Michaela I’m in blissful communion with my first steaming hot latte of the day when my friend breaks the silence with an ear-shattering screech. “You’re getting married?” I lower my cup. “What?” Keira’s eyes lift up to mine. “You’re getting married.” My gaze drops to her cup. “Did you spike your latte with a copious amount of cognac? And if so, how come I didn’t get any?” “I can’t believe you’ve been in LA for two days and you haven’t even told me.” She ignores my dig and ke eps talking, still not making a shred of sense. “Sheesh, I thought we were friends, Mikki.” She rolls her eyes. “I was wrong. I guess I can kiss my dreams of being your maid of honor goodbye since I didn’t even get an invitation.” I’m hanging out with Keira Weatherly during the tail end of her convalescence. After a morning swim—I swam while she played referee on the side of the pool—we’re sitting in her boyfriend’s kitchen, enjoying a leisurely breakfast. Well, it was leisurely until she started talking crazy. I knit my eyebrows in confusion. “Is this a joke?” “It says so right here.” She points a frantic finger at her i Pad. “Where?” “On Just Spotted. com’s website,” she says. “According to them–– Wait a minute.” She grips the device with both hands, brings it close to her face, widens her eyes, and then pulls it away. She does that a few times. “Holy deliciousness, Mikki. You’re getting married to an Adonis god.” I drop my cup on the saucer. “Keira, how can I be getting married when I’m not even dating?” I let out a sarcastic laugh. “Celebrity sightings in La La Land must be at an all-time low if a leading gossip site like Just Spotted. com is making up stories about me.” I shake my head at the absurdity of it all. I’m no stranger to being featured on celebrity sites or
magazines. The press has dubbed me, the goody-two-shoes hotel heiress, because until recently, my life was devoid of drama. In the past, when the spotlight was on me, it was because of my social outings in New York or to dissect my fashion selections. I haven’t crossed over to the dark side or anything like that, but thanks to my emancipation trip to N epal, I’ve kicked the goodytwo-shoes and Pollyanna image to the curb. These days, the press doesn’t know what to make of me. Good. “I must have a celebrity-doppelganger running around LA, fooling everybody.” I run my hand over my super short hair. “That’s the only logical explanation.” “Speaking of hair, Just Spotted. com posted old photos of you—” “See. They got it wrong. They have photos of my identical-twin-fromanother-mother, her long, dark locks flowing in the wind, passing as me.” Keira’s lips turn up in an unimpressed frown. Okay, so I’m not a poet. “Mikki, even if you had a celebrity-doppelganger, the chance of the two of you having the same name is practically impossible,” Keira says. “This article is about you and your husband-to-be––” “For crying out loud, Keira, I’m not getting married.” “Here.” She drops the i Pad on the kitchen table. “You tell me you’re not getting married.” I snatch it, ready to laugh my ass off, exc ept I don’t. My jaw drops. My mouth is agape and I’m certain my eyes are bulging out of their sockets. What in God’s name? ‘MICHAELA KNIGHT SOON TO BECOME MRS. KÖNIG’ I read the headline in shock. Because I’m certain this is a joke at my expense, I click open another tab and type my name in the search bar. I’m unpr epared for the deluge. ‘MICHAELA KNIGHT SPOTTED IN LA GETTING READY FOR UPCOMING WEDDING’ ‘PHOENIX KÖNIG AND MICHAELA KNIGHT. LONG LIVE THE KING AND THE QUEEN’
‘WHO’S WHO FROM COAST-TO-COAST EXPECTED AT PHOENIX KÖNIG AND MICHAELA KNIGHT’S WEDDING’ ‘PHOENIX KÖNIG AND MICHAELA KNIGHT TOPPING THE CHART OF THE MOST GORGEOUS COUPLE EVER’ ‘PHOENIX AND MICHAELA. IS THIS FOREVER?’ ‘KING KÖNIG TO TAKE A QUEEN’ King König? Phoenix König? Who the hell is that? I read page after page of results, utterly stunned. As my eyes scan the headlines, my rage boils. My st epmonster did it again. “What a manipulative bitch,” I say. Keira tilts her head to the side. “So, you’re not getting married?” My eyes shoot up to hers. “No, I’m not. I don’t even know this Phoenix König guy.” “Well, if you’re going to get hitched to a stranger, he’s a great one to pick. He’s totally fitness-model material. And did you see his eyes? Rhys has—” “Keira, I don’t care about his eyes. I’m not getting married to a person I’ve never met before.” I’m too perturbed to pay attention to the hotness level of a stranger I’ll never meet. I have bigger fish to fry. My life is front