HOW TO MURDER A ROYAL

“Come on, Man! You need to stop scaring them like that!” Caleb said from across his table with a smirk. “You know you're way worse than I am, the only difference is they have no idea, you're the devil.” ***** Phoebe Vance was a name whispered with fear and terror within the glass walls of Woodlands & Co. As the absolute ruler of the city's most luxurious furniture line, she did not just manage an empire, she was a dictator in it. The air inside the top-floor executive suite of Woodlands & Co. did not move unless Phoebe Vance allowed it. When the glass doors slid open at exactly 7:45 AM, a deathly silence swept across the floor. Assistants suddenly found urgent reasons to stare at their computers; junior designers straightened their sitting positions, holding their breath as the sharp clicking noise of her black, red bottom stiletto heels vibrated through the expensive floorboards. Phoebe did not look left or right but straight ahead, cold, and unblinking, her frame sharply enhanced by a charcoal blazer that looked more like armor than corporate attire. She stopped at the edge of the boardroom table, a custom-made dark table she had designed herself. With a single tap of her manicured index finger against the wood, a trembling junior executive stood up sharply to present the quarterly supply chain accounts. No one spoke without being spoken to. No one dared offer an excuse. In her world, a tiny error in a timber grain was treated as a capital offense, and her staff worked under the terrifying knowledge that to fail Phoebe was to vanish from the industry entirely. She led meetings with an icy, razor-sharp professionalism that left no room for mistakes of any sort. She had several staff and assistants fired severally on the spot for the slightest error like a stain on a blueprint, failing to mute a phone during her morning walk-through, using the wrong font size on an internal memo and a single fingerprint on a drawer, this would get their security badges revoked on the spot, erasing them from her empire before noon, and there was a saying. If Phoebe fires you, nobody’s going to hire you. She was untouchable to her employees, a woman who ruled a multi-million-dollar empire with an iron fist, leaving her staff loyal and terrified of her cold intelligence. Her obsession with her empire was no accident. She had a history of betrayal from people around her and by surrounding herself with solid, unshakable wood, absolute authority and an iron fist during the day, she could feel the total control over others that she felt she lacked inside. But by night, Phoebe’s corporate armor melted away, replaced by a barrier between two entirely different dimensions. The heavy, braided silk velvet rope of The Secret Den. Deep wine and thick as cotton, the rope hung like a golden chandelier across the entrance of Manhattan’s most exclusive underground club. It didn't just differentiate the wealthy; it held back some of the desperate of New York’s businessmen, moguls, top officials, politicians and old-money heirs, all waving black American Express cards just for a nod from the bouncer and just to breathe the same air as the women inside. Inside, past the heavy curtains, the atmosphere was thick with a mixture of various strong luxurious perfumes from different guests and melting ice belonged entirely to a woman who no longer answered to her name. Behind a custom-laced mask that shielded her face from the bridge of her nose to her jawline, she stood on the dimly lit podium, a living goddess. When a client reached out a hand, fingers shaking, reaching towards her beautifully oiled and perfumed ankle, she did not move; she simply shifted her weight, a slow, predatory move that forced the man back into the shadows, his eyes wide with a mix of anger and submission. For six years, this VIP space had been Phoebe’s true sanctuary. By stepping into a world where men were legally forbidden to touch her and where they were forced to beg for her attention on their knees as after a past instance of severe s****l harassment left her in a lot of trauma, it changed her view on intimacy, leaving her scared to be vulnerable or give trust. Phoebe never liked the idea of seeking help from a therapist, so she chose to dance with a mask on instead. She chose this beautiful laced, obsidian mask that hid everything but her piercing grey eyes with her signature Egyptian winged eyeliner. It gave her a dominant, fiercely sensual persona that forced men to worship her. She commanded the room, but she stayed completely untouched, a virgin by choice. “Desire! You're up!” Blondie, the girl's manager yelled above the shouts and screams of men and women from across the room, waving towards me. This was the signal to hop off the stage, someone had paid heavily for my presence tonight. As the beat slow down to a sensual rhythm, I exited the stage with one last kiss blown to the thirsty men. As they whistled, some whined to see me go and some of them had obvious drool dripping from the corner of their lips. How disgusting and desperate. I thought, but continued to grace them with a dashing smile before wiping it clean from my face when I got out of clear view. Another type of smile appeared on my lips, sinister, wicked, and evil. It was time to bend another man and break him. My favorite part of the night. ***** Brian, had to be the most complicated creature of an entirely different, predatory breed. At just 29 years old, he was a self-made billionaire tech pioneer who had publicly and completely rejected his royal inheritance as the Prince of Ravendale. The tall, deliciously built man carried himself with the effortless confidence of Old Royalty yet owned the composure of a modern corporate king. But underneath the tailored suits and the clean public image was a deep dark void. He was different in so many ways, and it was in the way he worked, controlled people, things, the atmosphere—yes, his presence could evidently shift the temperature from hot to cold and vice versa. He was a man driven by a dark, hidden dependency on synthetic stimulants and high-dose aphrodisiacs, a substance-fueled psycho that turned his brilliant focus into something terrifying and endless like a wealthy mad-man. He did not just interact with people; he calculated them like equations, picking out their weak and vulnerable sides and then consuming their lives. Brian was the ultimate wolf in sheep's clothing in a white collar, a s*x-crazed, hyper-observant force who used his wealth, intelligence, and royal charm to cover up a destructive, boundary-breaking nature that would eventually scatter Phoebe's carefully constructed world. “Clara, what's the conclusion of Barkley's contract?” The CEO barked. Clara began to stutter and shake. He noticed and sent her a hard glare of irritation, causing her to stop and straighten her pine, from how fast his features had evidently changed. She was so embarrassed at this and began to avoid eye contact as she gave him the brief, looking everywhere else but his face. “Si–Sir, we've concluded with their MD, they've signed off and will be sending the copy of the document before COB.” “Good, you may leave.” Clara rushed out of the office before he could utter another word. “Come on, Man! You need to stop scaring them like that!” Caleb said from across his table with a smirk. “You know you're way worse than I am, the only difference is they have no idea, you're the devil.” Caleb laughed at that because it wasn't a lie. He hid his anger better than Brian and that's what made people feel like he was the better one. He'd bring you close enough to mess up, edging you with the amusing smile on his face, coupled with a friendly demeanor, and when he had you exactly where he wanted, he would fix you up badly. Maybe that was why this friendship had survived for 16 years, because they were more alike than they were different. Like two peas in a pod, they understood themselves, loved each other fiercely, and would kill and die for each other. “I want to go for some good time at The Secret Den,” Caleb said. “Would you come with?” “No.” Caleb had been at this for the past 2 weeks and every time he asked, it was getting harder for Brian to refuse. TSD wasn't his cup of tea at the moment. Heck, he didn't even like tea! He liked coffee, bitter, hot coffee. That was exactly how he liked his women too. “You’re sure?” Brian didn’t answer, instead he just stared at his friend. “You know, we'll be in and out, live a little! Plus the women there are good! Trust me, a trial will convince you.” “Hmmm.” “You know you like a good f**k, I'm offering you the chance to let off steam, and spend some money.” That got a laugh out of Brian. “I do like to f**k and spend.” “Exactly.” “What time?” “9pm. Don't be late!” Caleb said and began to leave the office as he bade his friend bye.