Page 1 of Unmasking Mr. Crown

PROLOGUE

FROM GOOGLE

Blaze Events UK

1.4 stars (38 reviews)

PERMANENTLY CLOSED

Blaze Events is a premiere event planner covering London and surrounding areas. From intimate private affairs to large-scale corporate events and exquisite luxury weddings, our goal is to create an unforgettable experience for you and your guests.

Reviews:

Harry

Absolute rubbish! Bunch of wankers who don’t know what they’re doing. They don’t vet their contract workers. Might have gotten us killed!

Lydia

I’d give this company ZERO STARS if I could! They hired servers for a posh gala with no background check who were part of a TERROR RING! What a cockup!

Tobias

If you enjoy having the police crash your event, then by all means hire these twats. We cancelled the contract for our daughter’s wedding as soon as news broke that they’d hired servers for a charity event without properly vetting them. They had ties to a terror organisation!!!

William

“Unforgettable experience” is the understatement of the century. I’m here to pile on more 1-star reviews because these gits have no idea how to run an event planning business. Do not hire this company. Total bollocks!

Julia

For those who didn’t see this all over the news - Google “Party Ends for Terror Suspects.” Completely reckless! And the lead designer of this event (Natalie Powell) was a no-show (rumoured to be off shagging her race car driver boyfriend in Italy!), leaving gala goers to pick up the pieces. Bloody disaster!

CHAPTER ONE

NATALIE

2 Years Later

Natalie Powell wasn’t a klutz, but she had the occasional moment. Like now. One misjudged step out of an Uber and crack! Her heel snapped clean off. Not just any heel. The heel. From those suede boots. The six-hundred-dollar, only-worn-on-holy-days boots. The last indulgence she allowed herself before her life became all budgeting apps and bank alerts labeled “low balance”.

She cried out as though she’d broken a bone, her deep bellow catching the curious glances of several passers-by. Natalie stood there on the sidewalk, lopsided and betrayed, staring down at the busted heel as though it were a severed limb. She scooped it up and gave it a quick inspection. Still in good shape, for the most part.

“Unfreakingbelievable,” she muttered, tucking it in her purse. She limped toward the door of her favorite pub, cursing quietly with each off-kilter step. An incoming text from her sister stopped her at the entrance.

Kate: One more sleep until you’re back!

Natalie retreated a few steps and texted back.

Natalie: Can you talk?

Seconds later, a childhood photo of then ten-year-old Kate in equestrian gear and helmet lit up the screen of her cell phone.

“You won’t believe what just happened,” Natalie answered, then launched an f-bomb laced rant about her current predicament. It went on for a full minute before she stopped, took a breath, and apologized for her manic outburst.

“If you weren’t cursed with champagne taste, it wouldn’t hurt so much,” Kate teased.

“Says the artist who drops fourteen hundred bucks on a single paintbrush without a thought,” Natalie shot back.