Chapter 1 — Ultimatum

Lucian's POV:

"Son, you're almost 27 and I'm almost 57. I'm not getting any younger and neither are you. You need to start getting involved with things other than work." 

I almost rolled my eyes at my father. "By 'involved with other things,' you mean women?" 

He laughed. His eyes crinkled at the sides, making him seem older than before. He leaned further into the plush leather couch and jingled his empty glass of ice, signaling to the maid for more liquor. "You've got to understand that I only have the best intentions for you, son." 

The maid scurried forward and poured a small amount into the cup, but when my father motioned for more, she filled the short glass to the brim. She curtsied, then ran off, closing the door to the office on her way. 

I leaned forward on the couch carefully so as not to wrinkle my finely pressed suit as the leather seat squeaked beneath me. Clasping my hands together, I said. "You don't have to interfere in my life, Dad. I'm happy being an independent man with a few girlfriends on the side. All women want is money and fame. Isn't that what you said when Mom left?"

My mother left me when I was six, when my father's company was at its best. Before she left, she had taken a large sum—over millions of dollars—from my father. Then, she ran away with the low-life scum who had impregnated her. Ever since then, my father had been bitter about women and had often told me that they only marry for money and would leave in the end.

My father's forehead turned into a wrinkled map of lines. "Son, you know I was only talking about your mother. I was grieving. I loved her. Not all women are gold diggers, and one day you will find a wife worthy of the King name."

I nodded as always. "Sure. One day. Just not today." I looked down at my watch and frowned. "I've got to go. I have an appointment with a client from Italy." 

"Not so fast. It's already late at night. Postpone the meeting." He motioned for me to sit back down, and then I recognized the look on his face. He was going to tell me something I wasn't going to like. At all. "We need to talk."

I raised a hand to my nose and pinched the bridge impatiently, trying to banish the headache that had bloomed between my eyes. "We already talked. I have to go."

"I'm giving you a month."

"A month for what?" But I already knew what he was walking about. 

"I'll give you a month to get engaged. No more, no less." He said. His lips turned down in a sour frown, like he hated what he was about to say next. 

"Or what?"

"Or else you will never work a day for King Enterprises again." He sighed as if it had taken a great deal of effort to get that off his chest.

I snapped. "What the actual hell, Dad!? What kind of prank are you playing on me?" I ran my hands through my jet-black hair, worry already etched into my features. I knew he was serious though. My father never joked around. "And so if I get married, that's it?"

He took in a sharp breath. "If you get married, I will step down from my position as CEO and give you the spot. It is my company. But once you marry, it will become yours."

Mine. The company he worked so hard to establish. The company that's worth billions of dollars and is supported by the government. He would give it all to me. If I got married. 

I stood up abruptly and grabbed my briefcase so hard my knuckles turned white. "I'll see you later, Dad." I said through gritted teeth.

"One month, Son!" he called after me. I heard him sip his liquor and mutter under his breath. "I hope I'm not making a mistake."

*****

(Two days later)

The music was the type of loud that almost feels deafening. The kind that made your eardrums screech in agony. But also the kind that made you gyrate to the music. I pushed past a crowd of sweaty bodies and stumbled to the beat. The effects of the shots I had taken began to seep in, blurring my sight and lighting my body on static fire.

I felt a body shove into mine. "Wanna dance, baby?" She whispered into my ear. Maybe she could be my wife. I'm sure she would accept anyway. But then again, I don't date bottom feeders. 

I pushed away from her and stumbled in the colorful lights that pulsed from the disco ball. I need another drink. 

Before I turned back around to head to the back of the club, I caught sight of one of my ex-girlfriends. She had her arms wrapped around a stranger, a laugh bubbling from her throat. Before I knew it, I was next to her, pushing the guy out of the way and pressing my lips to hers. 

She tasted like gin and tonic—her favorite concoction—and her lips fell into place on mine. But there was something wrong. She tasted vile. Along with the flavor of her drink, I could taste the breath of all the men who had been with her. 

I pulled away, wiping my wrinkled button-up's sleeve on my mouth. 

"What's wrong, babe?" she whispered in my ears, seduction laced in each word. 

And then I was seeing double. I blinked and she became one person again. Did I really just kiss her?

