One Month Earlier

---

“Don’t forget,” Foster says at the end of his quick check-in call. He does this a lot, reaching out to make sure I’m alive when he hasn’t heard from me in a few weeks. It’s annoying, but he means well. Or maybe I’m just used to it.

“Don’t forget what?” I ask. Rolling my eyes, I turn in my office swivel chair toward the floor to ceiling windows behind me. He’s distracting me from my work. I may as well enjoy the view of the Manhattan skyline and the bright sunshine flowing into the room.

“That engagement party’s tonight. Your secretary said she RSVP’d for you, so I don’t want to hear shit about you backing out.”

I run my hand over the line of my jaw and it ticks. “Sure. Whatever, I’ll go for a bit.”

“Fucking right. It’s about time you quit this anti-social hermit fuckery that seems to get you off lately. Who’s your plus one?”

“I don’t plan on being there long enough to need a plus one,” I grunt as I get ready to hang up. A civilized pre-wedding event isn’t my scene. He should know that already. “Be glad I’m going at all.”

“Fuck,” he groans. “Okay.”

“Look, I gotta go. Duty calls, and all that.”

I hang up before he has a chance to answer. If it weren’t for the fact that the bride-to-be is the daughter of one of my family firm’s biggest clients, I’d send my regrets like every other invite that crosses my desk. Weddings aren’t my thing. In general, people aren’t either.

“What the fuck were they thinking, hosting this party indoors?” Foster grumbles the question. He glances around the grand hall that’s filled to the brim with people sucking back drinks like there’s no tomorrow. Us included. “I mean, what sort of event planner lets their client agree to an engagement shindig inside in mid-June? Can you see why I showed up in casual board shorts and a t-shirt? I was seriously expecting to be poolside or under a big extravagant tent.”

I’m not in the mood for talking, or I’d reply that it’s more than likely that Foster’s ‘casual’ outfit costs more than the whole damn party itself, which is why they let him into this posh event looking so ridiculous. I love the guy, but he’s grown up with so much money that he doesn’t understand or care about the nuances of dress code. He spent his life with several generations of crazy famous Hollywood directors as his role models. Bottom line, Foster hasn’t grown up in the real world like the rest of us. Pool parties in the evening are standard when it comes to his life outside of work.

There are only two things that ground him. Me, of course, and the work he does at his day job. And even that job is a stretch. Hell, he spends his days with his billionaire business partners, running a hedge fund company that helps other insanely wealthy billionaire clients get that much wealthier. He doesn’t get that not everyone lives in never-never land like his crowd does.

I mean, my family does okay. I shouldn’t judge him too harshly because well, I’m also a billionaire by birth. The Steele family name means something in the airplane manufacturing business. We’re considered one percenters in most circles, but the difference between Foster and me is that the way I see it, this wealth is just as much a curse as it is a blessing. Even so, the level of Steele family affluence is nothing compared to the fortune Foster Evans III has amassed over the last two centuries. No wonder he won’t quit introducing himself as Foster Evans III. As in the third. The title fucking says it all.

He nudges me with his elbow. “Yo. Dude.”

“I don’t fucking know,” I reply with a grunt, tugging at the collar of my shirt. “I don’t pay that much attention to the ins and outs of engagement parties, since I’m never going to be at the center of one. But I imagine the groom-to-be let his fiancée and wedding planner run the show. That’s probably what good fiancés do… whatever their fiancée wants.”

“The poor fucker.” Foster shrugs. “He used to be so chill before he met this random chick. I mean, she’s pretty all right. She’s from a good family too, so I can’t drag her name through the mud too much, but there’s no fucking substitute for living single. Not to me… and most definitely not for you. Dude used to be like us, enjoying the life and everything it has to offer. I can’t believe he was up for this whole settling down shit. One by one, my squad’s going soft. Everyone’s getting tied down.” He looks around. “There’s just you and me left.”

“You say that now.” I chuckle to myself. “But you’re also the same douchebag who hooked up for a while with that girl you bought at the virgin auction. What was her name again? Delilah?”

“Her name’s Lilac, you blue-eyed son of a bitch. And that was different.” His defensive tone makes me grin.

“Yeah? How?”

“Just drop it. That was more of an experiential thing.”

“So you say, but you two almost ended up getting hitched, if I remember correctly. This guy tonight would probably have just as much to say about your fucked up romantic shenanigans.”

“It may have been a little fucked up, but it doesn’t compare to actually going through with a wedding.”

Clearly Foster isn’t about to have his mind changed.

“Whatever.” I step back and give him an intense look. “But don’t deny you almost went down that road…or up the aisle. However you want to remember it.”

