I don’t negotiate with princesses.
Until the day a sharp-tongued Black heiress in Louboutins storms my Napa cabana, calls me a soulless gargoyle, and slaps her sketch of me onto my laptop like a declaration of war.
Gwendaly Luckett was supposed to be a contract. One Kinlow Clause. One fake Hamptons summer. Marry the shipping princess, save both empires, then walk away clean.
Instead she’s fire in silk and steel in heels, turning every argument into more yearning on my marble island.
She fights me like she hates me.She loves me like she owns me.And the more she pushes, the more I need to break every rule to keep her.
She can call me Beefcake for Breakfast.But I’m never letting her leave the table.