I backed away slowly and retreated to the bar at the back of the club, where the music sounded fainter and more muffled. I stumbled over my feet as I went but didn't fall. The bartender stood behind the bar, a rag in one hand and a glass in the other. She was cleaning out the glass she had just washed. 

"Get me the strongest liquor you have," I demanded; my words slurred together in a tangled heap.

She raised her left eyebrow in question and set down the dried glass. "I think you've already had enough." Her voice was lower pitched—which was like a breath of fresh air, since most women I dated had the voice of Alvin and the chipmunks—than most women I met, but it only made her all the more attractive. 

"Get me the damn liquor!" I banged my fist against the table, expecting her to jump back in surprise and submit to my requests. Instead, she just stood there, her hands splayed out on the counter, an almost bored expression on her face. She must get customers like me all the time. 

"Okay. Be right back." She replied after ages. She turned around, grabbed a long glass bottle filled with clear liquid, and filled the glass she had just dried—to the top. With a scowl, she slid the glass towards me. "Drink up."

I didn't even pay attention to her comment before gulping down the liquid she had passed to me. The drink only made me realize just how thirsty I was. 

I slammed down the glass and slid it back to her. Soundlessly, she filled it back up, and I drank again. This happened until I had downed about five glasses of the drink. My headache seemed to recede, and my vision cleared. I started to feel like myself, the grief of the ultimatum hanging over my head. 

"That was good. What type of drink was that? Maybe I could get some to take home." I nodded toward the glass bottle that was barely filled. 

She scowled again, her pink lips pulling into an unsettling downwards curve on her face. Her face. It was gorgeous. She had her sleek, black hair pulled into a ponytail, and her eyelashes were a thick bush of black hair, framing her emerald green eyes. If she smiled more, she would look 10 times more beautiful.

"Well, what drink was it?" I asked again, silently scoping out her features. 

"It's this amazing drink I love to drink. It's all-natural and helps drunk idiots become sober." She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Ah! I think it's called water." 

Water. She gave me water. I had asked for liquor. I ran my hands through my hair and reached down to loosen my tie. "I'm such a jerk." 

"Right you are." She washed out the glass and began drying again, the charms on her bracelet clinking together.

I tilted my head to the side, suddenly interested. "What's your name?" 

She stopped suddenly, her scowl returning to her lips. "Why would you want to know?" She began drying the glass but now with more vigor than before.

"Because I asked. And I expect to get your name immediately," I replied, my eyes lowering to slits. No one questioned me. 

She swung the rag onto her shoulders and slammed down the glass. Leaning forward, she said. "Listen up, you egotistical big-headed slob. I may be a bartender, but that doesn't give you the damn right to disrespect me. I have a choice whether or not to tell you my name. So, go—"

"I can clearly see you're frustrated because of your job, not because of me." I interrupted, drinking in the look of anger slowly seeping away from her tense shoulders. 

"Whatever. It's not like I can do anything about it. Five dollars an hour. And tips are hard to come by." She turned around and placed the glass back onto the shelf, her long black hair reaching her bottom. 

Then she turned back to me. "But that's the least of my worries." She nodded her head in my direction. "You're not looking so hot yourself, Mr. Suit And Tie. Like literally, who wears a suit to a club?"

"I came here right after work. Guess I'm kind of a workaholic. Work was even worse when my father showed up." I ran my hand through my hair again and squeezed my eyes shut. 

"Boo-hoo. Go cry me a river." She rolled her eyes and began wiping down the counters with another rag. "Billionaire gets sad because his father shows up to throw him some more money." 

I looked up suddenly. "You don't know a thing about me, bartender." 

"Malea." She replied simply, mopping up the area closest to me. 

"Your name?" I asked.

"No, my dog's name." She deadpanned, looking at me.

"Are you serious?" 

Then she rolled her eyes. Again. "No, dumbass. Of course, it's my name." 

I like that name. No, I love that name. 

"Well, Malea," I said, testing the word on my tongue. "My name is—" 

"Lucian King, better known as the world's biggest jerk." Then she gave me a round of applause and continued wiping the counter. 

"Well, you act as if you're not just as much of a jerk as I am," I shot back.

"Fair enough." She shrugged. "So, what did Daddy do to put you in such a bad mood?" 

"He gave me an ultimatum..." I trailed off. Was I really going to confide in a bartender named Malea who seemed to hate my guts? It's not like I had anyone else to talk to...