King of Pride: An Opposites Attract Romance (Kings of Sin Book 2)
King of Pride: Chapter 39

“You’ve been working nonstop for the past week.” Alessandra regarded me with naked worry. “When was the last time you slept more than three hours a night?”

I rubbed a hand over my bleary eyes. “I don’t need sleep. I need to finish the website copy.”

The mouthwatering smells of espresso and pastries saturated the air, but every bite of croissant tasted like cardboard. I hadn’t enjoyed a single meal since I returned from Christmasbirthdaynewyearpalooza, and the thought of forcing more bread down my throat made my stomach churn.

I pushed my plate aside and took a gulp of coffee instead.

Alessandra, Sloane, and Vivian exchanged glances. We occupied a corner table at a new café in Nolita, which buzzed with Saturday morning activity. Fashionably dressed couples, models, and a minor celebrity from a new hit TV drama crammed around pale wooden tables while servers circulated with lattes and mimosas. Potted plants hung from the glass ceiling and gave the airy space a greenhouse feel.

It was the perfect location for catching up after Vivian’s return from London and Sloane’s business trip to Bogotá, but everyone was only focused on me.

“No, you need sleep,” Sloane said, blunt as always. “If the bags under your eyes get any bigger, you’ll have to pay an oversize luggage fee.”

Self-consciousness prickled my skin; it took all my willpower not to check my reflection in my phone’s camera. “Thanks a lot.”

“You’re welcome.” She sipped her black coffee. “Friends don’t let friends walk around with raccoon eyes, even if they’re heartbroken.”

My meager breakfast surged back up my throat. “I’m not heartbroken.”

It wasn’t like every breath resembled shards of glass piercing my lungs. I didn’t wake up every morning missing his warmth or reach for my phone to text him only to remember we weren’t talking. I didn’t see him everywhere I turned—in the pages of my books, the soft strains of a distant piano, or the reflection of a passing shop window. And I definitely didn’t lie awake, sleepless and restless, replaying every memory we shared like that was my life instead of the tattered reality around me.

I wasn’t heartbroken because I did this to myself. I didn’t have the right to be heartbroken.

But I would be lying if I said I didn’t want to hear Kai make his dry little quips one last time. Just so my final memory of him wasn’t the anguish on his face and the knowledge that I’d put it there.

It’s scientifically proven, my love.

A sob broke halfway in my chest. I turned my head away, eyes wet, until I regained control over my emotions. When I looked up again, my friends were watching me, their expressions soft yet knowing.

I’d skipped over the details of why I ended things with Kai. I simply told them we weren’t a good fit anymore and I needed time alone, which was true, but I could tell they didn’t believe me.

I didn’t blame them. I didn’t believe me either.

Fortunately, none of them called me out, and they acted like I didn’t almost have a breakdown at the table.

Sloane lifted one perfectly shaped brow. “Is that why you’ve been working like the hounds of hell are after you for the past week?” she asked, circling back to her concern over my recent habits.

“I have a good work ethic,” I said, grateful I didn’t have to talk about my feelings this early in the morning. “Is that a crime?”

“No, but you’re working yourself to exhaustion,” Vivian said gently. “It’s not healthy.”

That’s the point. If I was exhausted, I didn’t have energy to dwell on Kai or the shitshow that was my life. I didn’t have to spend my waking hours wondering where he was and how he was doing or my sleeping hours dreaming of his face, his voice, and his touch.

Exhausted was good. Exhausted was safe.

“I’m fine,” I said. “If I collapse in the middle of work, then you can berate me.”

“I don’t—”

“How was London?” I interrupted Vivian’s reply. She flew there with Dante for the Young Corporation’s CEO handover ceremony, which didn’t make it the best subject change, but I couldn’t help myself.

I’d read about Kai’s coup in the news. In one week, he’d taken down a top executive and reclaimed his spot as a CEO front-runner. Meanwhile, I’d burned rice, avoided my mom’s calls, and set a personal record for how many days I could wear the same sweat-pants in a row. I was proud of him, but it only underscored how incompatible we were.

“London was…interesting,” Vivian said. “I can safely say I’ve never attended a similar event before.”

“That’s good.” I bit back the rest of my questions.

How was Kai? Was he there with anyone? Did he mention me?

It was hypocritical of me to hope the last answer was yes. I was the one who ended things, but it didn’t change the fact that I missed him so much I couldn’t breathe.

Vivian looked like she was about to say something else. Fortunately, Sloane received a news alert about some big political scandal, and the conversation shifted to speculation over a well-known senator’s future.

Relief returned a portion of my appetite. I attempted to eat my croissant again and found it mildly more appetizing the second time around.

My friends meant well, but talking even indirectly about Kai enabled my addiction. The only way to break free was to quit cold turkey, though that was easier said than done. I still hadn’t been able to bring myself to turn off the news alerts for his name.

I’ll do it tonight.

I’d told myself that the past three nights, but I’d actually do it this time.

