The front page of The Washington Post the next morning answered my lingering questions about what had made Mr. Bakhtiar so upset.

Queen of Malikbahr and Infant Son Narrowly Avoid Abduction

No wonder he’d been pissed. His sister and baby nephew had nearly been kidnapped yesterday, an ordeal the article went on to detail.

Implicated in the plot was a small extremist group known for its opposition to the Malikbahri monarchy. While they disapproved of the royal family as a whole, they had a special hatred for Laleh marrying into it. Between her Persian ethnicity, American nationality, and her family being Shia—the biggest sin of all, considering Malikbahr was a majority Sunni country—they had made it their mission to see her gone.

They had intended to kidnap both her and her son, the heir apparent to the Malikbahri throne. By their thinking, if she and the child were missing or killed, King Zayn would be forced to remarry, hopefully to a suitable Malikbahri woman who would give him a “legitimate” heir.

The plan had only failed because the lead car in her motorcade had stalled, blocking the exit the kidnappers had planned to take. Despite that, they had still killed several members of her security team, and had dragged her and the baby out of the car. Thankfully, there had been a backup team and several police officers just a block away; Queen Laleh and the child had been rescued, and the attackers were arrested.

Terrifying as the story was, I had a feeling there was more to it than the newspaper reported. Mr. Bakhtiar’s reaction to yesterday’s caller made it seem like this was something far more personal. Sure, anything regarding his sister would have been, but it had sounded like it had less to do with who his sister was and more about who had raised them both.

Being related to Amir Bakhtiar wasn’t exactly a perk these days.

But whatever it came down to, he’d made it clear that it was none of my business. Fine. He could be as secretive as he wanted and I’d just keep bringing him a new phone every time he let out a little of that repressed anger. That’s what assistants were for after all.

Assistants were also for helping organize parties, so even though it was Saturday morning and I technically should have had the day off, I found myself headed to Bakhtiar Manor to help set everything up.

I parked down the street when I arrived instead of trying to fight my way past the catering trucks and other vehicles in the driveway, but the real trouble didn’t arise until I tried to step through the Manor’s doors.

“Identification, please,” a burly, suited man demanded, holding up a hand to keep me from entering the house.

It took me a moment to fumble in my purse and pull out my driver’s license, handing it to him as I glanced over his shoulder, finding two more similarly dressed men who were just as intimidating. When they caught me staring, I cut my eyes back to the one in front of me, who had looked from my license to the clipboard in his hands, flipping through a few pages before apparently finding what he was looking for. He then handed my ID back and stepped to the side, finally letting me into the bustling foyer.

I had to dodge a few people to get to where Luz was standing at the bottom of the sweeping staircase, directing everyone where they needed to go. It took a moment before she realized I was standing next to her, but soon she was blowing out a breath and bumping her shoulder against mine.

“Glad you could finally make it, I’m drowning here.” She paused to shout directions at a group of men bringing in a couple dozen chairs before turning back to me. “Did you have any trouble getting in? We’ve got guards at every entrance and exit, and I’ve been getting reports that some of them are a little… overzealous.”

I shook my head. “No trouble. But it seems like pretty high security for a party.”

“Not for a PersOil party.”

And not after what happened to Mr. Bakhtiar's sister yesterday, I was guessing.

“Anyway,” Luz continued. “The first guests should start arriving around seven, so we’ve got a long day ahead of us. You ready for this?”

No, definitely not, I wanted to mumble, but instead I smiled and said, “Of course. What do you need me to do?”

When she pulled a checklist off of her clipboard and handed it to me, I almost wished I

hadn’t asked.

***

I was exhausted by six-thirty.

I’d been running around all day, trying my best to help Luz and the rest of the team pull together the party while simultaneously being at Mr. Bakhtiar’s beck and call. Even now there was probably something that needed doing, but considering the party itself started in less than half an hour and I was nowhere near ready, I’d snuck off to one of the bathrooms in the east wing of the house to freshen up.

The luxurious, marble-floored space was only slightly smaller than my bedroom at home, and I once again found myself in awe of the Bakhtiars’ wealth. I came from a lower-middle-class family, and Dad had scrimped and saved over the years to support me the best he could. We may not have had much, but it was always enough. Still, extravagance like this made me acutely aware of the differences between me and people like Mr. Bakhtiar.