and center of the gossip rags and someone is responsible for this travesty. “I bet my st epmother decided to use fake news to drum up business,” I say through gritted teeth. “This is a new low.” “You think she’s behind this?” “I’m sure of it.” I hand over the i Pad. “Who else loves to meddle in my love life and can’t resist the urge of pawning me as bait? Remember how well things turned out with pervy Freddy III?” Keira grimaces. “Gross.” “Yup, the man is disgusting.” Halfway into our first coffee date, Frederick William Pliskin III asked me if I was okay being blindfolded with my arms tied behind my back and gagged with his jizz-filled underwear while he fucked me from behind. He also wanted to watch as his three cousins took turns fucking me—another of his kinks. Let me think... Hell no, fucking pervert. My st epmother is
in capable of picking a decent man. Given her taste in the men she selects for me, I have no clue how she ended up with my father. No matter how many times I ask her to mind her own business, telling her to back off is like waving a T-bone steak in front of a famished dog and expecting it to behave. Pointless. “At least she’s st epping up her game.” Keira’s words drip with sarcasm. “Unlike her multiple previous laughable attempts, this time your st epmonster picked a winner. Maybe marrying Phoenix König isn’t a bad idea.” She ke eps scrolling through the i Pad. “He’s a local businessman— Scratch that.” “What?” “He’s a tycoon.” Her hazel-green eyes are huge when they meet mine. “According to this article, he owns a shit load of real estate and—” “Good for him.” I dismiss her commentary with a shrug. “No, seriously, Mikki, think about it. You’d get to move to the west coast, and we’d hang out more often. Who knows? Your future husband lives in Manhattan Beach, and we’d end up being neighbors.” I roll my eyes. “I love New York way too much to ever leave.” I can’t see myself trading the fast pace of the concrete jungle for the mellow vibe of the City of Angels. I’m a New Yorker through and through. “If we lived in the same city, it would be reminiscent of our time in N epal—two badass rebels against the world,” she says. “N epal...” The memory washes over me like a caress and I offer my partner in crime a warm smile. Keira and I met not long ago, but you’d never tell by how well we get along. Even if we live on opposite sides of the country, we’re constantly in touch. We’re the same age, and we both ran away from our lives when everything around us came crashing down. That’s how we ended up on the other side of the planet at the same time. For six months N epal was her refuge. I was there for two. We left the monastery we were staying at with a greater sense of self-awareness, selfactualization, and a lot less hair. Leaving that safe cocoon was bitter sweet. I returned to a city I love, a father I worship, and to a st epmother I loathe. Keira moved back to her hometown. I pluck my phone from
the table, my fingers already typing the gossip site’s URL. “I need to put an end to this madness. The celebrity content creator needs to retract this ridiculous wedding announcement before people start believing the lies. Then, I have to deal with my st epmonster.” “The shit’s about to hit the fan,” Keira says. “Damn right. Someone needs to butt out and shut up.” I reenter the kitchen to the main house an hour later. Keira flinches. “Where are you going?” Since she returned to LA, she’s been living with her older brother’s best friend who’s now her boyfriend. Rhys Hartford’s guesthouse is quite posh, but pales in comparison to his magnificent, modern mansion, aka the main house. “You’re not dressed to hang out at the pool,” she says. After breakfast, I swapped the jeans shorts and yellow tank top I was wearing for a more fashionable getup. “No pool time today, chica. I’m going to battle, so I had to dress the part.” Her eyes travel the length of my body. “What does that mean?” “There’s no phone number to reach the gossip site. I sent numerous emails, but given their influence, I’m sure they’re bombarded with messages. No doubt, mine is lost somewhere in their inbox. I tried to call my st epmother, but it goes straight to voicemail. Ditto for my father. Exasperated, I called my father’s executive assistant. At least I was able to reach her.” “And?” “Everyone is walking on eggshells on the executive floor.” “What happened?” “My father and st epmother are locked in his office and they’re engaged in a yelling match. From what I hear, it’s ugly.” “Your st epmother is a piece of work,” Keira says. “Daddy has to be fit to be tied to lose his composure in front of the staff. I can only hope he’s tired of getting st epped all over. I love him to pieces, but marrying that woman was his biggest mistake.” Keira gives me another onceover. “Okay, there’s a war raging in New York, but that still doesn’t tell me where you’re going.” “I’m not holding my breath when it comes to
