He was exactly the type of guy he looked like—or maybe he wasn’t, not anymore. Not since the neck tattoo. Thick black lines curled just below his jaw, a bold, sweeping design that disrupted the polished symmetry of his expensive grooming. His posh mother had nearly collapsed at the sight, clutching the marble island in this very kitchen and gasping about “image” and “bloodline.” But he didn't care. He was one of those guys.

Married parents, both dripping with generational wealth. Old money. Ancient, practically. He was the middle child and the only son, spoiled with a certain type of carelessness only affluence could breed. There was never a single thing he’d wanted that didn’t eventually end up in his hands. Desire didn’t need patience when everything bent toward you.

And he didn’t mind. Not when people kissed his ass or when they didn’t. He’d gotten used to being watched, admired, resented—it didn’t matter. Money was the muscle that flexed for him when he didn’t feel like lifting a finger.

He moved through life like a king without a kingdom—because kingdoms were confining.

And now, here he was, leaning against the marble counter of the coastal mega-mansion he’d grown up in. Sunlight poured in from the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching the pale highlights in his tousled hair. Behind him, the ocean whispered against the private dock. Around him, staff moved efficiently, a ballet of wealth’s quiet machinery.

He wasn’t listening to the staff. Not really. Just one voice: his mother’s new assistant. Two weeks in, and already on his radar. Cool-headed, competent, and not impressed. That was the difference. This one didn’t flirt or fumble, didn’t try to absorb the glitter by osmosis. Just did the job, did it well, and vanished into the background like they belonged there.

It was hot.

He watched from the corner of his eye, leaning against the counter, pretending to read something on his phone.

His mind flicked lazily through past hookups with staff—five total, maybe six, if you counted his mother’s ex-assistant from a few years back during his mother’s Palm Beach phase. A hot, no-nonsense woman in her 30s. A cougar, kind of. All handled with NDAs. No scandals. No noise.

But this one—this assistant—had his attention in a different way. He wasn’t plotting. Not seriously. Not yet. His mother would explode. Or worse, cut off something more vital than allowance.

And then—finally—his mother looked up and noticed him. Really noticed him.

Her eyes narrowed, the voice trailing off mid-sentence.

“Darling,” she said coolly, “What are you still doing here?”