Page 38 of Arrogant Heir

Damian

It’s Saturday morning. Sleep didn’t come easily, and reporters and newspaper headlines plagued my dreams. Jamie’s face featured heavily in the mayhem, and I saw myself trying to save her. I can’t get her out of my mind lately, and the only good thing about that is I’m no longer haunted by visions of my father trapped in a burning car. After years of seeing his face in my nightmares, the guilt has finally lessened its grip on me.

Stephanie’s face has stopped dominating my dreams during the past few months, too. But I’m still unable to escape this constant barrage of troubled nights. Why can’t I just go to sleep and forget all my worries like other people seem to do?

I’ve never been a great sleeper, but since Dad died and Stephanie and I split, I dread the nights. Occasionally I’m so exhausted I sink into the sweet oblivion of slumber, but those nights are rare and it’s far more likely I shoot up at three in the morning and can’t fall asleep again until it’s almost time to get up.

I rarely sleep for more than four hours. Dr Findlay attributes my headaches to stress and lack of sleep and I’m inclined to think he’s got a point, but it’s a vicious circle I can’t escape.

And now I’m dreaming about Jamie. Somehow, this girl has infiltrated my consciousness, and she’s in my thoughts more than she’s not. I woke up at dawn with a massive hard-on and a palpable sense of loss after dreaming of being on the run with her from reporters. The dream morphed into an erotic one of me fucking her over my desk and us coming together.

I roll over and try to get comfortable, but even stretching out on my silk sheets doesn’t lull me back to sleep. I console myself that this is a phase and Jamie will be gone soon and I’ll forget about her, but somehow, I don’t feel any better.

The staff are under strict instructions not to enter my bedroom in the mornings, but I hear a shuffle in the other room. It must be the newspapers.

I give up on attempting a weekend lie in, rise at 7 a.m. and pull on a pair of pants. Walking to the fridge, I pour a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, and then grab the pile of ominous looking newspapers, steeled to assess the damage to my reputation from yesterday’s debacle.

I’ve cursed myself for taking that girl back to my Chelsea apartment. I shouldn’t have hooked up with someone who wasn’t introduced by a friend. It had been so long; I wasn’t thinking straight, and now my poor judgement has come back to bite me.

Before tackling the papers and facing the headlines, I flick the coffee machine on. I’m definitely going to need to fortify myself with some strong black coffee to face my grandfather. He is going to hit the roof when he reads about what he will no doubt disparagingly call my latest escapade.

If my people managed to contain the story, there’s a chance he won’t hear of it, but if it made the Saturday tabloids—and I have a sinking feeling it did—he will read every sordid detail and I expect he'll let me have the full force of his wrath. I shudder at the thought as I pick up the pile of papers and spread the front pages across the granite table.

My chest tightens and panic spirals through my body. I see us. Now I’ve embroiled poor Jamie in this crazy media frenzy to paint me as the bad boy.

She looked breathtakingly beautiful walking into the store yesterday and they’ve captured her perfectly. God knows how they knew when we were arriving, but someone’s always ready to snap a photo and sell it to the press.

As a media mogul, I know this to be true, even if it sounds cynical. It’s been the bane of my life for as long as I can recall. I have no privacy unless I stay hidden away at Greystone or holed up in my Chelsea apartment. The minute I go somewhere public, more often than not, I’m followed, photographed, and the gossip erupts.

Sebastian says I should take it as a compliment that I’m such big news and people are so obsessed with me. He says no one bothers with him because he’s only the spare.

Perhaps he has a point, but all I know is since my playboy party phase, it’s never been the same. It doesn’t matter what I achieve in business, or how many philanthropic endeavours I flood with money, I’m always reported as the heartless playboy. I sigh and sip my coffee.

The last thing I expected was Jamie to be caught up in this scandal because of a visit to the London store. The papers repeat the same story, and one promises a detailed exclusive in the Sunday paper.

There are pictures reprinted from past stories when I used to hang out with celebrities and models, and then there’s the latest about the girl from the club. Jamie’s face is included in most of them. She’s dubbed as my latest conquest and there are various rehashes of yesterday’s internet headlines about Jamie being my mystery girlfriend who’s living with me at Greystone. They don’t know her name, but I know from experience it’s only a matter of time. Soon her life story will be plastered across the papers, and they’ll keep this going as long as possible.

We have so many enterprises that a story about the Rochesters always sells papers and gets clicks even if it’s utter drivel.

I’m still leafing through the papers feeling miserable and wondering whether I can avoid Grandfather today when there’s a knock at the door.

‘Who is it?’ I call.

‘Me,’ says my grandfather. I tell him to come in because I know he will, anyway.

‘You’ve seen today’s papers?’

I nod. ‘I wish poor Jamie wasn’t swept up in all this. I told you it was better for us to hire a guy. Now they’ve got wind of her living here and say she’s my live-in girlfriend!’

Grandfather sits down heavily at the table opposite me. ‘Oh, my boy. When are you going to learn to be discreet? Or better still, when are you going to marry?’

I examine his face and today he looks his age. I see the deep grooves on his forehead and the lines etched into his skin like old parchment. A pang of shame washes over me.

‘I’m sorry about causing you distress,’ I say. ‘But honestly, I was discreet. Caspian arranged a night out for us at the private club. Sebastian came too, but as usual, it’s always me the media zeros in on, and somehow, he comes off as a clean-living single dad.’

Grandfather shakes his head. ‘I hate to say it, but you should know better by now. You are the heir and the eldest. They know you are taking my place as head of the business, even if the others have important roles. They’re always going to go after you, which is why your reputation must be spotless.’

‘Coffee?’ I try to distract him, but he’s not so easily put off his stride. He accepts a cup of coffee with a curt nod but continues without missing a beat.