getting a response from the gossip site and since my dad is duking it out with his wife, I have to rely on Plan B.” “Which is?” “I want to know why Phoenix König and my st epmother concocted this little scheme. What’s in it for him?” With a careful st ep and balancing on her cane, Keira comes to stand in front of me. The top of her blonde head reaches below my chin. Barefoot, I’m an inch shorter than her, but since she’s wearing flip-flops and I’m wearing high heels, I tour over her. “You called and made an appointment with the tycoon? He had time in his busy calendar to fit you in at the last minute?” Her tone is laced with sk epticism. “I tried, but his guard dog—whoever is manning the switchboard is giving me the runaround. Even though I k ept giving the person my name, she refused to believe me. I have a sneaky suspicion she thinks I’m a whack job.” “If your text and social media messages exploded, I can imagine how it must be for someone like Phoenix König,” Keira says. At least she stopped calling him my husband-to-be. I roll my eyes. “Puh-lease. This is part of a well-oiled publicity machine. Phoenix König must be enjoying every minute of this.” It’s official. The fake news of my pending wedding has gone viral. Lucky me. Not. It’s a little freaky how fast fake news can travel. My phone was lighting up like the giant Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. I let it all go to voicemail. Until I have answers, I’m ignoring everyone. Too bad for me, the two people I’m dying to hear from haven’t called me back. “Innocent until proven guilty, remember?” Keira says. “It’s the legal principle our great country was founded upon.” “Yeah, well, I’m about to administer my own legal principle.” “What do you have up your sleeve, Miss Knight?” I adopt her formal tone. “I’m glad you asked, Miss Weatherly. I pinned down King König’s HQ.” “Oh, this sounds James Bondish.” Keira’s eyes sparkle with excitement. “Trust me, it feels like a covert operation. All that to say, I know where to find him. Now, I’m going to pay the king a little visit.” Keira shrieks. “You’re going to drop in unannounced?” “I am.” She squints at me. “Is
that a good idea, Mikki?” “What other choice do I have?” I shrug. “Sure, I could open a bottle of wine at nine o’clock in the morning and get drunk, but that won’t do much to help me understand how I got entangled with this stranger.” “What if he can’t meet with you?” “If he’s in connivance with my st epmother and willing to spread lies, he’ll make time to meet with me,” I say, lifting my chin up. “You should wait it out,” she says. “I’m sure you’ll be able to get through to your st epmother at some point.” “She’s barely interested in talking to me when she’s in a chipper mood, unless it’s to shove a ‘suitable life mate’ down my throat,” I say with quotation marks. “Given the drama in New York, I doubt she’ll want to talk to me. It’s not like Daddy knows anything about this farce. I want answers and I want them now. If not from her, then from this King Kong Tycoon.” Keira laughs. While my cabbie weaves his way through traffic, I research as much as I can on King Kong Tycoon. It wouldn’t be wise to walk into battle without an ounce of pr eparation. Keira was right. My never-to-be-husband is a serious tycoon. Given my family is also in the hotel industry, you’d think I would’ve heard of Phoenix König before. I’m sure his name came up in conversation, but there was no point in bogging my head with facts about a man I was unlikely to ever meet. The Königs play in a whole different league from us. It’s like comparing a goldfish to a blue whale. Phoenix’s family owns a plethora of commercial real estate and luxury residential complex buildings across the country, on top of owning the biggest flagship of luxury hotels in California, the second most prominent hoteliers in the nation. They also own many luxury hotels around the world. King Kong Tycoon’s dad, Soren, is the CEO, but he runs the corporation along with his four sons—Phoenix, the oldest. Slate, the middle child. Wilder, the other middle child. Roman, the youngest. I was dead set on finding as much dirt as I could on Phoenix, but I got sidetracked by the numerous