Foster doesn’t reply. Probably because he has no business judging anyone at the moment. Before he and Lilac hooked up, he was busy fucking his father’s sixth wife. Right under the man’s nose. That may seem insane to most, and way too risky, but in Foster’s crazy world it’s probably a fucking normal father-son rebellion kind of thing to do. I’d like to believe I probably would’ve lashed out at my own parents during my teens if they’d been around, but I’ll never fucking know.

That’s probably why Foster and I ended up being such close friends. I thought my life was a living hell until about fifteen years ago when I started hanging out with him all the time. I’d just lost both my parents when their private plane crashed somewhere over the Atlantic. I was twelve years old. Nothing prepares you for that kind of loss. The bottom drops out from your pre-teen existence. It’s like the end of the world. Or worse. For me, I was left wondering if there’s a God, and why he’d give me a life and a loving home just to rip it out from under me. In any case, my grandfather became my guardian, and Foster’s family were his neighbors. Foster and I became closer as friends that very day I moved in with Pops. Not long after that, Isabelle, the neighbor’s daughter across the street, came around to lay out the welcome mat, and the three of us went from acquaintances to best buddies.

It’s a shame that we lost touch with Isabelle.

Well, I’m the one who did.

I went off to college and didn’t bat an eyelash to leave her in my rearview mirror and not look back. It was a dick move on my part. She hadn’t done a thing to me, except for being the only female friend I had. But doing fucked up shit was and still is right up my alley, so I guess it was par for the course.

Physically giving my head a shake to get her out of my mind, I look over at Foster again. “I need to take a piss. Try not to verbally offend anyone while I’m gone.” I raise my eyebrows at him, but I’m not totally convinced that the message gets through. The man seems to overcompensate for the fact that I barely ever string together two full sentences with people who aren’t close to me. Right now, his eyes are fixated on something in the distance. Or someone.

“You know I can’t promise anything, but I’ll be over there…at the bar. I think I just saw Lilac pass by with some guy.”

I follow his eyes to the corner of the massive room. He’s right. That redhead looks just like his virgin auction purchased, almost-bride. “Well, good luck with that,” I tell him. “I’ll do my rounds for a few minutes to show my face, then we can blow this crap heap.”

“Cool. Just don’t ask me to bail you out when your dazzling baby blues lock onto some chick you ain’t interested in.”

“I can hold my own when it comes to letting a woman down easy.”

He nods and turns to leave. “Yeah whatever. Come look for me when you’re ready to head out.”

I can almost feel the sweat trickling down the back of my neck as I push my way through the thick crowd of bodies. There must’ve been some snag in the wedding planner’s vision for the evening. Maybe the happy couple’s guest list took on a life of its own after the fact. It’d explain the large numbers. I look around and figure there’s got to be four to five hundred people in here. Like the weather, people can be unpredictable, so maybe they’re doing her best to work with whatever went down. Like a trooper. It’s a shame they hadn’t planned for the sweat fest that the party’s becoming. Tents would’ve definitely worked out better.

I manage to find enough of a break in the throngs of bodies to get to a bathroom, and once inside I splash some water on my face to cool down. All this drinking over such a short period of time isn’t the best combination with this heat. I need to slow down if I don’t want to end up completely shit-faced. Not that I’m against that level of excess drinking. But Pops is around here somewhere, and he’s one person I won’t dare lose control around. He’ll probably take advantage of my inebriation to try to hook me up with someone he considers to be a good fit for our family’s social status. I can almost picture the old man’s face as I recall the way he told me something almost to that effect just days ago.

Handing over the reins like that isn’t something I’d do willing. Ever. I lost so much fucking control over my life when I lost my parents that I can’t allow myself to let go of another inch. Won’t. Control is power, and I hold onto every shred of it now. Even if my grandfather means well.

I glance at my reflection in the mirror while running my hand through my dark brown hair. This neutral, blank expression on my face is a mask. It took me years to master. It saves me the headache of having to explain myself to people. It covers the rage, grief, and overall emotion-packed shit storm of turmoil that can bubble up to the surface at any given time. But even now, even with these empty eyes, and with a face as disfigured as mine is now, I manage to attract way more attention from women around me than I want, need, or should for that matter. I figured out it’s this scar across my jaw that’s a fucking chick magnet, fuck if I know why. I call it rugged good looks, which is more rugged than good, because I’m no pretty boy. Still, whatever it is that draws the ladies my way provides enough distraction to take my pick of whoever I want when I feel like having a piece of ass. And that’s perfect, since I’m nowhere near ready to settle down. I’m upfront about it with the women I fuck, so as long as they understand where my head’s at, what’s the harm?

