Empire of Sin: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Rina Kent

  WHAT’S NEXT?

  Thank you so much for reading Empire of Sin! If you liked it, please leave a review.

  Your support means the world to me.

  If you’re thirsty for more discussions with other readers of the series, you can join the Facebook group, Rina Kent’s Spoilers Room.

  Next up is the angsty, revenge-themed book, Empire of Hate, that will feature Daniel Sterling who was a supporting character in Empire of Sin and Cruel King.

  If you’re curious about Gwyneth and Nate’s story, you can read a preview of it below.

  EMPIRE OF DESIRE’S PREVIEW

  NATHANIEL

  The thing about ambition is that it can’t be stopped, measured, or contained.

  There’s always something to do and a power to pursue. No matter which direction I take, there’s a goal to reach and a situation to conquer. However, ambition can’t be blind or else it’ll become destructive.

  I’m currently toying with that line.

  The need for more and the fear of less.

  The constant pulses of energy and the downfall of the subsequent emptiness.

  Truth remains, ambition is my driving force, and yet I still have no clue how I ended up standing on its edge, staring into a dark, foggy abyss.

  Its smoky tendrils swirl around me, waiting to drag me under. This isn’t the first time I’ve stared into that abyss and it’s stared back. Whenever I’m at a crossroads, I’m reminded of how I ended up here.

  I’m reminded of my “privileged” upbringing and all the shackles that came with it. Isn’t it said that no worthwhile benefits come without sacrifices?

  Still, this isn’t the time to have such images or thoughts. After all, this is supposed to be a cheerful occasion. The keyword being supposed.

  Coming to my friend’s place to celebrate his daughter’s eighteenth birthday is the last thing I wanted to do. Not only do I have countless case files sitting on my desk, but I also have a structural planning meeting at the firm. However, if I told my best friend/partner that I prefer the firm over attending his little princess’s birthday, he’d have my balls on a platter. The fact that it’s also his firm means nothing on the sacred day of her birthday.

  Fifteen minutes. I tell myself as I step out of my car and button my jacket. I will only stay around for that amount of time and then make up an excuse to leave.

  My partner inherited his mansion from his father after he kicked his “evil” stepmom out with all sorts of legal suits. I’ve never seen the appeal of this ancient property. Yes, it’s vast and has two pools, but he spent a fortune to renovate it and bring it to its current shape.

  The house is white with a prim and proper porch that’s decorated with colorful exotic plants and extends to the large garden where the birthday party is being held.

  There’s a long table near the pool that’s surrounded by countless people. Some of them are partners and associates from our firm. They’re all over the occasion, not missing a chance to kiss Kingsley’s ass.

  The man himself, the rogue bastard—whom I often bloodied my knuckles fighting when we were in high school—steps out of the house, wheeling a huge pink cake that’s almost taller than he is, and when he starts singing Happy Birthday, everyone else joins in.

  I stop near the house’s entrance, waiting for the whole charade to end. Yes, I came to the fucking birthday, but that doesn’t mean I’ll enjoy the happy-go-lucky crowd.

  Happiness isn’t my scene.

  Neither are birthdays. Not when mine was supposed to be a funeral.

  Gwyneth, Kingsley’s only daughter, grins wide as tears gather in her lids and she quickly wipes them away with the backs of her hands. She has a soft smile that’s nothing like her father’s—in fact, she barely resembles him. His hair is dark, hers is auburn with streaks of lighter strands. His eyes are blue-gray, hers have a rare heterochromia, where the insides are green and the outsides are a mixture of blue and gray.

  Now that she’s all grown up, she looks more like she’s his sister, not his daughter. But then again, he’s barely aged with all the physical activities he takes part in.

  The song comes to an end as King reaches her, and they both blow out the eighteen candles among cheers and random shouts of “Happy birthday” from the crowd before he pulls his daughter in for a hug. They stay like that for long moments, then he steps back and kisses her forehead.

  If someone had told me the ruthless King who used to street fight like a champ would grow up into a mushy father, I would’ve gone the blasphemy route.

  But the evidence is right in front of me. He’s wrapped around that girl’s finger and the worst part is he’s well aware of it.

  It could be because he had her when we were in our final year of high school and was clueless as fuck about the meaning of having a child—he still is sometimes. Or because he always called her his second chance at life.

  I remain near a tree and check my emails, replying to the urgent ones while I wait for the whole scene to be over.

  It takes more than ten minutes—five minutes away from my self-imposed deadline—and I haven’t even shown my face yet. After Gwyneth finally goes to accept birthday wishes and King disappears into the house, probably to get more drinks, I make my way toward him.

  Going unnoticed is hard as fuck when most of the people present either work for me or used to work with me, but the cake—and the birthday girl herself—have them preoccupied. I’m safe. For now.

  I find King in his kitchen, rummaging for beer bottles in the fridge and giving distinct, methodical orders to the catering staff. Now, that’s the King I know. Clear-cut and precise. Which is one of the reasons I got along with him in the first place.

  After all, devils recognize each other.

  Or maybe he’s an ex-devil now, considering all the mushy shit he does whenever his daughter is involved.

