Excerpt from When Hearts Ignite

I'm broken. Defective.

I've come to that realization a long time ago. The thumping organ in my rib cage is supposed to race and pound with emotions, the apparent signs of what makes us all human. I've never felt the agonizing want of needing another person more than I need my next breath, the crippling blow of heartbreak cutting out my knees from under me, the highs and lows waxed by poets and musicians in lofted tomes and award-winning lyrics.

Or at least, I don't think I have.

"Steven? Are you sure you don't want to stay? It's only four in the morning. I don't have any plans today," a sultry, raspy voice murmurs from the haphazard pile of sheets in the middle of the bed in one of the premium, sound-proofed suites of the Rose floors at The Orchid, the most exclusive establishment in the world for the rich and famous.

The voluptuous figure shifts on the bed, a pair of long legs with reddened handprints on the thighs peeking out from under the comforter. A pair of handcuffs is wedged by the fluffy pillows I'll never use for sleep. Her lacy black dress, bra, and thong are littered across the soft carpet. The room is dark except for the soft light filtering in from the ensuite bathroom.

The smell of sweat and sex lingers in the air. My skin is slick and damp from exertion. Three back-to-back sessions, dulling the inconvenient biological need inside me to the background once again. Unlike my love for gourmet food and fine dining, my time with women is a means to an end, the sex feeling something like the bland taste of porridge or chicken noodle soup when you're bedridden with sickness. It's necessary, but not something to be savored.

"No. You know I never do. Thank you for your time today, Liesel."

I finish buttoning up my white dress shirt, which I carefully draped across an armchair before we tumbled onto the bed, and shrug on my bespoke suit jacket, my hands straightening out the sleeves, and dusting off a few pieces of lint stuck on the fabric.

I pull out my wallet from my pocket. After taking out a few crisp hundreds, I tuck the bills into a purple, embossed linen envelope on the dresser, careful to place it so it's precisely aligned to the edge of the surface—because nothing annoys me more than things being out of order. The Orchid isn't a brothel, so we can't be too crass as to hand over money outright. The beautiful envelope represents a gift we can choose to bestow upon our women if desired.

A gift. Not a payment.

In this invite-only establishment for the rich and powerful, all our wants and needs are catered to, whether they're the award-winning cuisine from Michelin-rated restaurants, access to the specialty bars, lounges, gentlemen's club, or top of the line spas on-site. In addition, there's transportation to private islands for vacation, contacts to the top surgeons, or couture designers of the world, and specialty Cuban cigars flown in directly from the source at the cigar club, among other perks. But there's an unspoken, but popular service provided, which fits under the broad umbrella of companionship and straddles the lines of legality.

The men and women who choose to work on the Rose floors where adult entertainment reigns supreme, from specialty clubs to private suites separated out from the other luxury rooms for guests embarking on less amorous pursuits, are carefully vetted in a series of comprehensive background and physical checks and are also under iron-clad nondisclosure agreements even the Supreme Court couldn't break.

Nor would they want to since a few of the justices are members here.

The rustling of the bedsheets and the soft footsteps alert me to her presence behind me before the whiff of expensive floral perfume hits my nose. I pick up my watch next and flip it over to the back. Delicate arms encircle my waist as I trace the engraving with my fingers.

Mind over matter.

The watch is one of the few gifts my father gave me, a classic timepiece which has withstood the test of time. He gave it to me when I graduated from Harvard, along with a terse nod of approval. "Son, we Kingsley men live with honor. We do things the right way even when the world doesn't." I slip it on and carefully wipe off the thumbprints on the face.

I hate those damn smudges on the clear glass.

"Are you sure? You seem tense this time. Maybe we can move up our date to next week instead of three months from now?"

I stiffen. Goosebumps pebble on the back of my neck. The warning bells in my mind blare loud and clear.

Slowly removing her hands from my waist, I turn around, finding Liesel's blue eyes wide with a trace of hopefulness she tries her best to hide. A flush spreads over her face, half-hidden by her long locks of brown hair. She slowly bites her lip, a move normally seductive coming from her, someone who could grace the cover of magazines, but is now fraught with tension instead.

"I think it's time we part ways, Liesel," I say gently, my heart prodding along as if I'm talking about the weather outside instead of ending a long-term companionship arrangement.

They can't get attached to me. Their adoration and emotions are of no use to me. And it's something I'll never be able to reciprocate.

Nor do I want to.

My mind flits to my older sisters, Jess and Emily, both hopelessly in love with their men, James and Adrian, respectively, and I can't help but ask myself, don't I want what they have?

The truth is, I couldn't care less.

I know I'm not built that way. These tender emotions aren't languages I comprehend, and they're worthless to me. They are liabilities impeding common sense and logical thinking.

