Page 27 of Tempting Frankie (Lust & Luxury #1)

Alexander

I watch Francesca as she steps into my office, her usual sass dimmed.

She's been withdrawn for days, and it's killing me not knowing why.

Every protective instinct in my body screams at me to demand answers, to fix whatever's hurting her. But I know that approach will only push her further away and I’m too fucking old to be flying off the handle.

“Alexander?” Her voice is soft, hesitant. “Do you have a minute?”

“For you? Always.” I gesture to the chair across from my desk, but she remains standing, fidgeting with the hem of her blouse. All I want to do is push my own chair back and have her sit in my lap, but I respect her work boundaries…for now.

“I was wondering...” She takes a deep breath, steeling herself. “Would it be okay if I took a few days off? To go stay with Kat?”

The request shouldn't surprise me, but it does. A thousand questions race through my mind. Why now? What's wrong? Is she running from me? I’m desperate to pull her into my arms, to make her tell me everything. Instead, I force myself to lean back in my chair, keeping my tone carefully neutral.

“Of course,” I say, even as anxiety gnaws at my gut. “Is everything alright?”

Francesca's eyes dart around the room, refusing to meet mine. “Yeah, I just…I need some sister time, you know?”

I don't know, actually. My relationship with Cameron is so fucked up I can barely remember what normal family bonds feel like. But I nod anyway, studying the tense line of Francesca's shoulders, the way she's practically vibrating with nervous energy.

“Take as much time as you need,” I tell her, fighting to keep the desperation out of my voice. “Is there anything I can do?”

She finally looks at me then, a flash of guilt crossing her face. “No, I just need to clear my head.”

The words sting more than they should. I'm used to being the one with all the answers, the one who can solve any problem. But Francesca isn't a business deal to be negotiated or a rival to be crushed. She's the woman I love, and right now, she needs space.

“Okay,” I say, even though every fiber of my being rebels against the idea of letting her go. “Can I drive you?”

“No,” she cuts me off a bit too quickly. “No, that's okay. I'll just have Thomas take me.”

The silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken words. I want to tell her I love her, that whatever's wrong, we can face it together. But the words stick in my throat.

“Well,” Francesca says, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “I should get going.”

I nod, my fingers itching to reach for her. “Call me when you get there.” It comes out more like a plea than I intended.

“Sure,” she says, but we both know it's a lie.

For a heartbeat, I think she might break down and tell me everything. But then she gives me a small, sad smile and slips out the door, leaving me alone with my thoughts and a growing sense of unease.

I stare at the closed door long after she's gone, my mind racing. What the hell happened? Did someone say something to her?

I can't fucking focus. The words on my computer screen blur into meaningless shapes as my mind keeps circling back to Francesca. Her haunted eyes, the tremor in her voice. Something's eating at her, and I'm powerless to fix it.

I grab my phone, fingers flying over the keys, as I text Thomas.

Let me know when you drop her off. How is she?

I stare at the screen, willing a response to appear. Nothing. Of course not. He's driving. I toss the phone onto my desk and try to lose myself in work, but it's useless. Every few minutes, my eyes flick to that damn phone.

An hour crawls by. I've accomplished exactly jack shit, unless you count wearing a groove in my office carpet from pacing. When my phone finally buzzes, I lunge for it like a starving man reaching for bread.

Thomas's reply is brief, but it hits me like a sucker punch to the gut.

She's with her sister now. Silently cried most of the ride.

“Fuck,” I growl, resisting the urge to hurl my phone across the room. My mind conjures up images of Francesca, curled up in the back of the car, tears streaming down her face.

What the hell happened?

I pull up Kat's contact info, my thumb hovering over the call button. But what would I even say? 'Hey, it's your sister's sugar daddy slash boyfriend slash Daddy. Mind telling me why she's falling apart?' Yeah, that'll go over real fucking well.

I lean back in my chair, running a hand through my hair. The charity event. It has to be connected to that night. Everything was fine before then. We were happy, weren't we? I try to remember if there were signs I missed.

I grab my phone again, dialing Harold Frogmore's number. That slimy little weasel better pick up.

“Alexander!” Harold's nasally voice grates on my last nerve. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Cut the bullshit, Harold. I need the guest list from Friday's event. Now.”

“Oh, of course! I'll send it right over. Is there anything else I can do for you? “

Jesus Christ. If this guy's nose was any further up my ass, he'd be tasting what I had for breakfast. “Just the list, Harold. And make it snappy.”

“Maybe we can go to lun?—”

I hang up before he can finish kissing my o-ring. Barely a minute passes before my email pings. Say what you want about Harold, but the little shits efficient.

I pull up the file, my eyes scanning the names.

Atticus Reid. Where the fuck was that asshole all night?

I didn't see hide nor hair of him, and trust me, I would've noticed. His ego's so big it has its own gravitational pull, and I’m never bored when he’s fucking around.

The closest thing I could call a friend, I suppose.

My name's next on the list. Alexander Steele, in bold black letters that might as well be etched in stone. But it's the name right below mine that stops my heart dead in its tracks.

Cameron Steele.

“No,” I breathe, the word barely a whisper in the silence of my office. “No fucking way.”

But there it is, clear as day. My son's name, right under mine. Cameron, who has a talent for leaving chaos and broken hearts in his wake.

Cameron, Francesca's ex-boyfriend.

The pieces click into place with sickening clarity. Francesca's sudden withdrawal, her need to get away. The haunted look in her eyes.

“That little shit,” I snarl, slamming my fist on the desk hard enough to rattle my coffee mug. “What the fuck did he do?”

I'm on my feet before I realize it, pacing the length of my office.

Forcing myself to take a deep breath, I try to think rationally. Okay, so Cameron was there. That doesn't necessarily mean anything happened. Maybe Francesca didn't even see him.

Yeah, and maybe I'll sprout wings and fly to the fucking moon.

Well, time to go fucking put the sperm I should have deposited on his mother's back in his fucking place.

I should have handled him honestly fucking years ago.

Spoiled rich boys grow into spoiled adults sometimes no matter what you do or how much you try and make them work for it.

As long as they have someone enabling them or babying them.

Like his fucking mother does.