Page 1 of Owned By Royal

Prologue

Sierra

Four Months Earlier

Another charity gala, another designer gown, another room overflowing with people pretending to care about causes they only remember when cameras are pointed at them. Crystal chandeliers spill golden light over polished marble floors while a string quartet performs somewhere in the background.

It’s nearly drowned out by forced laughter and the clinking of champagne glasses. Every smile is calculated. Every handshake has a price. And every conversation is another carefully choreographed performance.

I perfected this act years ago, smiling at people I don’t respect, laughing at jokes that aren’t funny, and letting everyone believe I’m exactly the shallow socialite they expect me to be. It’s amazing how invisible intelligence becomes when people decide you’re just a pretty face.

I lift my champagne flute without taking a sip as another politician drones on about philanthropy to a circle of businessmen who probably evade more taxes than they’ll donate tonight. My attention drifts around the ballroom instead, searching for anything remotely interesting, and that’s when I see him.

Royal Madera.

Even standing across the room, he commands attention without seeming to try. He’s taller than almost everyone surrounding him. Broad shoulders stretch the expensive black tuxedo tailored specifically for him, dark hair perfectly styled, his neatly trimmed beard framing a face that belongs on the cover of every luxury magazine lining grocery store shelves.

Women steal glances at him when they think no one is looking, while men greet him with effortless familiarity, eager to shake the hand of one of the heirs to the Madera fortune. He smiles easily, laughs at something an older woman says, and somehow manages to make every person around him feel like they’re the center of his attention.

“You’ve been staring at Royal Madera for almost a full minute.”

I blink before turning toward one of my friends, Olivia, who smirks knowingly while nudging my arm. Beside her, Daphne follows my gaze across the ballroom before letting out an exaggerated sigh.

“I don’t blame her,” Daphne says. “The man’s unfairly attractive.”

“I’ve heard he’s even better looking up close,” Olivia adds.

“I wasn’t staring,” I lie smoothly. “I was observing.”

Olivia laughs. “Call it whatever you want. If Royal Madera walked over here and smiled at you, you’d forget your own name.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“You wouldn’t be the first.” Daphne lowers her voice conspiratorially. “My cousin met him at a fundraiser last year. She spent twenty minutes talking to him and insisted afterward that he was the nicest man she’d ever met.”

Olivia snorts. “He’s also supposedly LA’s most eligible bachelor. Every gossip magazine has linked him to at least a dozen women.”

“They link every wealthy man to a dozen women,” I point out.

“True,” Olivia admits. “Although everyone says he’s a playboy. That it’s the reason his father prefers his older brother to him.”

I glance back toward him. “Really? Everyone says that?”

“He never keeps the same woman around long enough for anyone to learn otherwise.”

“I’ve also heard he wastes his time working at some tattoo shop,” Daphne says, wrinkling her nose. “Apparently, it’s his little rebellion against his father.”

“His hobby,” Olivia corrects with a grin. “That’s what Marco Madera calls it.”

The comment earns a quiet laugh from both of them, but I barely hear it because something about Royal doesn’t fit the image they’re describing. His smile is perfect, his posture relaxed, and his conversations appear effortless, yet none of it feels genuine.

It reminds me of actors I’ve watched on stage, every expression polished through repetition until it becomes second nature. Then I notice something stranger. Every few minutes, his attention flicks toward the phone in his hand before returning to whoever he’s speaking with.

And while everyone else is captivated by his charm, I begin wondering why a man who looks so comfortable here keeps checking his screen like he’s waiting for something important.

“What?” Olivia asks.

“Nothing.”