“It’s the only way, ladybug.”
“I am not marrying Phoenix König,” I say through clenched teeth like a pissed off three-year-old.
“Listen to me, Michaela.” The sudden edge in Daddy’s voice causes my head to jerk back. “Phoenix agreed to one of my particular demands—one I was willing to die for to ensure it was part of the deal. If you back out, nothing—and I mean, nothing—will save the Villiers Grand. Wecan’t do that to Mom.”
Good Lord. My father has never guilt tripped me before today.
Chapter 6
Phoenix
After Slate left my office, I was caught on a conference call that droned on for a half hour longer than necessary, as my lawyers went through the lists of additional—and unrealistic—amendments-slash-demands to a contract for the potential purchase of twin family-owned hotels in Cleveland. The management is shit and as inflexible as an oak tree. The location isn’t prime, but you don’t build a hotel empire solely on five-star accommodations. Variety is the key to success. The plan is to turn those new acquisitions into four-star hotels. They’ll pad our bank account just as nicely.
The two brothers who own the hotels think I’m short-changing them. I beg to differ. It’s a generous offer. They’re nitpicking. Translation, they’re grating on my last nerve. Sometimes, you have to know when to fold.
Once that was behind me, I dived right back into my day. I’m immersed in last week’s sales figures of our Texas Pompadour hotels, when the phone on my desk rings.
I pick it up. “Yes?”
“Mr. König,” the temp, says on the other end. “There’s a Miss Michaela Knight on the line.”
A cocky grin stretches my lips. “You can put her through.”
I have something you need, kitty cat.
I can’t remember ever being equally amused, intrigued and attracted to a woman like this before.
Miss Knight breaks the mold.
“Is she the same Michaela Knight you’re going to marry?”
I frown.
I don’t appreciate a temp pocking her nose into my business.
The press is busy putting their twist on how a high-profile COO can keep a passionate romance a secret in this day and age. I doubt the press would’ve paid me as much attention if it weren’t for my former boy group days. Our publicist is losing her mind. She’s itching to put out a press release with my side of the story in the hopes of containing the frenzy. Until I hear back from Niels or Michaela Knight—ideally, both—I’m keeping my mouth shut.
“I understand with social media the lines between privacy and what should be public are blurred,” I say. “Just so we’re clear, I don’t discuss my personal life with my staff. Ever.” My tone is curt. “You’re a temp. Do you think that’s an appropriate question?”
“No, sir. I’m so sorry, sir. I should never?—”
“Put the call through.” She needs to mind her own business. I don’t need too many people poking around and sniffing out my bluff.
“Right away, sir.”
I grab my Montblanc pen and tap it against the desk.
“Hello, Phoenix.” Her melodic voice comes through the receiver.
“Michaela, darling. Don’t tell me. You miss me and the urge to hear my voice again was too much to bear, so you had to call.”
“Oh, get over yourself, you royal prick.” I bet she’s rolling her eyes at the phone.
“Always so agreeable, kitty cat.”
“Stop calling me kitty cat. I’m not a feline.”
“You could’ve fooled me. I’m still licking my wounds from your claws slashing my soul.”
