Reign of a King: A Dark Billionaire Romance (Kingdom Duet Book 1)

I arrive early to the King’s mansion.

On purpose.

If I’m going to be stuck here for the next six months, then I might as well rip off the Band-Aid.

However, there’s something else.

With the exception of the clusterfuck that happened around the dining table last night and how I embarrassingly came all over Jonathan’s fingers, there’s another issue that hasn’t left my brain.

The recording of Alicia’s voice. Her death message to me.

Considering Jonathan was her husband, he ought to inherit all that she left.

If he’s had that recording for eleven years, why would he send me that message now? Why in this way?

Granted, he’s lost track of me since Alicia’s death, but could this be another game of his?

The only other people who could have Alicia’s message for me is her lawyer or her son, Aiden.

The lawyer wouldn’t play games, I don’t think. As for Aiden… Well, I don’t know him enough to form any theories yet. What I’m sure of is that he wasn’t even aware I existed or he wouldn’t have called me Mum during our first meeting.

Besides, he’s on his honeymoon right now. There’s no way in hell he has time to plot this.

The prime suspect is inside these walls. Jonathan fucking King.

Once again, the front gate automatically opens. And again, I stare at the angel statue. My wrist, where my watch lies, itches as a sense of foreboding trickles down my spine.

I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you, but I’ll bring you justice, Alicia.

When I was young and clueless, she used to hold me on her lap and tell me stories about fairies and castles. She used to read me fantasy novels like Harry Potter. I loved how her voice changed every time there was danger in a scene. My eyes would bug out and I’d wait with bated breath for the following chapters to unfold.

Even though we lived worlds apart, she never made me feel like I was worthless.

We did have so many differences to count. I grew up in Leeds while she lived in London. She was an aristocrat from both parents’ sides while I was an illegitimate commoner. Her noble origins showed in her tiniest gestures. From her smile to her delicate frown.

She was warm and softly spoken. Dying at only thirty was too harsh.

And that’s why she needs justice.

And that’s why I can’t let whatever happened with Jonathan yesterday repeat again. He’s my sister’s husband for fuck’s sake.

As soon as I stop in front of the mansion, I unload my suitcase. I brought necessities and my laptop, and since I kept my flat, most of my stuff is still there.

The door opens and the woman from yesterday greets me. A younger man dressed in an elegant butler suit stands beside her. His skin is so pale that his green veins show through the surface of his hand.

“Tom will get your suitcase.” She motions at him and he silently springs into action. “Please follow me.”

I do, and even though it’s my second time here, the place’s majesty doesn’t lessen. If anything, it appears more grandiose in daylight.

“What’s your name?” I ask the woman, who’s walking one step ahead of me.

“Margot,” she says without sparing me a glance.

“I’m Aurora.”

“I know.”

Okay. I suppose Jonathan’s staff are as stand-offish as he is. They’re not talkative either.

Margot leads me to the second floor and Tom follows behind us like a shadow, silent and a bit creepy.

The entire mansion is.

Despite the elegant wallpaper that’s fit for a royal palace and the golden ornaments attached to the ceilings, something is off about this place.

Your sister got depressed and died here.

That’s probably it.

Besides, the King mansion doesn’t have Alicia’s touch. At all.

Her only visible interference here is the angel statues outside. The inside, while it hints at a refined taste, is all Jonathan — rugged edges and authoritative masculinity.

This place isn’t just meant to impress, it’s also meant to intimidate. When you walk these halls, you sign an imaginary pact to do whatever the tyrant of the house demands.

Margot stops in front of a room and motions for Tom to go inside. He places the suitcase at the entrance, nods, and leaves.

The room is so large, it almost takes up an entire floor. An elegant queen-sized bed sits on a high platform in a classic way with a modern touch. The balcony is open, which allows the light-coloured curtains to flap inside.

There’s also a desk and a small sitting area.

“This will be your room. Breakfasts are at seven-thirty. No lunches on workdays and dinners are at eight.”

“I don’t eat breakfast.”

She throws me a weird glance like I murdered a puppy or something. What’s so hard about not eating breakfast? All I need is coffee and I get that on my way to work.

Seeming to let it go, Margot resumes speaking in her impersonal tone. “You’re not allowed on the third floor.”

“Why not?”

“Mr King’s orders.”

“If he has orders, he needs to tell me himself.”

She pins me with a stare for a long time, as if not believing I’ve just said that. Then she says in the same tone, “If you need anything, you can hit ‘one’ on any phone in the house. Dinner will be served in an hour.” She nods, turning to leave.