  I lean against the counter and cross my legs at the ankles. “You’re only short a maid’s outfit to complete the role.”

  King turns around holding two cases of beer and his expression immediately sharpens. Gone is the soft man who was singing Happy Birthday not too long ago.

  He straightens to his full height, but no matter how much he tries to get more on me, his six-foot-two is still an inch shorter than me. But he’s more buff.

  Aside from boxing with him for old times’ sake and doing some hiking, I’m not as obsessed as he is with sports.

  “You can go.” He hands the beer to one of the staff and they all scurry out of the kitchen at his order.

  After slamming the fridge shut, he retrieves a Zippo from his pocket and flicks it open, then closed. He quit smoking a long time ago, soon after Gwyneth’s birth, but he’s never lost the need to have that lighter. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Nice save, because I was planning to kick your ass.”

  “You can’t win against me. Not in this lifetime, at least.”

  “Last week’s match says otherwise.”

  “In last week’s match, you cheated by throwing the towel in my face.”

  “It’s called street fighting, not noble martial arts. I’ll let you win this week.”

  “Fuck you. Don’t act benevolent when you’re going down.”

  “We’ll see about that. Now, why are you late?”

  “It’s just a birthday, King. I don’t see what the big deal is.”

  “My daughter’s birthday. That’s the big deal, Nate.”

  I resist the urge to tell him it’s still just a birthday since those words will definitely get me punched. My face is kind of real estate now and can’t be bruised in any way. King’s, too. Which is why the face is a red zone in our fights.

  King flicks his lighter shut, slips it back in his pocket, and reaches into the cabinet. He retrieves a bottle of The Balvenie 21 Year Old PortWood Finish and pours two glasses, then slides one across the counter to me.

  “Drinking this early?” I swirl t
he contents.

  “It’s a special occasion.”

  I take a sip to hide whatever grimace my mouth was about to make. “Because it’s her birthday or because it reminds you of her mother?”

  “Her mother can go fuck herself. That woman doesn’t exist.” He downs the whole glass.

  “Clearly. Judging by the million PIs you’ve hired over the last eighteen years.”

  “There’s no harm in knowing one’s enemies' whereabouts.”

  “You want me to believe that you won’t do anything once you find her? Really, King?”

  The corner of his lips curve in a smirk as he pours himself another drink. “I never said that.”

  “Keep me and the firm out of this mess.”

  “The firm, maybe. But you, my friend, will definitely go down with me.”

  He steps to my side and leans against the counter. We drink in silence, which was our ritual after we fought in high school. Back then, we were bloody, bruised, and barely breathing, but we sat on the school’s rooftop that overlooked New York City and shared a beer. It was also around that time when we vowed to conquer this city.

  Almost two decades later, we have branches all over the States and in London and France.

  And it still doesn’t feel like enough.

  Nothing does.

  “She’s growing up so fast.” King sighs, watching Gwyneth help the catering staff. “I want her to go back into being my little angel.”

  “Kids aren’t constant.”

  “Don’t I fucking know it. The other day, she was having a virginity talk with her friend.”

  “Why the fuck are you talking about your daughter’s virginity to me? Or at all?”

  He waves me off and continues, “I should’ve known this was coming, but I still had dark thoughts about all the ways someone could take her away. Then I started to seriously consider the option of becoming a killer to protect her.”

  “Just so we’re clear, I won’t be your attorney.”

  “Fuck you, Nate.”

  “For abandoning you when you do something stupid?”

  “For being a jealous motherfucker because I always win, not only in the street fights and with my higher grades, but I also had a child before you.”

  “First of all, you didn’t win all the fights and the ones you did were always by some dirty play. Second of all, grades are subjective. I still win more cases than you do and my methods are smart and efficient, unlike your hard, ruthless ways that are more trouble than necessary. As for children, no thanks. I practically raised my nephew and he’s enough children for a lifetime.” I check my watch. Twenty minutes since I arrived. Five minutes more than I’d planned to stay. I place my glass on the counter. “I’m out.”

  “Where to?”

  “A meeting with a client.”

  “On a weekend?”

  “No rest for the wicked.” I turn and start to leave, but his voice stops me.

  “Wait.”

  “What?” I glance at him over my shoulder.

  “You didn’t wish Gwen a happy birthday.”

  “Do it on my behalf. I’ll leave you the gift.”

  “Fuck no. You’ll go over there and do it yourself. I don’t want to see the disappointment on my angel’s face when she learns that her uncle Nate completely ignored her on her special day.”

  Five minutes. I won’t stay any longer than that.

  GWYNETH

  I’m officially an adult now.

  Or that’s what I like to think. Dad definitely still considers me a little girl that he needs to protect at all times.

  I can sense him watching me, even when he’s out of sight. Especially during the moments when I plan to do something he doesn’t approve of.

  Ever since I showed up at his door when I was less than one day old, Kingsley Shaw has made it his mission to protect me at all costs. It didn’t matter that he was seventeen going on eighteen and in high school at the time and had no damn clue how to raise a kid.

  Especially a naughty, active one like me.

