Filled with anger and confusion, I sit on my bed, releasing a deep sigh.
The police believe that I’m the last person Pierre was seen with. They grilled me for hours about him and our date. I can’t recall anything after I had my second glass of wine, so I don’t know what happened to him. Since he didn’t answer any of my calls, I suspect he’s the one who drugged me. I only found out he was missing when two Chicago police detectives appeared at my door in New York. I let them know I thought he drugged me, which led to more questions.
Authorities have located the body of Pierre Gaultier, a foreign exchange student who was last seen with Arabelle Williamson, a professional ballet dancer and the daughter of Williamson Holdings’ CEO, Arthur Williamson. Three months ago, Pierre Gaultier, son of French Ambassador Jean Gaultier, disappeared without a trace. Authorities questioned a witness who claimed to have seen Ms. Williamson, who they recognized from a magazine cover, and Mr. Gaultier leave The Black Star Bar and Grill together, where he was last seen. The police have not named Ms. Williamson as a person of interest in his disappearance, but detectives say no one has been eliminated as a potential suspect in his disappearance and death. At this time, the police have not disclosed the cause of death. The familyis offering a reward in the amount of $250,000 for any information leading to the capture of any individual involved in this case. Don’t miss our exclusive interview with his father at six o’clock to hear his thoughts on his son and how the police investigation is progressing.
I turn off the TV and throw the remote onto the bed.
“We went on one date. Jesus Christ!” I run my hand down my face in frustration.
I ignore the sound of my cell phone ringing and groan. I know who it is before I even look at the caller ID. My dad will want to know why I didn’t tell him about this, but not because whatever happened to me that night matters. Because now, his name is in the news and linked to someone’s death.
I don’t want to talk to anyone, especially him. Pierre is dead, and I have absolutely nothing to do with it because he drugged me.
8
Florian
Three Weeks Later…
She’s all I want.
She’s not just someone to spend my days and nights with, sweaty and wrapped in tangled sheets to help slay the demons wreaking havoc in my mind. I just want her. If I can have the one person I need, I know everything in my life will be worth living.
However, I’ve tried to forget her. After leaving that flower and note inside her apartment, I realized I may have gone too far. She’s too innocent, too pure to taint with my wickedness, but no one else will do. To strip her of everything she is and make her into what she deserves to be will be my greatest reward. If I have the chance to be with her, it will be unreal. But it’s not to be.
With a tightening grip on my whiskey, a stream of images showcasing her beauty fills my mind as the sun rises. While she doesn’t know I exist, she’s become my obsession. She’s the one thing I can’t live without but have been forced to. To keep from destroying her, I’ve hidden in the shadows for months, wishing she wasn’t my unattainable beauty. As a reminder of mydevotion to her, I send her roses because they’re her favorite, and still, nothing has changed since I first laid eyes on her.
She’s still my unattainable beauty because I will always be Beast. Her light will always shine, while my hands will always be stained with blood.
Standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows in my office on the sixtieth floor ofLarsson Industries, I gaze at an impressive view of the beautiful New York skyline. The sky is filled with shades of pink, purple, and orange rising above the city’s skyscrapers. The morning dew covering the windows sparkles like diamonds as the sun filters through the large panes of glass as the city below comes to life. It seems like a different world looking down on everything below. In this perfect world, I’m not the man I am, and I have the woman I’ve always wanted. But nothing’s ever truly perfect, is it?
I sigh and take a sip of whiskey, wishing some things in my life were different. But I should know by now that wishing is only for fools. And I’m no fool. My life is what it is, and there’s nothing I can do to change things.
A little after seven in the morning may be too early to have a drink, but the need to remove her from my thoughts is more intense today, and I’m not sure why or if it even matters. Nothing good comes from obsessing over the impossible, and for this next meeting, my anger needs to be in check, so I don’t give in to my rage and kill him.
Five years ago, at twenty-six, IacquiredLarsson Industries and many other businesses, expanding my reach into the business world and the criminal underworld outside my hometown of Uppsala, Sweden. My network in both worlds is now extensive and is only getting larger.
After emigrating to America and becoming a US citizen, I worked tirelessly to achieve what my father never could, taking Larsson Industries places he only dreamed of. His bastard tookover his company and his criminal organization, expanding both beyond anything he could ever do. And he absolutely hates me for it. Hislegitimatesons hate me for it. On many occasions, they have all wished for my death, but it’s hard to kill theBeast. I should know. Many have tried.
And I still live.
I’m ruthless, merciless, and some say cruel, but no one can deny that I’m fair. Stories of theBeastbeing unable to die circulate throughout the criminal underworld—an exaggeration, of course, because I bleed like any other man. However, the stories, I don’t deny. They strike fear in my enemies. Fear that fuels me. Fear that I relish in. Fear that allows me to remain at the top even though many have tried to topple me.
Heavy is the head who wears the crown, so they say. Now I’m the one sitting on the throne while my father withers away. I manage the weight of my crown well, and my reach is far, much farther than my father’s.
Olan Larsson should look at me as his enemy since that’s what he has forced me to be. He never gives me credit for what I accomplish, or what I’ll gladly take from him because, in his eyes, I’m nothing more than a weakling. The bastard son of a whore, not worthy to have the Larsson name or wear the Larsson crown. But I’m always the predator and never the prey. He will do well to remember that with the little time he has left on this Earth.
I glance down at my watch, downing the last of my whiskey when there’s a knock at the door.
Right on time.
The large mahogany door swings open. However, I keep my back to him. Every time he’s in my presence, it takes everything in me not to kill him with my bare hands, forcing his last breaths from his body.
“Son.”
My body stiffens. I hate it when he calls me his son. I am not and will never be Olan’s son. He made sure of it a long time ago.
I’ve learned every facet of my father while I plotted against him. When he uses the term of endearment, it means he wants something from me.
