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I eventually gathered my things onto the tray and carried it toward the front of the palace to his office. The door was open, and he was behind his desk, his food beside him, his dark eyes focused on the screen of his laptop.
I took a seat in the sitting room and placed my silver tray on the table, where it made an audible clank.
His eyes immediately shifted to me, intense and deep, like two drops of shiny oil.
I turned back to my food and waited for him to berate me, to order me out.
He said nothing.
I sat at the edge of the couch and took a drink of my tea before I turned to look at him.
He was back at work like nothing happened.
I brought my book into his office so I could read on the couch.
Sometimes he spoke on the phone, speaking entirely in French at a speed I would never be able to learn. Sometimes I could detect the subject of the conversation based on his mood, the way he barked out orders, or reprimanded whoever was on the line. Then he turned back to his laptop or looked through paperwork.
I had no idea what he actually did in here all day. He seemed like he just looked at paperwork and then yelled at people.
Maybe that was all a boss was supposed to do.
Gilbert stepped into the office then hesitated when he saw me on the couch. His hesitation turned to panic. “Melanie, you shouldn’t be in here. His Highness needs to work—”
“She’s fine.” Fender spoke from his desk, his phone in his hands as he read something.
Gilbert stared at me for a few more seconds before he approached the desk. “Sir, I’m here to remind you of your dinner with the president Thursday. Is this still satisfactory, or shall I reschedule?”
“It’s fine.”
He gave a bow then departed the room.
Dinner with the president?
Fender set down his phone then came around the desk, in his sweatpants without a shirt. It seemed to be the attire he wore even when he had visitors in his office. He was in his home, so he didn’t give a damn about professionalism.
He moved to the couch across from me. “What are you reading?”
“The Count of Monte Cristo.” I closed the book and set it on the table. “One of the few books you have in English.”
He leaned back and spread his knees apart, his elbow propped on the armrest. The other arm was down and relaxed on his thigh. His jawline was prickled with hair because if he didn’t shave every day, it would come in thick and dark. Even in his most relaxed position, his body was like a solid concrete wall that accompanied him wherever he went, and whether there was rain, snow, or a hurricane, it remained forceful. How did someone get that strong? “Are you enjoying it?”
“Yes, a lot.”
“Good story.”
“You’ve read it?” I asked in surprise.
He gave that rare, slight smile.
“I just… You don’t seem like someone who reads.”
“Because I’m a kingpin? Criminals aren’t stupid, especially the ones who are good at it.”
I never doubted he was smart. “You don’t have a lot of free time, so I couldn’t imagine you spending it reading…that’s all.”
“I don’t read anymore.”
“When did you read?”
“In school. I was in the top prep school in France.”
I didn’t know anything about his life before he was the boss. It was hard to picture him being anything other than this, the man who stomped through the snow in a bomber jacket and stared down anyone in his path with a spray of bullets. “You read a lot then?”
“Book a week.”
He seemed to lack empathy and emotion, so it surprised me that he’d gotten lost in so many books in his youth. “Did you graduate?”
“No.” His eyes started to turn cold.
Gilbert told me he had a hard life, but attending private school didn’t scream struggle. “Gilbert mentioned you’d had a hard life. What happened?”
His open eyes remained glued to my face, a never-ending silence ensuing.
I suspected I wouldn’t get an answer.
“Sorry, I just…” I didn’t know what else to say.
“I had a hard life. Let’s just leave it at that.”
I looked down at the closed book in my hands, wishing he could confide more to me so I could understand why he was the way he was. Gilbert spoke so highly of him, and while Fender was actually gentle, affectionate, and kind, he was still a high-level criminal. He was refined and respectful toward me, treated me better than any other man in my life, but he did unspeakable things. Maybe what happened to him in his past would explain this dichotomy in his personality. “You can always talk to me, you know.” When there was no response, I lifted my gaze and looked at him.
His appearance was exactly the same, as if he never drew his eyes away.