  He still singlehandedly raised me while he went to college and then law school and passed the bar. Let’s just say that toddler me didn’t exactly make Dad’s college life easy, but he never once made me feel like he was absent.

  I’ve always been a well-loved daughter, albeit lonely, with a brain that suddenly becomes blank for no apparent reason. The therapist Dad took me to says it’s depression. I call it an empty brain that no therapist can cure, but that’s not the point. The point is that I was loved but never spoiled or treated as if I were royalty just because my grandpa was rich or Dad owns a law firm.

  He’s still strict as fuck and gives me a curfew—that I will hopefully get rid of today.

  I tell my dad’s friends that I’m going to grab something to drink. I don’t really have many of my own friends, so Dad usually brings his. When I do invite my classmates, they get super intimidated by all the hotshot businessmen and political figures that are present, so I stopped making them and myself flustered.

  I don’t like my birthday anyway. It reminds me of the day when my empty brain was born.

  And the woman who gave it to me.

  Anyway, I walk among the crowd, forcing smiles. They don’t come naturally to me, not like they do for Dad. Many things he excels at are my weaknesses, such as physical activities, charisma, and a complete brain, I guess.

  What I’m good at, though, is multitasking, so I don’t have any trouble running my gaze over all the people present while smiling and playing my birthday girl role—the role I play every year for Dad.

  My dark red dress clings to my skin, but that has nothing to do with the perspiration after so much moving around. I resist the urge to wipe my sweaty hands on the material. Not only is it designer, but I also chose it carefully, so I’d look like an adult.

  It molds to my curves and shows off my waist, and it also has a deep V-neckline, accentuating my breasts and teasing some cleavage. I even sacrificed my favorite white sneakers for the black high heels that are currently murdering my poor feet.

  But it’s all for nothing if I can’t find him.

  My nape heats and strands of my long hair stick to my neck and temples. The more distance I cross, the more I clink my nails together.

  Almost everyone Dad knows is here, almost, because my step-grandma is never welcome in Grandpa’s house, per Dad’s words.

  And him.

  The man I’ve started to look for in a crowd when I have no right to.

  After what seems like forever, I throw my weight on the swing Dad made for me and put in the backyard near the second pool when I was a kid. My gaze gets lost in the lights shining from the water, and I release a long breath.

  The area is lit by lanterns and countless strips of fairy lights hanging between the trees, but it’s still dim compared to the front of the house.

  My heart feels a little bit bruised, stomped upon, even though I have no actual logical reason to feel this way.

  But what is logic anyway? Dad says all the good things are a little jaded, imperfect.

  Illogical, even.

  I’m not supposed to wallow in misery on my long-awaited eighteenth birthday, but here I am. Swinging back and forth in the wake of the destruction that’s happening in my chest.

  I had great plans for today. Not because I like birthdays, but because this one is special. This one means I’m officially no longer a child.

  But my most important plan was aborted before it was even implemented.

  I retrieve my phone from my bra and scroll to the photo album named “Memories.” I find a picture from my first birthday, where I was squealing in Dad’s arms while Uncle Nate was trying to grab me.

  Nate.

  Not Uncle Nate. He’s Nate.

  I run my fingers over his face and pause at the jolt that zips through my entire body.

  It’s been some time since I started feeling these weird zaps whenever I see him or think of him. He even started appearing in
naughty dreams that made me sweaty and wet and I had to relieve myself in the middle of the night.

  That’s why he can’t be Uncle Nate anymore.

  He’s not even Dad’s friend or the man who’s more powerful than the world. He might be a senator’s son, but he’s so much more than that.

  He owns half of the world and eats the rest of it for breakfast.

  “There you are.”

  I freeze, my hand tightening on the phone. Did I maybe gain wizard abilities for my birthday and conjure him up?

  That’s stupid, of course, because I can feel the warmth his body always emanates and smell his cologne. A little bit musky, a little bit spicy. A little bit…wrong.

  I shouldn’t know him by his smell alone or be able to recognize him among the dozens of people crowding our house. I shouldn’t have heated ears and a throbbing neck just because I heard the deep, rough tenor of his voice that’s only meant to say firm, serious things.

  A voice that I’ve started to dream about despite my damn self.

  And now, he’s behind me.

  And that means he can see my phone.

  I jolt, hugging it to my chest, and in hindsight, that’s such a bad idea, because now I’m thinking about him between my breasts, and my heart kind of explodes all over the place.

  My reaction goes downhill from there and there’s no way to stop it. My lips part, and my expression must be frozen like a deer caught in the headlights.

  But instead of commenting on his picture on my phone, he steps in front of my swing, towering over me like a fucking god.

  One with Adonis looks and as cold as the statue.

  That’s what one of the magazines compared him to. They called Senator Brian Weaver’s son—that’s Nate, by the way—one of the most sought-after bachelors and the most apathetic of them all.

  But I’ve never received the frigid treatment everyone talks about. For me, he has always been warm. Well, somewhat warm. Because Uncle Nate is too businesslike to ever be warm in the traditional sense.

  Nate. I chastise myself. It’s Nate.