The closest thing to love I have for the women in the world are reserved for my sisters who've supported me all these years, with Jess being more of a mother figure than our mother ever was and Emily being the spark in the large, cold house we grew up in, and that's more than enough.

Liesel's eyes dim as she processes the meaning behind my words. She pastes a fake smile on her face, a smile no doubt trained by Sofia Kent, the manager of the Rose floors, before she unleashes the girls to work with high-net-worth clientele.

"Is it because I asked you to stay? I'm just worried about you, that's all. You seem troubled this time. You don't have to stay if you don't want to. We can see each other once a quarter like you prefer."

Liesel nervously twirls a thick lock of hair while she clutches the bedsheets around her body like a suit of armor, as if it'll soften the blow or rewind time. She swallows, her smile faltering at my silence.

My lips curve into what I hope is a sympathetic smile, and I cup her cheek with my hand. She lets out a small sigh. I know she needs tenderness and reassurance from me, but I can't give her what she's looking for. It's best to cut things off before they get worse.

"You've been wonderful to me, Liesel. But you know as well as I do this was never meant to be anything more. I was clear about that. No emotions. No relationships. Just sex every three months."

I may be an asshole most days, but I still have a conscience inside me. And this woman did nothing to earn my wrath.

Her eyes flutter shut, and she leans into my touch, her breathing coming out in short pants. She knows what I'm saying. She just doesn't want to admit it.

"I said this when we first met two years ago. If feelings get involved, we part ways before you get hurt, and I don't want to see you hurt. You're a wonderful person. I hope you find what you're looking for in the future. But you won't find it in me."

I'm not like my family—my father's fractured heart and my mother's equally tormented soul, ironically tied together for eternity in matrimony, or my sisters, who hold all the humanity from the Kingsley union.

Pausing, I take in her trembling figure, her eyes squeezed shut as she tries her best to rein in her emotions. Looking back, perhaps I stayed with her for too long—two years, eight nights of sex and conversations, long enough for her to get attached and wish for more. Somehow, they always do.

Perhaps it's the money or the lifestyle I can afford them, because I never understand the need to be more than what we have right now. A heaviness forms in my chest, and I retrieve a blank check I carry in my pocket for unexpected situations. I scribble an amount on it and sign my name before tucking it inside the envelope.

"Go back to school. Be a nurse. That's what you wanted to do, right? That's why you worked here in the first place. This check should take care of your tuition." Releasing a deep breath, my pulse steady, I step away from her. "Go after your dreams, Liesel. Go find someone who deserves you."

Liesel's eyes flutter open, moisture clinging to the tips of her dark lashes. She wets her lips and doles out a wobbly smile. It's an expression I've seen time and time again when entanglements become complicated.

Hurt and sadness.

But I feel nothing.

Not a nagging pinch of pain, not a clench in my chest, not a flicker of regret. Only the same numbing emptiness which never seems to be filled. The world is a swath of grayscale, its palette uninspiring, the sensations muted as if I'm trapped underwater.

Does it matter if I'm broken if nothing hurts?

And this tells me what I'm doing is the right decision.

I'll be damned if I follow in my parents' footsteps.

"A kiss for goodbye?" she whispers, her voice pitchy.

I shake my head. Another one of my rules. No kisses on the lips. It's too intimate and in some ways, even more intimate than sex. The mouth is where all the words are spoken from, a direct connection to the thoughts in our minds.

And no one can have that part of me.

"Goodbye, Liesel."

With a curt nod, I leave her standing in the dim room, heartbreak bleeding out from her eyes, and exit the opulent suite, which in the daylight probably engenders awe from new members who've endured years on the waitlist, completed multiple interviews, and coughed up a six-figure annual fee to gain membership. They'd no doubt be gaping at the jewel-toned wallpaper and gilded furniture in fabrics reminiscent of Parisian parlors from bygone eras.

I hardly notice any of it. The luxury enjoyed by many is just fancy wrapping paper over an empty box. Sometimes, in moments like this, I wish I could feel an iota of excitement, of anything other than constant emptiness.

Slipping the rose-shaped keycard into my pocket, I walk to the elevators and press a button to one of the top floors housing the premium suites and apartments for overnight guests in the fifty-plus story building in the middle of Manhattan, which boasts of unparalleled views of Central Park.

A short ride later, the doors silently glide open, yielding another dark hallway of deep redwoods and wrought-iron sconces, the pathway dotted with ornate side tables and fresh blooms, scenting the air with the sweet aroma of lavender and lilies.

My phone pings. A market notification and a text message.

"Voss Industries, Notorious Blackguards, Sniffing Around TransAmerica. Will It Be Civil or Will There Be War?" My heart, which has been steady despite the dull ache in my chest, sinks as I read the headline. Father's company. The thing most important to him. An insidious thread of guilt mixes with satisfaction. I should help him save his company.

I should.

But part of me doesn't want to. Part of me wants to be the spectator watching a serial killer receive a lethal injection. But Father is not a cruel man.