Standing in a bathroom with fixtures that cost more than my house while shimmying into a dress that was the equivalent of several loan payments, I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to actually live this kind of life—to have everything I could ever want and more at my fingertips. But honestly, it was useless to dwell on those thoughts because that would never be my life. So as quickly as I could, I finished dressing and fixed my makeup, knowing I needed to get back to my job.

I’d left my heels at my desk, so I padded barefoot back down the hall, pausing briefly by the railing that overlooked the foyer. Luz was still guiding people from place to place and Gerald had joined her, which meant Mr. Rostami was here, likely speaking with Mr. Bakhtiar.

And just as I assumed, Mr. Rostami emerged from the bedroom right as I sat down at my desk to put on my shoes. Still barefoot, I sprung up to greet him, hoping this wouldn’t be considered unprofessional.

“Mr. Rostami,” I said, pulling a smile to my face. “It’s nice to see you again. Is there anything I can get you?”

The man said nothing as he looked me over, leaving me to stand still under his gaze. When he finally finished, I was surprised to see he was actually, well, smiling. Honestly, it was less of a smile and more of a pleased baring of yellowed teeth, but I figured that was what passed as a smile from him.

“He’ll approve.”

My brow shot up, confused by what he meant. “I’m sorry, sir?”

But Mr. Rostami said nothing else. He just let out what sounded vaguely like a giggle and wandered off down the stairs, grinning as he went.

Well that was fucking weird.

I tried not to dwell on the comment as I spent the next hour sifting through emails that I’d neglected earlier, arranging meetings, and fielding interview requests from dozens of reporters. As Gerald had instructed me, I referred the reporters to the PR department, knowing without even having to ask that Mr. Bakhtiar wasn’t interested in any sort of tell-all. As a man who spent nearly twenty-four hours a day locked in his room—by choice, at that—and only spoke to a handful of people, I couldn’t imagine he’d want anyone hounding him for answers.

But that made me wonder how tonight was going to go. The sounds from downstairs had grown progressively louder as the guests began to file in, gathering in the massive foyer for a cocktail hour before the party moved to the ballroom. There would be dinner and socializing, a few speeches, and a presentation on the future of PersOil—and Mr. Bakhtiar was going to be the center of attention.

If our interactions were any indication of his social skills, I could only imagine this was going to be an absolute nightmare.

I was in the middle of adding a few things to the calendar when the faint sound of footsteps approached. I knew it was Mr. Bakhtiar, but the sight that greeted me when I turned and rose from my chair almost had me sitting back down in awe.

Him in boxers was one thing. Him in jeans was another. But Mr. Bakhtiar in a perfectly tailored tux was a league of its own.

Oh, no. No, no, no. No man on Earth should be allowed to look that good.

“I swear, the tailor must have gotten my measurements wrong,” he mumbled in lieu of greeting as he came to a stop in front of me. “Make a note to never use him again. But other than this jacket being small enough for a child, does it look okay?”

He was too busy smoothing down his lapel and eyeing the hem of his pants to notice that I had to practically pick my jaw up off the ground, or the fact that it took me a few beats to remember how to speak.

I had no idea what he was complaining about considering the jacket fit him perfectly, so to me it looked more than merely okay. He could have been wearing a regular off-the-rack suit and I would have said as much, but this was a good—no, great—look for him.

Afraid that telling him as much might have been inappropriate, especially since the words I wanted to blurt were you look amazing, I searched for any minuscule flaw I could find.

“Your, um, your tie is a little crooked, sir,” I pointed out, glad my voice didn’t waver too much.

“Shit,” he swore as he lifted his hands to the bow tie, but his attempt to adjust it made what hadn’t really been a problem into something that actually needed fixing.

“Here, let me do it for you.”

The offer was out of my mouth before I could think twice. I took a shaky step forward, suddenly aware of how tall he was as I reached up to grasp the fabric of his tie. In our past encounters, I’d been too focused on his bare abs or his strong arms to really pay much attention, but now that I was standing in front of him and wearing heels that had me at a solid six-foot, I couldn’t help but marvel that he still had a few inches on me. In fact, if I leaned in, my nose would have just brushed his chin, and it wouldn’t have taken much for either one of us to close the distance.

Of course, that would have been crossing a million different professional and ethical lines, and I mentally scolded myself for even thinking as much.