“Wait.”

She glimpses at me without saying anything.

“Where was Alicia’s room? Her and Jonathan’s, I mean.” I realise I’m implying that Margot has been here since Alicia’s times. She appears as old as Jonathan, if not older, so I assume she’s been working for him all this time.

“On the third floor. The one you’re forbidden to go to, Miss.” She pauses. “And Mrs King didn’t share a room with Mr King.”

With that, she’s out the door.

Her words float in the air like an invisible halo.

Did she just say Alicia and Jonathan didn’t share a room? But why? They had Aiden, so naturally, they must have had sex. And they weren’t that old to opt for separate bedrooms.

What the hell was going on in your life, Alicia?

The more I learn about her, the more shame I feel for not taking the time to get to know her as much as she knew me.

True, I was too young and focused on something more sinister, but that doesn’t give me the right to believe Alicia was all that she showed to be on the outside.

Ignoring Margot’s warning, I leave the room and head to the staircase we took earlier. There’s another set of marble stairs that lead to the third floor.

At first, I keep glancing behind my back, expecting Margot to show up and drag me down by the hair.

I shake my head at that image. Not everyone is the devil from my past.

No idea why Jonathan didn’t give me a room here, considering the floor is similar to the second one. Why do I feel like he likes to feel superior, even when it comes to the bedroom I’ll be staying in?

I try the first door, but it’s locked. Who the hell locks a door in his own house? Or did he do this because I’ll be here from now on?

The fact that it’s locked bugs me.

When I was young, I loved riddles, puzzles, and figuring out solutions. I used to love staking out, holding my breath, and waiting for prey to come out of their hiding places.

He taught me those things. The devil.

I followed him without knowing what he was capable of. I followed him because I trusted him, and that was the biggest mistake of my existence.

After he disappeared from my life, it took me so long to rid myself of habits associated with him, such as my love for puzzles and riddles. I erased every habit he’d brainwashed into me, I stopped believing in things I’d thought were a given, like love, care, and even puzzles.

Eleven years later, I still feel out of sorts when there’s a puzzle that I can’t solve. Like right now.

The locked door is a puzzle I have to walk away from.

Again.

With a deep breath, I go to the next door. It’s a conference room. Bloody hell. Does the tyrant bring his entire office here?

The next is a reception area with high back chesterfield sofas and a massive golden chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

The moment I open the following room, it hits me.

Her scent. It’s like summer breeze and marshmallow. Vanilla, lemon, and brightness.

It’s crazy how I remember Alicia’s smell eleven years later, and how I can smell it here, even though she’s been gone for a long time.

Sweat trickles down my back and my hands shake as I release the doorknob and stroll inside. The room is clean, but all the furniture is covered with white sheets.

Like a coffin.

I never got the chance to say goodbye to her at her funeral. I never got to say goodbye at all.

My legs barely carry me as I run my fingers over the angel statues on her console. I open the first drawer, the sound echoing in the silence. Her elegant jewellery and makeup are tucked neatly in there.

I go to her wardrobe and it’s full of her clothes. The fashion is eleven years outdated, but it’s posh and refined, like everything about Alicia. I hug a dress to my face and inhale it. It doesn’t have her scent.

It’s faded away, vanished. Just like her.

A tear slides from my cheek and wets the cloth. I hang it back where I found it and close the wardrobe.

I move to her bed, where a few books sit on her bedside table.

There’s no dust on them. Like the entire room, they’re cleaned and taken care of. The pages have turned yellowish though.

The three books are black with a bold white font for the title.

Six Minutes.

Seven Bodies.

Eight Funerals.

The author is someone named Allen B. Thomas.

I don’t really read thrillers, so I have no idea who that is.

Opening the first book, I’m struck by the dedication page.

To my muse,

May every muse be like you.

It’s circled over and over with a red pen.

Was this Alicia?

The word ‘muse’ causes a premonition to hit me. Someone else used to call me that, and I still can’t figure out the meaning behind it.

I check the other two books. Both of their dedications are also circled in red.

The second book’s dedication is:

To my muse,

My reason for living.

The third book’s:

To my muse,

See you in hell.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I open the three books and stare at them splayed out in front of me.

The way they were circled is aggressive, forceful even, to the point it’s left a mark at the back of each page.

There must be a reason why Alicia did this. What was she trying to communicate?

I start reading the first book.

The language is chilling, horror-film like. The prologue is about someone digging holes into the earth.