While Sloane ranted about the state of modern politics, I scrolled through my inbox for any urgent emails.

LAST DAY! BOGO 50% off our clearance collection

Spring into the new season with these florals!

Re: Floria Designs website

I was about to click on the last email from Alessandra’s web designer when the subject line below it caught my eye.

Your book submission to the Atlantic Prose Agency

My heart catapulted into my throat. I’d never queried any literary agency, but I couldn’t resist clicking into what was obviously a spam email.

Dear Isabella,

Thank you for your submission. I’ve read your sample chapters, and I love your voice. I have some notes in the attached feedback letter. Can you resend after you’ve revised?

-jill s

“What is it?” Alessandra asked.

My friends ended their conversation about the senator and stared at me with varying shades of curiosity.

“An email from someone claiming to be a literary agent.” My heartbeat crawled from my throat to my ears. I shouldn’t have drunk all that caffeine; I was one palpitation away from flatlining. “She said she read my sample chapters and liked them, which is bullshit, because I never queried an agent.”

The universe had the shittiest sense of humor. I was already spiraling about not finishing my book; it didn’t need to kick me while I was down.

“What’s the agent’s name?” Sloane asked. As a high-powered publicist, she knew everyone who was everyone in New York.

“Jill S? Stands for Sherman, according to her email address. I don’t…what? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Her eyes had sharpened the second I mentioned Jill’s name.

“Isabella,” she said slowly. “Jill Sherman is one of the biggest thriller agents working right now. She reps Ruby Leigh.” A trace of rare excitement ran through her voice.

Shock knocked the breath from my lungs. Ruby Leigh was my favorite erotic thriller author and my introduction to the genre. I had an entire shelf dedicated to her books. I hadn’t researched agents yet because I wanted to finish my manuscript first, but querying Ruby’s agent had been at the top of my post-completion to-do list.

“But…I don’t…” How the hell did Ruby Leigh’s agent get my email? Was this simply someone pretending to be her? If so, I didn’t see the point; the email didn’t contain any phishing links or requests for payment.

The more I thought about it, the more real it seemed.

Croissant flakes and coffee churned next to a tiny, dangerous seed of hope.

“Let me see the email.” Sloane studied the message after I handed it to her. “This is her. Right email, right signature. She always signs off in all lowercase with her last initial, no period. It’s not something people outside the industry would know.”

“That doesn’t make sense.” My pulse thundered as the implication of what she was saying sank in. Not a scam. “Unless she hacked into my computer, there’s no way she could’ve gotten a hold of those chapters.”

“Did you show your manuscript to anyone?” Alessandra asked.

“No, I…” My sentence trailed off, subsumed by an unbidden memory.

I’m not sure whether it counts as a gift since I can’t guarantee it’s good, but you wanted to read it…

“Kai,” I whispered.

A deep, unsettling ache reverberated in my chest.

He hadn’t said a word about my book after I gave him the sample chapters. Why would he submit them to an agent without telling me?

“Because he thinks it’s good, Isa,” Vivian said softly, and I realized with a start I’d voiced my thoughts aloud. “You know Kai. He wouldn’t have shown it to anyone if he didn’t stand behind it.”

Not just anyone, but the one. The biggest agent in the genre.

Sloane returned my phone. I took it, my throat aching with unshed tears.

It wasn’t just about Kai or Jill. It was about the fact that someone believed in me. Enough to send my manuscript out when I didn’t have the courage to do it myself; enough to take the time and give detailed notes when her inbox must be flooded with similar queries.

Kai always said he had faith in me, but seeing him act on it was different from simply hearing it. I’d spent so many years internalizing my failures that I didn’t trust anyone who didn’t confirm my insecurities. There was comfort in the familiar, even if the familiar sucked. Being small was easier than putting myself out there for other people to judge.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Sloane’s voice dragged me back to the café.

I swallowed my tears and blinked, trying to reorient myself to the present. “What?”

“Jill’s request for a revise and resubmit.” She nodded at my phone. “I skimmed the notes. There aren’t many. You could probably knock out the edits in a week.”

“What a coincidence,” Alessandra said innocently. “You also have the next week off at Floria. I’m…taking a work-free vacation.”

A frown bent my brows. “Didn’t you just go on vacation over the holidays?”

“Isa!” Sloane, Alessandra, and Vivian’s groans formed an exasperated chorus.

“Okay, okay! I get it.” A trickle of exhilaration leaked into my blood, erasing some of my melancholy. Ruby Leigh’s agent wanted my revised manuscript. Why the hell was I still sitting here? “Do you guys mind…I have to…”

“If you don’t leave right now, I’m pushing you out the door myself,” Vivian said. “Go!”

“Good luck!” Alessandra called after me. “Drink lots of caffeine!”

I waved at them over my shoulder as I rushed out the door. I almost knocked over a passing couple in my haste to catch the next train home and rushed out an apology. The guy yelled something at me, unappeased, but I didn’t bother stopping.

I had a book to edit—and finish.