articles about the patriarch’s recent heart attack. As I was reading about the heart-wrenching ordeal, I tried, but failed to push aside traumatic memories of Daddy’s close call three years ago. I don’t think I could’ve survived losing a second parent. A taxi ride later and I arrive at my destination. I pay the cabbie and get out of the car. Even if I’m wearing shades, I shield my eyes from the blinding sun as I crane my neck upwards to take in the grandeur of the Pompadour Hotel & Residences. Impressive skyscrapers rise above me. They’re not nearly as tall as the average building in New York, but they still touch the sky. The Pompadour is an uber modern luxury complex composed of three sleek glass towers. It isn’t only a pied-à-terre to the extremely rich and wealthy, it’s also where the beast presides over his empire. Let’s see what you have to say King Kong Tycoon. I stride across an ocean of asphalt to the Beverly Hills premier HQ, each st ep of my Christian Louboutin shoes stomping with the determination of a take-no-prisoner warrior. Good God, it’s hot. I pinch the front of my dress with two fingers and fan myself, hoping to avoid walking into my meeting with the beast looking like a hot mess. Unsightly underarm sweat stains would make for a poor first impression. It’s like a freaking sauna. I’m no stranger to New York’s 90/90 summers—ninety-degree and ninety-percent-humidity—but LA is much hotter. I swear it feels like it’s two hundred degrees. I can’t fathom what it will be like by midday. As I trek to the entrance, I take note of the hustle and bustle—the re volving door of new faces. That’s one of the constants about life as a hotelier. Everything about these buildings screams corporation. It’s the antithesis of the Villiers Grand Hotel. Our family boutique hotel in New York brims with rich history and welcoming old-world charm. Even from the outside, the Pompadour seems a little too sleek, cold, and impersonal. I doubt it will be any different once I pass the threshold. Pompadour. Hmph. Pretty pompous, if you ask me. When I enter the hotel, the cool
air hits me like a speeding freight train. Thank you, God. I pause long enough to scan my surroundings. My eyes bounce to every corner. A swarm of newly arrived guests take residence in the opulent lobby, and the hotel staff is busy attending to them. How do I get to you, King Kong Tycoon? I either have to ask a concierge for help or figure it out myself. The scale of this hotel is far more eye-popping than the Villiers Grand, but I’m willing to bet everything to my name, there’s a dedicated set of elevators leading to the executive floor. As I debate, a group of four men talking, coffee cups in hand, pass right by me. My ears catch a snippet of their conversation. “Yeah, we should be locking down the purchase on three old office buildings we’ll convert into high-end hotels-slash-residencies in Dallas by end of day,” a man wearing a purple shirt, black pants, and tortoiseshell glasses says. “We should secure two soaring towers in Cleveland by end of the week,” a tall blond wearing a flower print shirt says. With the agility of a spy, I trail behind the foursome, balancing on my four-inch heels, as they lead me to the Promised Land. Operation King Kong Tycoon commences. I st ep into the elevator right before the doors close. “Good morning,” I say with a bright smile. Four pair of eyes rake up and down the length of my body. “Good morning,” they say, practically all at once. The lack of subtlety in their tone is as heavy as a brick. I’m surprised they didn’t punctuate with, And how you doin’? a la Joey from Friends. I’m not one to play damsel in distress, but it’s the only card I have right now in my deck. “I’m here to see Mr. Phoenix König. Silly me, I forgot which floor he’s on.” “He’s expecting you?” The tinge of suspicion in the guy’s voice wearing a purple shirt doesn’t go unnoticed. Think. Think. Think. “I’m here about...” Dammit. Think faster. “A family run boutique hotel on Park Place,” I say. I cock my head to the side and knit my eyebrows together for effect. “It’s one of those hush-hush deals Mr. König wants to snag before anyone else.” Giving them the name of our family hotel
