and good lighting. But seriously, you looked like you were about to murder that reporter. Did he hit on a nerve? Is there a woman none of us know about?

I scoff, shaking my head.

Women. Love. They have no place in my carefully curated life. A life that was planned for me like the lives of every Anderson offspring in the last several hundred years. I have zero interest in the useless emotion, especially after experiencing the gut-wrenching pain of losing Mom from the damn family curse hanging over our heads, the curse dooming the women the firstborn men of our family love. Not to mention, I saw what Maxwell went through with his high school sweetheart, Sydney.

Mom used to say love was having your heart live outside of you.

I can't do that. The vulnerability. The never ending loss when they inevitably leave, and they always do. The Anderson men aren't lucky in love. Plus, I can never put a woman's needs first, and if I ever love someone, that's what they would deserve, isn't it?

So, no. Love is the last thing I need.

My jaw clenches. A flash of wispy blonde hair and beguiling, innocent eyes rises to the forefront.

Fake. All of it. The cheating snake. But I'll take that secret to the grave.

Ryland

No woman. Hell will freeze over before I fall for any of them.