For the next week, I camped out at the local coffee shop during the day and guzzled energy drinks at my desk at night.

Was it healthy? No. Was it effective? Yes.

Jill didn’t give me a deadline for the resubmission, but I didn’t want to risk falling into a creative rut again. I needed to finish the edits and the rest of the book while I was still riding high from her email.

I’d been so in my head about the book that it took the validation of a neutral, professional third party to break my creative dam. The words gushed out like a broken fire hydrant, and exactly six days and eight hours after I opened Jill’s email, I replied with my full, revised manuscript. It was risky, considering she hadn’t asked for the full book, but I was tired of playing it safe. No risk, no reward.

“Do you want another latte?” Charlie, my favorite barista, picked up the half dozen empty mugs crowding my table. It was almost seven p.m.; I’d been here since eight in the morning. “We’re closing in ten minutes, but I can whip you up one last drink.”

“No, it’s okay.” I leaned back, lightheaded with disbelief as I stared at the email chain on my screen. I had to wait for Jill’s follow-up, but my book was out there. There was no taking it back. “I’m done for the night.”

I’d wanted to finish my manuscript for so long. Now that I was done, I felt an inexplicable twinge of sadness. I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed writing. Getting to know the characters, letting them take me on their twists and turns, building an entire freaking world—it was incomparable to anything else I’d ever done.

“You sure? It’ll be on me. I owe you.” Charlie gave me a bashful smile. “I, um, proposed to my girlfriend. In Tagalog. And she said yes.”

“Oh my God!” I shot up straight again. I’d been teaching him random Tagalog phrases every time I came in, but I hadn’t thought much about him asking how to say Will you marry me? He’d also asked me how to say I’m a defensive lineman in the NFL, which he most definitely wasn’t. “That’s incredible. Congratulations!”

“Thank you.” His face resembled a ripe beet. “Anyway, like I said, your next coffee is on me. I would’ve gotten you one of these”—he gestured at my empty mugs—“if you hadn’t ordered before my shift.”

“Don’t worry about it. Pay me back by showing me photos from the wedding instead. I’m nosy like that.”

Charlie laughed and agreed. While he closed up shop, I grabbed my phone and texted the group chat.

Me: I did it. I sent it. *nervous face emoji*

Vivian: The manuscript?

Vivian: That’s amazing. Congrats!

Sloane: See? I told you you could do it

Sloane: I’m always right

Alessandra: We should go out and celebrate:)

My smile dimmed. I hadn’t been in a going out mood since my breakup with Kai. Every time I tried, I would remember our night together at Verve and The Barber, and my heart would feel like it was getting raked over hot coals again.

My manic writing haze had temporarily pushed him out of my mind, but now he came roaring back with a vengeance.

I should call him. To thank him, to tell him what I’d accomplished, to just hear his voice and not feel so alone. But I didn’t want to muddle our relationship or lead him on when our fundamental differences remained. Besides, he might not even want to talk to me. I hadn’t heard from him since our breakup, probably because I told him I wanted space. Still, I couldn’t stop a pinch of disappointment every time my phone rang and it wasn’t him.

I forced a deep breath through my nose and squared my shoulders. No wallowing. Not tonight. Tonight was a night of celebration.

Me: We should DEFINITELY go out

Me: If you guys aren’t opposed to Brooklyn…I know just the place

No one objected, so I packed up my things, went home, and got ready with record speed.

An hour later, my Uber dropped me off at my favorite cocktail bar in Brooklyn Heights. I preferred Bushwick for nightlife, but getting Sloane to step foot in a non-Manhattan borough of New York was hard enough. If I made her go to Bushwick, she might spontaneously combust.

As expected, she was already waiting for me in a corner booth. The woman was freakishly punctual. Vivian and Alessandra showed up minutes later, and soon, we were warm and tipsy from two rounds of drinks.

“I’m so proud of you.” Vivian hugged me with one arm, her face flushed red from tequila. “Don’t forget us when you’re famous.”

“I have a long way to go before I’m famous.” I laughed.

“I once had a client who went from posting videos on YouTube one day to signing a multimillion-dollar contract with a major recording label two months later,” Sloane said. “Trust me. A long way isn’t as long as you think.”

“Publishing moves way slower than that, but I appreciate the support,” I said with a grin.

Alessandra raised her glass. “To chasing dreams and kicking ass.”

Cheers and laughter mingled with the clinks of our glasses. Warmth fizzed in my chest. I might not have a boyfriend or a concrete book deal, but I had my friends, and they were pretty fucking awesome.

I lifted my drink to my lips and scanned the room. People came and went, each one trendier and better-looking than the last, but a creamy laugh drew my eye to the entrance.

My heart plummeted to the ground.

Dark hair. Glasses. Crisp white shirt. Next to him, a familiar woman laughed again, the sound as elegant as her black designer dress and jewelry.

No. It can’t be.

But no matter how long I stared or how hard I wished them away, the pair didn’t disappear. They were real.

Kai was here. With Clarissa.