Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 164263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 821(@200wpm)___ 657(@250wpm)___ 548(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 821(@200wpm)___ 657(@250wpm)___ 548(@300wpm)
“Viscount.” My eyes widen. “What the hell, he has a title?” I read on….
Known for his striking good looks and sharp wit, he pulls no punches in the workplace and is known for his exceptionally high standards, which are noted to be impossible to uphold.
I read down the article until I get to the part that I’m looking for.
Personal life:
His father, Harold Prescott, is the Earl of Nottingham, his mother Angelique Prescott died in a tragic car accident many years ago. He has two siblings, Lady Charlotte Prescott Jones and Sir William Prescott.
Stringently guarding his privacy, very little is known about Edward Prescott’s personal life. Although it is believed that after a string of failed relationships in his twenties he has become somewhat of a recluse over the last six years, preferring to focus on his career and his family.
Hmm, I frown as I keep reading another heading.
Viscount Edward Prescott spotted on luxury yacht with Princess Hermione….
She’s a fucking princess?
Oh hell, this is a disaster…I read on.
Princess Hermione of Switzerland has been spotted on the luxury superyacht of Edward Prescott, CEO of Prescott Holdings. No statement has been issued by either party.
I click on the images to see the beautiful blond woman lying on the deck of the yacht in a white string bikini. Edward is lying beside her propped up on his elbow with his hand on her stomach. He’s wearing sunglasses and is smiling down at her all gorgeous like. I click through the photos, one of them sunbathing, then another of them kissing in the ocean. I swallow the lump in my throat as I go through the images, there’s one of them walking off the yacht on a gangplank with security guards trailing behind them, she’s dressed in a sexy evening dress with stilettos, he’s wearing a linen shirt with the top buttons undone and casual linen pants that are rolled up on the bottom, he looks all just fucked and casually sexy. I imagine them on an exotic date in Monaco or Saint-Tropez.
Ugh, she’s even more beautiful in person if that’s possible.
“When was this?” I click on the date…. “Eight months ago.” I twist my lips as I go back through the photos, they’ve been together a while then.
I type into Google:
Princess Hermione of Switzerland
A barrage of images comes up and damn it, this woman is perfect. Thick long blond hair and the perfect figure. Blue eyes…. Dimples and white teeth. Bodyguards.
Ugh…. Sickening.
I lie on the couch and stare at the images for a while as my mind goes into a million scenarios of his life and my life and all the things that I shouldn’t be thinking.
If I were single and he were single…. What would happen?
Nothing, you’re not!
And he’s dating a fucking princess…. Of course he is.
I click out of it and throw my phone down in disgust, I need to get a hold of myself.
This is stupidly stupid.
Tarte Mison is my favorite restaurant, it’s romantic, the cocktails are perfect and the food is the best in France, and I don’t know what I was thinking coming here tonight. Will it still be my favorite restaurant when I get dumped in it by my boyfriend for kissing another man?
Probably not….
I sip my wine and smile over at Pascal; he’s not talking again and I know for certain he’s waiting for me to tell him.
“So….” I try to broach the subject. “You’ve been very quiet since the auction.”
“Yep.” He sips his wine and rolls his lips as if annoyed.
“And….” Fuck. “I….” My god, how do I say this? “You’re angry that Edward won the auction of my prize?”
“No.” His eyes hold mine.
I take a huge gulp of my wine.
“I’m angry because he told me that he’s going to fuck you so deep and so hard that you won’t remember my name.”
What?
I snort my wine up my nose and cough. “Excuse me?” I splutter as I spiral into a coughing fit. He sits still, watching me, void of any empathy of me choking to death before his eyes.
“What are you talking about?” I squeak.
“When you went to the bathroom last night I went to see him.”
Edward told him…. This is worse than I first thought, much worse. My lungs convulse in protest to the wine that has gone down the wrong pipe. “Why?” I splutter and cough as I beat my chest. “I might die here, you know?”
“I wanted to thank him for the kind donation.”
The server approaches us. “Are you okay ma’am?”
“Yes.” I throw Pascal a dirty look. “Thank you for your concern.” I take a sip of water and finally my lungs begin to calm down. “Wait a moment, I’m confused. I don’t understand what you mean,” I reply. “He said he was going to fuck me?” I ask.
“Until you don’t remember my name.”