would be like sounding the alarm. I want to catch Phoenix König with his bespoke pants down. “Oh, yeah.” The tall floral shirt guy nods. “Great address.” He fell for it? This covert operation is turning me into a real spy—one who thinks on her feet. Smart of me to have used Monopoly as my get out of jail card. Along with being the least landed-on spots in the game, Park Place is also the name of a park that’s long gone. I researched this useless piece of information one day for no good reason. I can’t believe it’s my lifeline. Board game to the rescue. It’s with herculean effort I don’t roll my eyes hard. “Isn’t it?” The men nod. “All five Mr. Königs are on the top floor,” purple shirt guy says. “I guess I should say, all four Königs since Roman is still bedridden on the other side of the planet after the freaky accident.” He presses the button before sliding a key card into a slot. I read about that. Thank God he’s still alive. I smile. “Thank you.” “No problem.” He winks. “Take a right when you get off the elevators. Lydia Gillanders is Phoenix König’s executive assistant. She’ll take good care of you.” “Got it. Thanks again.” I smile wide. I didn’t expect things to go this smoothly. This must be my lucky day. I lean against the wall, eyes cast to my designer heels, pretending I’m unaware the men are eating me up with their eyes. The ride to the top floor of this fourteen-story hotel is super short. These elevators seem to be powered by jet fuel. Nothing compared to the slower speed of our elevators at the Villiers Grand. The foursome gets off on the twelfth floor, taking with them the awkward tension that was lingering over my head. I’m thankful they didn’t drill me with questions about my fictitious hotel. A nanosecond later, I reach the top floor. When the elevator doors open, I st ep out. Thank God there aren’t any CIA-type security codes required. It would be a shame to get busted this early in the game. I lean forward as I take in the lay of the land. I peek to my left, then my right. So far, so good. Only a set of glass doors s eparates me from my target—that and the gateke eper. You’re close,
girl. I summon my lady balls and take a confident st ep forward. I stride down the hallway, praying all the angels in Heaven to watch over me. Here goes nothing. I pull open the glass door and st ep inside King Kong Tycoon’s sovereign world. No one. The desk is empty. I catch the name on a plate on the desk. Lydia Gillanders. I’m at the right place. My heart beats a little faster. I want answers. I get on my toes to peek at the computer screen. It’s as black as night. Is Lydia on a break? My eyes move to the heavy-looking wood door behind the desk where I’m certain my target is hiding. What to do? What to do? My inner wisdom speaks out. “Patience, Mikki.” As I pace the space, waiting for someone to show up, I run the possible scenarios of how things are about to go down in my head, and choose to eliminate the one where I get escorted out of the building by the police like a common criminal. I got this. Well, I hope I do. We’ll soon find out. Another minute goes by. Then another. And another. And another. Dammit. Where is Lydia? I’m about to run out of patience, when the wooden door behind her desk opens. It’s about time. A tall man emerges. “I want answers and I want them today, Slate,” a de ep, commanding voice from inside the office says. “I’m on it, Phoenix,” the man standing at the door says. King Kong Tycoon is in his office. I was worried my timing might’ve been off. After all, Phoenix could’ve been trapped in an endless meeting or worse, absent from the office. The man I now know as Slate senses my presence and shifts his attention to me. His arresting, piercing eyes meet mine. They’re the clearest arctic blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Wow. The man is stunning. His stylish dark-brown hair, his pristine, perfectly cut dark-gray suit, and his gorgeous shoes, scream power. He’s far more handsome than I remember from the photos I perused through on the way here. Then again, my focus wasn’t on the König men’s hotness meter, but rather, their profiles. I should’ve paid more attention. When I meet his eyes again, I snap back to the moment. This isn’t the time to get sidetracked by good looks. You’re on
a mission. I offer the man still checking me out a coquettish smile. He responds by flashing me a flirtatious, wide grin. He gives me a quick onceover and cocks an eyebrow, nodding. I wink. The megawattage of his smile grows to blinding levels. Men are so easy. I take this as my omen. I don’t think twice. I charge forward like a linebacker running with the ball towards the end zone. The man stares at me, stunned, as I zoom right past him. “What the fuck?” I ignore him. I’m in.