Holding my breath, I tugged his tie down a little on the right before pulling both sides tight, stepping back again to make sure it was even. Deciding it was, I gave him a nod but I didn’t dare look back up at his face.

“All good, sir.”

At that, he blew out a breath. “Wonderful. Now to go down there and face all those parasites.”

Part of me wanted to remind him that those “parasites” were the reason his company was at its current level of success, but I kept my mouth shut and offered what I hoped was an encouraging smile. I even dared to glance up at his face, surprised to find a sheen of nervousness in his eyes before he noticed me staring and quickly shut me out.

His posture was stiffer now as well, expression colder, and once again his nose was in the air, back to being better than everyone. It was then that he let his gaze flicker over me, and I couldn’t help but momentarily freeze, waiting for his judgment.

He could probably find about a thousand things wrong with me, from my frizzy hair to the cut of my dress, but to my surprise, all he did was nod once with what I could have sworn was approval on his face. Of course, it was gone before I could blink, but it was enough to make my stomach flip-flop in excitement.

“All right then. Let’s go.”

For a brief moment, I thought he was going to offer me his elbow, something I would have appreciated considering how high my heels were, but he maneuvered past me without a backward glance.

“Bring something to take notes with,” he called over his shoulder. “I need you writing stuff down for me tonight. And don’t fuck it up.”

I sighed as he started down the staircase but did as I was told, grabbing a notepad and a pen from my desk before grudgingly trailing after him.

Here goes nothing.

***

I had underestimated how boring a corporate party could be.

Sure, there was a lovely string quartet, more champagne than I could fathom, and plenty of conversation, but it wasn’t like I could enjoy any of it. No, I had to stay two steps behind Mr. Bakhtiar at all times, listening to everything but saying nothing, and jotting down anything he deemed important. And since I was working, drinking wasn’t on the agenda either. To top it all off, cute as my shoes were, my feet hurt like hell after an hour of wandering around the ballroom.

Still, I had to admit that watching Mr. Bakhtiar interact with these people was entertaining and impressive. He was wildly charismatic, and whenever he laughed or smiled I could feel my heart beginning to melt bit by bit. Where this charm had been when we’d first met, I had no idea, but he had a way of making it seem like everyone he talked to was the most important person in the room.

He didn’t come off as a man who’d spent the better part of the last decade in practical isolation. That was probably the point, though; he needed to put these people at ease, assure them that he truly was the best man for the job, and make it clear that he wasn’t about to be replaced.

It wasn’t until he turned away from them to look at me that his good humor seemed to drop away, nearly scowling as he demanded I get him more champagne. But as soon as he faced the room again, the smile was back in place like it had never left—like I hadn’t seen the mask fall away for the briefest of moments.

He was heartily shaking hands with yet another businessman as I stepped away to get him a drink, the fourth time I’d done so and hopefully the last. I was nearly to the bar when someone grabbed my arm, nearly causing me to shout in surprise before I realized it was Gerald.

“Do you know where the Dupont Corp contract is?” he asked, a note of panic in his voice. “Bakhtiar was supposed to sign it and give it back to Rostami so he could hand it over to their lawyers tonight. They want this deal sealed by Monday morning and I am not going to be the one who jeopardizes it all.”

I started to shake my head and say I didn’t know but stopped when I remembered that I’d left the contract, along with a stack of other papers, outside of Mr. Bakhtiar’s door yesterday. They’d all been gone when I’d dropped off his dinner later in the evening, so I could only assume he’d taken them into his bedroom to look over. And since it hadn’t been on my desk this morning when I’d gotten in, I had a feeling it was still in the room.

“It’s upstairs,” I told Gerald. “But it’s in—”

“Great,” he interrupted. “Go get it.”

Before I could tell him it was in the one place I wasn’t allowed to go, he was slipping into the crowd, disappearing in a sea of tuxedos and colorful gowns.

I swore under my breath as my eyes darted from person to person, hoping Gerald would reappear and tell me he’d go get it himself, but it wasn’t looking like he was going to rescue me. No, I’d been saddled with the task of going into Mr. Bakhtiar’s strictly off-limits room.

But if this was a matter of business and sealing what was likely a multi-million-dollar deal, especially if Dupont Corp was involved, then surely he’d make an exception.

I mean… right?

