The memory of my mother's face—lips pressed into a bloodless line, eyes cold with disappointment—when I'd announced my intention to take a brief holiday before the anniversary celebrations still stung. Her silent disapproval had spoken volumes. I was expected to stand beside my brother, presenting a united front as the perfect royal family while reporters hounded me about when I'd take a wife.
The GPS showed I was approaching my destination. I spotted the old gray water tower that marked the turnoff and made a right onto a smaller paved road. Twenty minutes and two armed security checkpoints later, I faced the imposing gates of Dove Canyon Ranch and Resort.
My heart raced as the wrought iron bars swung open. I gripped the steering wheel tighter, the reality of where I was and why I was here hitting me all at once.
Baron Julius von Königsberg had been the one to suggest this retreat. As a diplomat and family friend, he'd taken me under his wing after I'd shared my sexual preference with my family, showing me how to navigate homosexuality in the European royal court system.
“It's a place where one can... explore without judgment,” he'd said, his gray eyes knowing. It was Julius who had sponsored my membership to The Ranch, describing it as “a sanctuary for extraordinary men of particular tastes.”
For years, I'd orchestrated my life around discretion, choosing partners who valued secrecy as much as satisfaction, meeting in propertiesso private even the staff didn't know who owned them, creating elaborate covers for the briefest encounters. Yet the tabloids of Europe were filled with stories of my alleged conquests—beautiful women from noble families, actresses, models—all carefully orchestrated appearances.
The truth was far more complicated, and potentially far more scandalous.
Nestled in a natural hollow surrounded by hills, Dove Canyon Ranch and Resort resembled a Spanish colonial estate, with clay-tiled roofs and stucco walls the color of sun-baked earth. The main complex sprawled across several acres, its architecture complemented by landscaped grounds that blended with the natural beauty of the surrounding countryside.
The driveway curved around a central fountain before terminating at the main entrance, where a valet stand had been set up beneath a covered portico. As I pulled to a stop, a handsome young man wearing only a pair of dark shorts and sandals stepped forward.
“Welcome to Dove Canyon Ranch, sir,” he said, opening my door with practiced efficiency. “Mr. Stone is waiting to welcome you personally.”
I stepped out, strangely reluctant to surrender the keys. The Hellcat had become a symbol of my brief taste of autonomy. “She's quite a machine,” I said, handing over the keys. “Handle her with care.”
“Of course, sir.” The valet's expression remained professionally neutral, but I caught a flicker of eagerness in his eyes.
Before I could say more, a figure emerged from the main entrance—tall, confident, with sandy blond hair and a blinding smile. Vincent Stone, co-founder of The Ranch, moved with the easy grace of someone completely at home in his own skin, dressed in a pristinewhite linen suit that complemented the Texas heat, along with a white Stetson hat he tipped in greeting.
“Your Grace. I trust you enjoyed my Hellcat?” His bright blue eyes sparkled with mischief. “She's a personal favorite.”
“Bonjour, Monsieur Stone,” I returned his smile, caught off guard by his casual warmth. “Elle est magnifique. Though perhaps conspicuous for someone in my position.”
“That was rather the point,” Vincent replied with a wink. “Sometimes the best disguise is to be unforgettable.” His easy manner reminded me of our meeting two weeks ago, at a discreet Manhattan office where I'd signed the contracts finalizing my membership and transferred an eye-watering sum from my Swiss accounts—the membership fee that made most luxury yacht purchases look like pocket change.
He gestured toward the entrance. “I hope the drive down was pleasant. We aim to make your stay here everything you're hoping for, and perhaps a few things you haven't dared to hope for yet.”
As the massive wooden doors swung open before us, I took a deep breath and stepped forward, leaving behind the Grand Duke d'Moncloud and walking into a week that promised to change everything.
“Welcome to The Ranch.”
Chapter 2
Theo
The sun blasted through my window, revealing a view that belonged in some travel magazine—rolling hills covered in wildflowers under a ridiculous blue sky.
Definitely not Florida.What the fuck am I doing here?
Even after a week, it still felt surreal.
The moment I'd stepped into my suite at The Ranch, I almost face-planted gawking at my suite. That queen-sized pillow-top with cherry-red silk sheets, with a velvet chaise lounge in the corner practically begging me to sink into its ridiculous luxury. Compared to this palace? My old apartment might as well have been a jail cell with all the charm of a truck stop bathroom.
And yeah, I also noticed the naked men everywhere. They floated through the halls like an exclusive art exhibit. Hard to miss.
I was an imposter in this world of luxury hookups and rich-guy fantasies. My first night, I unpacked my entire life into less than one dresser drawer: a couple of pairs of jeans, some t-shirts, a hoodie, boxer briefs, and my dog-eared copy ofThe Alchemist. Pathetic, right? Yet as I folded each item, I imagined Casey looking at me, his innocent confusion as we talked about my decision to take this job.
I kept replaying the moment in my head, his wide eyes, the hurt, the anxiety etched on his face. Guilt twisted my stomach into knots.
Ugh.
‘Sex worker’ wasn't on my career vision board growing up, but The Ranch's fancy ‘companion’ label didn't change what I was doing here. The weird part? That flutter in my stomach whenever I thought about the actual sex wasn't dread.