I'm the cruel one. A horrible son.

Perhaps Father was right all those years ago, not loving us.

I swipe to the text message, the lead feeling heavier in my chest.

Mother

Steven, I've tried talking to your father about retiring. His health has gotten worse and I'm worried. He says the company may be in trouble. Can you talk some sense into him?

I stare at the message and heave in a deep breath. My father works almost as much as I do and TransAmerica, an international conglomerate which has its fingers in most industries, is his swan song, his legacy. It's the company he devoted his life to, especially after Mother's family infused much needed capital back into its lifeless shell all those years ago, when the old money Kingsley name was just a name with empty coffers.

The company means so much to him, he puts up with staying with a family he doesn't care about. But now, his health is on the decline. If he doesn't take care of himself, things won't end well for him.

The earlier guilt makes a resurgence, and for the first time, uncertainty slithers in my veins.

Can I really stand by and do nothing while his company goes down in flames?

My sisters never knew what I heard all those years ago. I couldn't bear to tell them. It would break their hearts. And perhaps the truth of that night has been a slow-release poison, corrupting my insides over the years.

But I have the power to help him now. If I don't help him, no one will.

Releasing a heavy exhale, I pull up a new text to my assistant.

Steven

Get me all the analyses we have on TransAmerica as soon as possible.

I stop in front of the towering double-doors to my suite, my home away from my actual apartment on the Upper West Side. Sometimes it's much more convenient to stay overnight here with all the amenities and waitstaff.

Furthermore, most of my friends enjoy congregating at The Orchid, a sanctuary where the paparazzi are forbidden to enter, a place for us to relax and be ourselves without worrying about an unflattering photo or an unsavory headline appearing in front of gossip rags the next day. Everything we could want in terms of food and entertainment can be found in this building. The business connections and networking are just a side bonus.

After retrieving my regular room card, I swipe the sensor before entering the grand foyer of the spacious corner penthouse.

"Welcome back, Mr. Kingsley." Jarvis, the on-site butler, materializes from the small attendant's quarters attached to the suite. His slicked-back hair, mostly white with streaks of gray, is immaculately coiffed, and his dark suit has nary a wrinkle in sight as if it's four in the afternoon, not the wee hours of the morning. "May I get you any refreshments?"

"I'm fine. Go back to sleep, Jarvis. It's still dark out."

"Have a good evening, sir."

I stride through the living room, currently cloaked in darkness, with nothing but a lonely moonbeam streaming in from the gap between the velvet curtains. My footfalls are soft on the cold marble floors but somehow still echo in the hollow space as I enter the bathroom, shrugging out of my clothes along the way.

Staring at the mirror, I exhale, watching my breath fog up the surface. The soft back light illuminates every harsh line on my face and my disheveled hair, the inky blackness of the strands a stark contrast to the white, sterile marble walls. My jaw is covered in a day's worth of scruff. Faint pink scratches mar my neck and chest, no doubt from the exertion of an hour before.

But it's my eyes that give me pause. The usual hazel appears lifeless, the green edges dulling like the falling leaves on the cusp of a barren winter. A sunken darkness gathers underneath.

I crack the joints in my stiff neck and smooth a hand over my haggard face. Sleep continues to elude me, my body automatically jolting awake after a few scanty hours of shut-eye and no amount of tossing and turning gives me any reprieve. Instead, I end up staring at the dark ceiling, the bottomless nagging want in my gut threatening to swallow me whole, except I can't identify the source of the unease, the origin of the discontent.

In the past, my work has been my shelter. My distraction. My focus.

Lately, it seems like nothing I do is enough anymore, and everything is a meaningless routine. I can't help but wonder, is this all there is to life?

After opening the shower door, I twist the dials precisely three times, and watch the steam cloak the room into a suffocating fog. I gently step under the hot spray, my body wincing at the scalding heat, but I make no move to adjust the temperature. My clenched muscles slowly relax under the water, the pinpricks of pain fading into the background, and I inhale a deep breath of eucalyptus scented air from the diffuser on the counter.

I welcome the pain, the scorching water turning my skin pink in a matter of seconds.

Perhaps it makes me feel alive somehow.

My mind is now clear, no longer muddled with a need to fuck, and my thoughts drift to the pile of work waiting for me in the office later today, including the call with my brother-in-law, Adrian Scott, over the management of the investment holdings in his real-estate empire which will bring in quite a few more zeros to the ledger of my firm once he signs on the dotted line.

The headline of the TransAmerica troubles shoves its way to the forefront. The hot water pelts against my skin in a pounding rhythm and I close my eyes, letting the flames wash over me as the nagging guilt slithers inside me once more.

I swallow and expel a deep breath.

I'll talk to my father again. Perhaps it's time for me to let bygones be bygones and save his company for him.