Part of me considered asking for his permission first, figuring it might be best to give Mr. Bakhtiar a heads up as to what I was about to do, but he was engrossed in conversation when I found him. From the sharp glance he shot me, it was clear that any sort of interruption wouldn’t be appreciated.

So after sucking in a deep breath, I marched out of the ballroom and up the stairs before I could change my mind.

It’ll be fine, I attempted to convince myself as I stepped into the west wing, moving past my desk and down the hall. He never has to know. I’ll just give the contract straight to Rostami, and if he ever asks who went into his room to get it… I’ll blame Gerald.

Even though I was alone upstairs, I glanced behind me when I reached his bedroom door, double checking that no one else was around. When I was sure the hallway was empty, I put my hand to the knob and held my breath as it turned.

I’d peered into Mr. Bakhtiar’s room before, but I’d never been able to see much more than the king size bed that sat against the far wall, its white sheets and pillows rumpled as if he’d just left it. There was an antique oak desk off to the left, sitting underneath the only window in the room. It was dimly lit, but I could see enough to take in the various papers, books, and clothes strewn across the hardwood floor, looking only slightly less of a disaster than it had last night.

A few of those papers rustled beneath my shoes as I tentatively stepped inside, hoping the contract I was looking for wasn’t currently underneath my heel. I grimaced as I bent down to grab one of them, relieved that it wasn’t the contract, but I was beginning to worry that I’d never find it in this mess.

“How does anyone live like this?” I mumbled to myself, toeing at what appeared to be a blazer and balking when I saw the label.

Who the fuck throws Tom Ford on the floor?

After picking up a few more papers that weren’t what I needed, I shuffled through the mess and approached the desk. Normal people would have kept their important documents on it, but I was quickly learning there was nothing normal about Khalid Bakhtiar.

There somehow seemed to be more stuff on the desk than on the floor. More books, more papers, and more general junk. And from what I could see of the papers, most of them weren’t in English. That at least aided my search, since I knew this particular contract was in a language I could speak.

I was flipping through a leather-bound journal to make sure nothing was tucked inside when I heard the door slam shut.

“What the hell are you doing in here?”

I whirled around, clutching the journal to my chest, hoping it would keep my heart from exploding out. When I realized it was Mr. Bakhtiar standing in front of the door, his eyes narrowed in suspicion, I knew there was no escaping his wrath.

Well, guess I can’t blame Gerald now.

“I told everyone to stay out of here,” he continued, swiftly making his way towards me. “And that includes you.”

In a flash, the journal was being snatched out of my hands and tossed back onto the desk behind me, the sound of it landing making me jump again.

I swallowed hard, hoping he’d at least listen to my explanation. “I know, sir, I’m sorry, but I came up here looking for—”

“I don’t give a damn what you’re looking for, you don’t come into this room. Ever. Now get out.”

I nodded and dropped my gaze to the ground. “Yes, sir.”

His glare burned the back of my neck as I hurried towards the door, but this wouldn’t be the end of things. No, I still had to go back downstairs and rejoin the party, tell Gerald I hadn’t been able to find the contract, and hope I would still be employed in the morning.

My first real grown-up job and I’m gonna lose it in less than two weeks. Great. Just great!

Tears of frustration welled in my eyes as I opened the door, blurring my vision from the outside in. I did my best to blink them away, assuming the flash of motion I saw in my periphery was just me imagining things.

But when someone jerked me away from the hall, an arm wrapping around my neck and the point of something sharp pressing under my ribs, I knew it was all too real.

From across the room, I watched as Mr. Bakhtiar put his hands up as he took a slow step forward. Someone was shouting but I couldn’t seem to make out the words, either because they were in another language or because my heart was beating so hard that it was the only thing I could hear.

“Let her go.” It was Mr. Bakhtiar who had spoken, and I watched through tunnel vision as he took another step towards us. “She’s not part of this. It’s me you want.”

But that answer didn’t seem to satisfy the person holding me. The grip around my neck was tightening, forcing me to claw at the arm, but the sudden rush of adrenaline had my limbs feeling like jelly, my struggles doing little to aid my release.

Black dots were beginning to dance in front of my eyes as I struggled to draw in a breath. Mr. Bakhtiar was still advancing, the shouts growing louder, and I was doing everything I could to stay conscious. But I was losing—fast.

And then, just as Mr. Bakhtiar lunged forward, everything went dark.