Master Class: An Alpha Billionaire Romance (+ Bonus Book 'Silent Daughter 1')

by Linnea May

Stella’s Newsletter

  Linnea’s Newsletter

  This is the first part of a 3-part serial. All three parts have been released in January 2016.

  Short Synopsis

  “I am going to break you. I am going to free that little monster inside of you, peel off every barrier of protection you set up and reassemble a new you.”

  LIZ

  Moving back home after graduating college was not part of the plan, but I have nowhere else to go. For now, I have to live in my family’s unpleasant company, secretly fleeing to the darkest corners of my mind when I am alone.

  They are right to keep me at distance. There is obviously something wrong with me. Me, the bad seed.

  I am invisible.

  To everyone but him.

  LEONARD

  I made it to the top. In a world divided into us and them, I have become one of them. This is who I am, where I belong, among the rich & powerful. I am used to getting what I want - and I know I want her from the moment I see her. Elizabeth Barrington. That quiet but strong fairy, waiting to be broken. She may not understand it herself, but her eyes are begging for me to take her.

  So I will.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Liz

  Her big day has finally come. My sister Sandria can hardly contain her excitement and has been fluttering about for days and weeks. If this is what she is like during the preparations for a simple engagement party reception, I cannot wait to see what she will be like when the actual wedding approaches.

  My graduation from college a few weeks ago was by far less interesting to my family than this event. For everybody except me, that is. I didn’t even expect my family to show up that day, but they did. All four of them sat there, my two older sisters and my parents watching as I dutifully received my degree and hurried off the stage right after. They clinked glasses with me, they congratulated me in a formal and distant manner—as it has always been with us—and then they drove off, only to have Sandria announce her engagement a few days later.

  So that was that.

  When it comes to my family, I’m not even mad or disappointed any longer. When there are no expectations, no need for their praise or attention, no hope for affection on their part—how could I ever feel bad?

  I am the third of three daughters, and obviously, I was meant to be a boy. After two girls, I was my parents’ last attempt at conceiving a male heir who could continue the family name. Instead, I not only turned out to be another girl, but I also grew to look like my late grandmother on my father’s side. A dark haired woman with big, dark eyes and what my mother considers a “challenging personality.”

  My grandmother was a rebel, mostly because she married late and reproduced even later, focusing instead on her own career. She was a writer, a journalist, and an avid traveler. All that was tamed a little when she married my grandfather and became a mother. But she stopped after having just one child and—heaven forbid—divorced her husband when my father went off to college. She dove right back into her work, traveling the world and writing pieces about all kinds of topics for the biggest newspapers.

  She died when I was seven years old after that bitch cancer took a hold of her. Although I only remember very little of her, I feel a deep sorrow for her early death. I feel like she was the only person in my family that I was close to.

  Just like her, I didn’t follow along the path that has been laid out for me as eagerly as my sisters did, despite giving that impression at first look. I have always been a good student; I took every class they wanted me to, learned to dance and play music. My little rebellion when I took to the goth community for a while during High School can hardly be seen as anything but cute.

  Doesn’t sound too bad now, does it? Others would say that I am the perfect daughter.

  But I never make the right friends. I never say the right things, and I am unwilling to behave as they wish me to. I am too quiet, too withdrawn, too weird, and too blunt. I have too little interest in the right people, the right men, the right topics that define life. When they let me chose an instrument to take lessons for, they were delighted to hear that I wanted to play the violin. Such a decent and perfectly elegant instrument, an excellent choice for a daughter of the Barrington household. However, they neither wished nor expected me to fall in love with the instrument. Instead of a silly little decoration, something to brag about, the violin became my companion, my only outlet for expression. The better I got, the more I played, the less I spoke.

  Not being able to hold a proper conversation with their guests at the dinner table is a deadly sin in my family’s world. They tried to take the violin away from me, but there was nothing they could do about it when I left for college. As much as they wanted to control me, they also wanted me to follow the normal path of a well-educated child of a good family. So they had to send me off to college.

  When I told them that I decided against both Brown and Yale to go to a private liberal arts college instead, they didn’t even put up a fight. They didn’t care anymore. Besides, college was primarily supposed to be a place for me to meet a man after all. For them, it doesn’t matter what I majored in, but for me to attend an Ivy League school would have been appreciated. It sounds good. And there are suitable bachelors gracing the campus with their presence.

  Then again, my choice for a different school was a good fit to the overall “challenging personality” that I allegedly inherited from my troublemaker grandmother.

  It’s okay. It has its place. Even having a bad seed in the family is seen as an accessory in their world. I am that bad seed. The weird outcast that no one understands and no one cares for. Like an adopted puppy, I am taken care of just enough, but always know that I don’t belong. I have become invisible to them.

  They don’t have to show me. I don’t need their dismissal to feel out of place.

  All my life, I have felt that there is something profoundly missing for me. I know that I am yearning for something, but I still cannot put my finger on it. All I know is that I don’t fit in. I am not even hurt by the fact that my family has become alien to me and vice versa.

