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She wanted what was left of tonight to ponder why a guy like Jordan would turn down the opportunity to get hot and heavy with a world-famous pop star. She’d thought she’d made it pretty clear that she was a sure thing.
As they drove around Berlin, her come-hither glances had been a bust. He seemed determined to play gentleman tour guide. As soon as the limousine pulled up in the private parking garage below her hotel, Jordan had wished her a polite good night, kissed her on the cheek, then headed for the exit.
Her only consolation was his second request for them to meet up again in Paris the day after next. They’d exchanged phone numbers. That at least had left her with some hope.
Chloe was prepared to wait. Just as long as Jordan’s reluctance to seduce her tonight had everything to do with his manners and nothing to do with him having a girlfriend or—god forbid—a wife waiting for him back in the States. While they’d sat and ate at the well-lit café, she’d checked Jordan’s left hand for the telltale signs of a wedding ring. But she knew far too many serial cheaters and it was rare for one of them to make such a rookie mistake.
Fame was a peculiar beast. There were some women who would have no issue with their boyfriend or even husband sleeping with a pop star, just as long as he came home and told them every single, sleazy detail. The trash magazines would be more than willing to pay good money for pictures of a teary-eyed woman whose man had been tempted into cheating on her by a sultry songstress.
LA, and especially Hollywood, seemed to have a different set of morals and codes of behavior than the rest of the world. Money and power was all that truly mattered. Decency tended to get shoved aside by inflated egos.
Jordan had her intrigued. The guy was devilishly handsome, that much was obvious. He was also extremely self-assured, which only made his behavior tonight that more unfathomable. She was Chloe, famous, talented, and beautiful, but when he’d found himself in a position that would have seen close to ninety-nine percent of the straight male population not hesitate to fuck her in the back of the limo, Jordan had let her go.
Her security people would do a full background check on Jordan before she met up with him in Paris, but for now, Chloe was determined to find out as much as she could herself. To rule out any obvious reasons as to why she shouldn’t ever see him again.
I need to know everything I can about him.
Retrieving her laptop from the suite’s extra-large safe, Chloe typed “Jordan Royal” into Google. A ton of pages about the Jordanian royal family, an airline, and basketball sneakers immediately appeared. After scrolling unsuccessfully through several pages of information, none of it about her quarry, she narrowed her search.
“Jordan Royal. Royal Family”. Nope, more things about the Jordanian royal family. It was only when she finally typed in “Jordan Royal, New York, rich” that she finally had success.
Chloe leaned forward over the keyboard, staring hard at a grainy picture. It wasn’t the best paparazzi effort she had ever seen, but it was clearly Jordan. He was standing next to another man, whose name was listed as Edward Royal. The image might be a hastily snapped piece of photographic crap, but the familial similarities were still clear. The older man had to be Jordan’s father.
“Royal Resorts Announces Billion Dollar Resort, Laguna Beach, California.”
The article was from one of the financial newspapers. It talked about the international brand conglomerate House of Royal. Among a glittering array of luxury brands, many of which Chloe recognized, they also owned Royal Resorts. Jordan was part of the mega billionaire Royal family. The American side of the global powerhouse was apparently based in New York City.
Well that explains the bespoke suit, fancy coat, and superior attitude. He comes from old, serious money.
The limousine, bodyguards, and bottles of high-priced liquor wouldn’t have impressed Jordan in the slightest. “He probably eats caviar for breakfast, served to him on a silver platter,” she whispered.
Some more quick finger work saw Chloe clicking into her subscription forNew York Magazine, where she did a deep dive into the society pages. As a pop star it was part of her job to know what was being said about her, and by whom. While she left the trashy gossip magazines and sites to her assistant’s assistant Gabriela, Chloe liked to keep tabs on the main US based press and influential magazines herself.
It quickly became apparent that Jordan Royal maintained a low social profile. Apart from the occasional gala charity dinner or official hotel opening he was conspicuously absent from the society pages. Intrigued, she dug a little deeper, her search going back a few more years. It took time, but she eventually struck gold.
A small paragraph with an accompanying photo of Jordan lazing against a wall, while dressed in a formal evening suit, bow tie hanging loosely around his neck, and sunglasses hiding his eyes, caught her attention. It was only a couple of lines, but it told a very different story to the one she imagined he’d been trying to sell her tonight.
“Troubled, billionaire bad boy Jordan Royal reported to have checked out of rehab. No comment from the Royal family as he returns to New York City to pick up the pieces of his life.”
That was over four years ago.And if his behavior this evening was anything to go by, Jordan was still living clean and sober. She hadn’t seen him touch any booze, and he’d been adamant about not using drugs when she’d asked. This was all good news.
So why did warning bells still ring so loudly in her mind?
Because every guy you’ve ever dated turned out to be a user trying to further his own career. Or had his own agenda.
He might well be reformed, but since she had little experience with real relationships, getting mixed up with a former addict probably wasn’t the right place to start finally looking for love. A guy like Jordan Royal could well turn out to be a cautionary tale.
After twirling her hair round her fingers until they lost sense of feeling, Chloe gave up and tied it into a messy bun.
The newspapers and magazines showed a carefully curated image of Jordan, but Chloe was interested to see if perhaps he let his guard down just a little on social media. She picked up her phone.
Another half hour of searching and scrolling revealed no Facebook account, no Instagram. She assumed a guy like Jordan wouldn’t be the type to watch dancing goats on TikTok, but she still checked. Nope, nothing. If Jordan was on any social media platform it wasn’t under his own name. He was keeping his secrets to himself.
The familiar warning signs of what having the wrong kind of people in her life could cost her, were right there in front of her. Red flags were posted every half mile. She should know better. Shedidknow better. But the painful ache of loneliness was strong.
None of her heart or head’s sensible pleas could stop her from sending Jordan a message.
Still want 2 meet me in Paris. I can put your name on the door for a backstage pass. Concert on Thursday. The Arena. La Défense.