I pause reading, my fingers shaking, and trickles of cold perspiration glues my blouse to my back. Taking a deep breath, I continue.

The digging goes on and on. The thoughts of the person who’s doing the digging tighten my stomach and brings acute nausea to the back of my throat.

The memories I’ve spent so long burying rush to the surface like a demon snapping out of its chains. My head fills with dark, sinister images. The black dirt. The vacant eyes. The —

“What are you doing here?”

I startle, a yelp falling from my lips as I slam the book shut.

Fuck.

Jonathan towers over my sitting position, a hand tucked in the pocket of his trousers and his metallic gaze pinning me with utter disapproval.

Jonathan. It’s just Jonathan.

I don’t know why I felt like the character from the book would jump out from the pages and strangle me.

Or drag me to one of those holes he was digging up.

“You scared me,” I breathe out.

“So you realise you’re doing something wrong. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be scared.” The disregard in his tone throws me off.

It’s almost like a completely different man from the one who pushed my buttons until I unravelled all over his lap.

The man who made me feel after I’d come to the acceptance that I never would in this lifetime.

I hate him for it, and I’ll never forgive him for resurrecting that part back to life without my approval.

“Do you have trouble following instructions, wild one?”

“What?”

“Margot must’ve told you not to come up here.”

I stand, steady my breathing, and grab the books from the floor and place them back on the bedside table. “I don’t see what the big deal is.”

“I do not care for being defied, Aurora. Is that understood?”

“Then you shouldn’t have gotten me.”

He grabs me by the arm and spins me around so fast, I gasp as I crash into his chest, my hand landing on his shoulder for balance.

Jonathan stares down at me with darkness so tangible, I can feel the smoke emanating from him and surrounding me in a halo.

That’s what Jonathan is — smoke. You can’t grasp him or escape him. The moment you think you’re safe, he comes out of nowhere and thickens with the intent of suffocating you.

“I have already said this and it’s the final time I’ll repeat it. If I ask a question, I expect a direct answer.”

“And if I have none?” My voice is breathy, small, wrong.

Damn you, voice.

“Then —” he reaches his other hand and grabs my arse cheek “— I’ll spank this arse.”

I instinctively push against him. Memories from last night flash before my eyes and it takes all my will to hold in the foreign sound fighting to get free.

“Now, is that fucking understood?”

“Yes,” I mutter so he’ll let me go.

It’s not about being spanked, it’s about the damn pulsing between my legs since he touched me or the promise that he’ll repeat what happened last night.

It’s about how I can’t stop thinking about the same fingers that are now clutching my wrist being inside me. Or that veiny, strong hand coming down on my soft flesh.

“Good girl.” Jonathan lets my arm fall and I step back on damn wobbly feet.

Why the hell did he have to say those two words using that raspy tone? He’s toying with parts of me I didn’t even think could be toyed with.

“I’m not a girl.”

His lips twitch, almost as if he’s about to smile, but Jonathan doesn’t do those. Not really. “Yes, you are.”

“I’m twenty-seven.” I don’t know why I need that information out there.

Maybe it’s my brain’s way to remind me that he’s seventeen years older than me.

Or that my sister, the only person I still consider family, had him first.

Or that we’re in her room.

The fact that Jonathan kept her room as it was without attempting to get rid of anything means one thing: he’s not over her death.

That’s why he wants me. I’m his sick way of bringing Alicia back to life.

I hate him for putting me in this position.

I hate him for barging through doors even I didn’t have the keys to.

Most of all, I hate him. The man. The tyrant. The unfeeling bastard who couldn’t protect Alicia.

“I know your age.” He slips his hand back in his pocket. “I also know you’ve been a ghost since you were sixteen.”

I thin my lips even when my scar tingles underneath my clothes.

“How does it feel to be a ghost, Aurora?”

“Peaceful.”

“Is that how you spell fake?”

“I’m not fake.”

“Is that why you invented a whole new persona, new name, new background, and even new habits?”

“Do you have a point here?”

“Does your black belt friend know about Clarissa?”

“Don’t you dare, Jonathan.”

“I do not care for being threatened, so for that alone, I might drop in unannounced and tell her.”

“Jonathan…d-don’t…” I’m ready to beg him, but I know that won’t work. Layla and her family need to stay the fuck away from my past. I can’t counter their kindness with malice.

“She’s a Muslim, no? Do you know their take on murderers and accomplices?”

“I’m not an accomplice.”

“Then what are you?” His voice drops in range. “Why did you disappear?”

“Because I needed a rebirth.”