  It’s all the worse that I had to move back in with them. No one is happy about this arrangement, and I don’t know who’s hoping more for me to get out of here as soon as possible: me or my parents.

  Our house is a location for parties, receptions, and dinners all the time, but very few are as big as today’s event. I am standing among all these people, shaking hands, greeting everybody I have to greet until it finally gets crowded enough for me to become an irrelevant factor at this party. The redundant daughter that some people don’t even know about.

  I grab my glass of champagne, the third of the day already, and flee to the garden, staring off into space in an attempt to avoid further conversation.

  I hate social events. I hate groups, and I hate socializing. In a way, I am perfectly fine with just myself—and in a different way I am not. Not at all.

  Happiness is such a mystery to me.

  There are few things that make me smile, and some of them scare the hell out of me.

  I can still feel the restraints around my ankles when I walk. The places where the rope cut deep into my flesh. I didn’t do anything to help my tortured skin, and I am not trying to hide it. No one will notice anyway. The faint, red lines that circle my ankles just above my feet. They burn with every step as the pantyhose rubs against them.

  They make me smile. Pain makes me smile.

  Like many others, this one is self-induced. A reminder of the darkest corners my mind wanders off to when I am by myself. When I touch myself to the thought of being tied up, choked and raped by a stranger.

  I am always alone with these thoughts. I am the one who ties my ankles, spreading my legs as far as I can and tying them to the bedposts to restrain myself while another piece of rope goes around my neck, only choking myself enough to feel it but never bad enough to leave marks there. I still have to be careful, especially when I have to look presen
table for my sister’s engagement party. But if it were up to me, there would be marks around my neck as well. I cherish bruises, even if I have to inflect them myself.

  My family is right to keep me at an emotional distance.

  There is obviously something wrong with me.

  Our house is filling up with more and more people. I decide to fetch myself another drink, determined not to engage in any small talk or even eye contact with anybody as I make my way to the bar.

  A swarm of faces crosses my path, old and young, strange and familiar. I don’t care for any of them. I see my parents standing close to the entrance of the parlor, where they positioned themselves to greet every single guest who enters.

  They are talking to a man I have never seen before. Dark and tall, with black hair and broad shoulders beneath his tailored suit. Everything about him is black, his hair, his suit, his tie, even his eyes, as far as I can tell from here.

  I try to avert my eyes, as I would usually do. But I can’t.

  I turn away for just a moment before I find myself searching for him again.

  He looks rough. His angular jawline is studded with a three-day stubble, something that is rarely seen in these circles. I am sure that he is only a few years older than me, but he radiates a maturity that is well beyond that.

  I wonder who he is. Not only have I never seen him before, but I also cannot assign him to any of the stories my parents have shared about some of the unfamiliar guests that are to be expected tonight.

  I cannot place him at all.

  It takes more effort than I’d like to admit to finally avert my eyes from him. I exchange my empty glass with a new one and find myself turning towards him again as I make my way back to the terrace.

  He is still talking to my parents, now standing with his back to me. The way he stands feels unnatural to me. So straight, with his shoulders back, chest out, legs slightly apart. He is taller than my dad to begin with, but the way he is standing only emphasizes the difference. The tailored suit hugs his impressive frame in just the right places.

  They are joined by my sister’s future father-in-law now, and the way the two men greet one another suggests that they know each other well.

  Is he a family member of my sister’s fiancé? If so, why have I never heard of him before?

  If he was indeed related to William Bishop, I am sure I would have heard about him or at least any man whose description he would fit.

  My eyes are drawn to his neck as he leans forward to greet Mr. Bishop. Something catches my eyes. A black line of ink, running along his neck on the left side. A tattoo. It is barely visible, peeking up just above his collar. A sharp black line that must be connected to a bigger picture underneath.

  Well, now he certainly has my attention.

  CHAPTER two

  Leonard

  The things you have to do once you become part of a new world…

  A world that doesn’t want you, but a world you need.

  It has always been my ambition to make it, to become part of this. Growing up in a world divided into us and them, I have always wanted to be one of them.

  This is who I am, where I belong. On top, above the mediocre masses that struggle to wander through life with a degree of dignity.

  I grew up among them. Among the weak and poor. Uneducated people who worry about paying the rent, paying off their self-imposed debts and even about the next meal for the numerous children they should never have had. I lived among them, but I never belonged.

  I fought my way out of that miserable life, and I am proud of it. Yet, I know that there are places where I will never be seen as one of them, despite my success.

  This is one of those places. Most of the people who gather at this house for the ridiculous event of tonight never had to fight their way up. They have been born into this world. They are just as weak and pathetic as those I grew up with, maybe worse.

  They are content, saturated and proud. Proud for no reason, I might add. It was not their efforts that brought them here, but just a lucky draw in the lottery of life.

  But I have to play along. It comes with my success, and I might need these people sooner or later. They have connections. They are connections.

  Will has been a reliable partner for quite some time now. When his spoiled, dull joke of a son gets engaged and I am asked to attend the social event associated with it, I have to show up.

