Empire of Hate (Empire #3) by Rina Kent

“Is that why you yelled at two people this week?”

“Three, and they were being idiots. Being charming is not a synonym for pushover, and I’m allergic to stupidity.”

“But Knox is right. Gwen said you’re different,” Anastasia supplies needlessly. Gwen, Nate’s wife, is her bestie, and apparently, they’ve taken up gossip as a side hobby, because she says, “Ever since you got a new assistant. Blonde, too. I always thought you hated us.”

“I do. No offense.”

“Taken.”

Knox levels me with a glare. “Apologize.”

“I’m sorry you were born with a disgusting hair color, Anastasia. I liked you better when you dyed your hair black.”

“Are you sure that’s an apology?” She shakes her head.

“The only version you’ll get.” I smile, showing my dimples since they evidently make people drop their guards or drop to their knees. Except for one fucking person, obviously. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a few clients to greet.”

The round of socializing is equal to liking random posts on social media and commenting that people look good when they’re actually potatoes in the form of humans.

I might be on the extrovert spectrum, but over-interaction with people makes me feel…empty.

Maybe even lonely.

But my nonexistent therapist doesn’t need to know about that.

“Danny!” A shock of gold throws itself in my arms like a hooker in a strip club.

“Katerina.” I kiss her cheek as my cue to pull away, and she subtly rubs her stomach against my dick.

No sign of life.

Bloody perfect, Junior. We’re going to the ER in a bit.

Katerina has a rich daddy that helped her get on her feet, but she’s a hard worker, too. Which is what I respected about her the first time we met during our university years.

She’s wearing a golden dress that could compete with a drag queen’s clothes. She’s tall with generous curves and a fuckable arse and…well, that’s all I remember about her.

And the fact that my stomach tolerates one-tenth of her food.

“It’s been a minute, stranger.” She drags her red nails over my bowtie.

“I’ve been kind of busy.” Trying to shag my assistant on my terms and failing miserably. Not that anyone needs those depressing details.

“Then it must be fate that we met here.”

“We run in the same circle, Kat. Fate is the last thing you should be giving credit to.”

“Oh, don't be a bore.”

“Don’t be a hopeless romantic.” It’s disgusting.

All emotions are.

Especially the sappy type that many are surprisingly fond of.

“A romance is the last thing I want,” she purrs. “I’m opening a new restaurant in Paris.”

“Congratulations.”

“Care to take those congratulations somewhere more private?”

No. But I don’t really have a reason for refusal, so I say, “Lead the way.”

I want to stab myself with a ten-inch knife and hope the pain will wake my Sleeping Beauty dick up.

Katerina takes us to a supply room on the far end of the ballroom and locks the door behind us.

Leaning against it, she starts toying with her barely-there straps.

She’s beautiful, hot, with a body I can lose myself in for hours, and she’s a brunette.

Perfect for a quick shag, a forehead kiss, and a rain check for a Paris redo.

And yet, my dick continues his slumber, waiting for another princess’s kiss.

The same princess he almost started a journal to memorize the first time he got to tarnish her.

Take her innocence.

Be inside her.

On the other hand, Katerina does nothing for me.

She didn’t in the past either. None of the other women did.

They were just a necessity.

I’m about to leave, find Nicole, and agree to her condition with my hand on her arse as I fuck her, when a bang echoes in the silence.

At first, I think we’ve been bombed.

Hello, terrorists and world disorder.

But it happens again. A knock on the door. More like a damn fist on it.

“Someone is here,” Katerina whines.

The knocking sound comes again, stronger this time.

“Did you not hear me?” she shrieks.

The bang comes again and I suppress a smile. I think I know exactly what type of terrorist this is.

Katerina opens the door with more impatience than a toddler’s. “You!”

The “you,” a terrorist with the most gorgeous face God has created, is none other than Nicole.

She shoulders past Katerina, her stance tense and face similar to sovereignty on paintings.

But her body is a myriad of motions. Her legs shake. Her fingers twitch.

It’s hardly noticeable, but it’s there. How come I’ve never detected the change in her body language before?

She stands between us, in her simple black dress and heels that I want off her.

Actually, the heels can stay.

Nicole doesn’t need to be flashy or even make an effort to look pretty. A second-rate dress, a delicate chignon, and some makeup, and she’s ready to walk the runway.

“Aren’t you the assistant?” Katerina spits, obviously angry at Nicole for pussy-blocking her.

“The one and only.” She smiles with dripping sweetness.