Leaving the rest room, I head to the nearest open bar. My body can handle another drink or two, but then it’s time to leave. I also need to get Foster out of here before he does something stupid. It’s his M.O. The concept of keeping it together for appearances is foreign to him. But that’s why we get along. Somewhere between his knack for being a loose cannon and my need for control, we balance each other out. Although he’s probably already driving some unlucky son of a bitch past the edge of their patience or mouthing off somewhere around here. It’s the last thing anyone needs at an engagement celebration. When we hang out, we’re far better off at some nondescript nightclub where no one knows us personally.

I make my way back out into the party, scanning every face as I look for him. Even the women’s faces. He went looking for Lilac at the bar near the front entrance so that’s probably the best place to start. There’s a chance I’ll hear him before I see him, though I’d prefer to catch sight of his board shorts if possible.

Then I see her.

I stop in my tracks as a familiar cascade of silky light brown hair catches my eye. I’m not sure why I assume this might be the girl I’m suddenly reminded of, since it’s been years since I last saw her. My heart stops dead in my chest. All the air empties from my lungs. A warm glow of light shines down on her figure, highlighting her every curve underneath that shimmery red cocktail dress she’s wearing.

It’s definitely her.

Isabelle Harrison.

My Belle.

Though I’m the only person she ever allowed to call her by that nickname.

I move closer without really intending to. It’s as if an invisible force is pulling me toward her without either of us trying. And although her back is turned and I haven’t seen her face, something deep in my gut tells me it has to be her, and I can’t resist the urge to find out.

Isabelle and her family lived across the street from my grandfather’s place. I got to know her better after my parents died, but like Foster, we more or less knew each other in passing whenever my parents took me on their short visits to see Pops, long before they passed. She’s about three years younger than me, but her mildly curious, highly intelligent, yet mostly quiet nature back then made it so the age difference didn’t matter. She quickly became my only female friend, and was one of the only people I let get close to me after my parents died. Isabelle knew me. She could look at me and know exactly when I wanted to talk about shit, and when I didn’t want to say a word. Not once did she force a conversation or ask me how I was holding up, or the usual fucked up questions adults and kids would ask after the death of a loved one.

Loved ones.

That alone made her the perfect female friend.

Everyone thought we’d end up together while we were growing up. During my late teens, most people figured we actually were together, but neither of us ever crossed that line. She was just as gorgeous back then as I imagine she is now, and sure, staying on my side of that line took effort on my part. But our friendship meant something to us, way more than a piece of ass to call fuck of the month, way more than a few hours in the back seat of my car, which was the full range of what every other girl got from me. My high school buddies were always dropping hints that Isabelle and I had a thing going, but we didn’t. She was just my Belle.

Then I left for college.

That was when I pulled away from her. I still have no fucking idea why. It just happened, with the distance, and my choosing not to go home to see Pops on school breaks didn’t help. My focus turned to filling my days and nights with the college party scene. In no time at all, in between showing up for the odd college lecture and doing as little as possible to hand in substandard course papers, my life revolved around getting drunk, getting high, fucking everything in a skirt, and fighting in the underground kickboxing circuit.

Isabelle got packed away in a quiet corner of my mind. And now, looking at this woman who I think must be her, I see now that I was dead fucking wrong for leaving her behind. I should never have ditched the one girl who was there for me when no one else was. I shouldn’t have neglected our friendship.

Almost as if she can sense my eyes on her back, she begins to turn around to face me. She can just as soon hug me as punch me in the jaw, all things considered. And maybe not knowing which one is what pushes me to close in on her. I want to see her reaction. To find out what emotion has dominated her thoughts when it comes to the memory of me. Which one? Or is it more than one? Will her eyes light up with excitement or the fire of wrath for me? I’m not one to make a scene at someone’s party but I need to know.

When she finally recognizes that it’s me, her eyes widen in shock. It’s Isabelle all right. I’d recognize those deep hazel eyes anywhere. And she’s a woman now. She’s grown into her slim-hipped teenage body and now has the most incredible curves I’ve ever seen. Maybe I’m a little stunned too, I can’t take my eyes off of her. And fuck, all I can think about now is how stunning and sexy this woman is. It’s beyond me how I managed to be just friends with her back then. To me, she was always stunningly pretty. I just never saw her as anything but my friend. The girl I used to know has become a true beauty from head to toe, and I don’t know what the hell I should do about that, but my dick has a damn good idea what it wants as I maneuver around the party guest and make my way to her.

“Isabelle?” I say her name in a question when I’m close enough.

A range of expressions flits across her face. She’s struggling with this just as much as I am. Neither of us expected to see each other after all this time, it appears. It’s almost comical to see her in such a state of surprise, or maybe it would be if I weren’t so fucking mad at myself for letting go of our friendship.

“Knox?” She whispers out my name breathlessly. “I can’t believe it. This is...”

“Fucking unreal, Belle,” I say, finishing her sentence.

It may be a good thing that we’re not friends anymore.

Friends don’t fuck.

And tonight, that’s what I want to do to her.