  I will smile, I will be nice, I will shake hands and conduct small talk as much as I have to. I won’t let anyone know how much I despise being here, and I will use my insights into human nature to find those that might be of value to me.

  After all, many of the guests are owners and leading figures of companies in the new technology sector that I am exploring. They know the market, and they know people. They are people.

  My breast pocket is stuffed with business cards and my face is sporting the obligatory smile as I walk through the door, welcomed by a domestic servant—how backward.

  I am at the ostentatious residence of the bride-to-be’s family, a gigantic mansion that has been the family’s home for decades. The Barringtons. A family with old money and no male heir to the throne, but three daughters, all younger than me by a few years.

  At first, I don’t see anybody except for the servant but can hear voices coming from the back of the house.

  I am led to the giant hall that serves as a welcoming area for a champagne reception. Just like everything else in these people’s world, the whole event is extravagantly overdone, especially considering the occasion. One of their daughters—the second—has agreed to marry her suitor. Apparently, this is all of an excuse the family needs to invite their whole circle of acquaintances to their home, plus some people they don’t even know nor have any connection to.

  Like me.

  The place is already packed with people. I am introduced to the head of the house, an unobtrusive man with thinning hair and a belly that I am sure used to be slimmer when he was my age.

  “George Barrington,” he introduces himself. “And this is my wife, Sybill.”

  He gestures to a frail-looking, middle-aged woman with light brown hair and too much makeup standing next to him. A whiff of intrusive perfume comes my way as she steps forward to shake my hand. Her features are delicate and I am sure that she used to be quite a beauty in her younger years. In fact, she still would be if it wasn’t for that excessive makeup and the ludicrous amount of pearls that are adorning her neck and ears. It gives her a tacky look, even though I know that she comes from a family with old money. She had enough time and cash to develop a good feel and taste for how to decorate oneself but still went for the tacky newly-rich impression.

  I smile at her and take her hand, careful not to squeeze it as much as I have with her husband. Women demand different care.

  “Leonard Clark,” I introduce myself. “It is a pleasure to meet you, and congratulations.”

  They both smile and nod as if it was their personal accomplishment to have one of their daughters marry a promising young man such as Will’s heir. I guess, in a way, it is.

  “Oh, so you must be William’s partner then?” Mr. Barrington asks.

  I nod. “Yes, we’ve been working on the Kidman deal together and he was kind enough to invite me today.”

  “So I’ve heard,” he says, now turning to his wife. “He’s quite a talent, this one. William has nothing but praise for him!”

  “Is that so?” she retorts, pressing her thin, strongly painted lips together as she looks up to me. “Clark, is it? That name… doesn’t really ring a bell.”

  There it is. That condescending look, the reminder that she fancies her blood to be nobler than mine. My name doesn’t ‘ring a bell’ for her because I don’t belong to one of the affluent families who have been settled in this suburban neighborhood for decades, centuries even. Families with big names, majestic estates and old money in their bank accounts. They are a close-knit society, and they don’t like newcomers.

/>   It’s a good thing, though. I don’t want my name to ring a bell. I have a goal. I am here for business and business only. As soon as that is done, I will be gone as quickly as I came. Just a visitor, soon to be forgotten once I am out of sight.

  At least that’s the plan.

  “I just moved here a couple of months ago when Will and I started working together,” I explain.

  “Oh,” she says. “So you’re not from these parts?”

  Everybody damn well knows what she means by these parts. I know George does, as he throws his wife a warning look to speak no further.

  “That is correct,” I say, sporting a confident smile.

  “Mhm,” she says and sips on her champagne.

  “Leonard!” I hear a familiar voice.

  I turn around and spot my business partner Will approaching me with his wife in tow.

  “Glad you could make it!” he shouts, reaching his hand out to greet me.

  “You’ve met my wife,” he notes as she steps forward to shake my hand.

  “Of course. It’s nice to see you again, Shirley,” I say and take her hand.

  “Let’s see if we can find my son and his fiancée,” William quickly adds. Already, his cheeks are blushed, and I am right to assume that this is by far not his first drink of the day.

  I know he is excited about this. Pete is his only son, his only child, and he landed quite a good match. A Barrington daughter is considered just as much of a jackpot as his own son is.

  The match is so suiting, so perfectly thought through, one could almost assume that it was an arranged marriage.

  I follow William’s wide, excited steps as he leads me through the fancy crowd, heads turning to me left and right. I am sure most of them wonder who I could be.

  “Ah, there he is!” Will shouts as he spots his son standing on the terrace at the backside of the house.

  We scurry through another light and expensively decorated parlor and pass through a giant French door that covers most of the wall separating the parlor from the garden.

  The garden is filled with people, and it is here that I realize that almost all the women are dressed in light pastel colors. Not by coincidence, that’s for sure. Events like this one always have a dress code and sometimes these dress codes come with special demands such as colors that people are to refrain from or colors that are desirable. Today it appears that the women were asked to dress in angelic light colors, gracing the garden with their alleged purity.