The Fidelity World- Nondisclosure

by Ellie Masters

  Text copyright ©2018 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Romig Works, LLC. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original The Fidelity World remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Romig Works, LLC, or their affiliates or licensors.

  For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds

  Nondisclosure

  by Ellie Masters

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my one and only—my amazing and wonderful husband.

  Without your care and support, my writing would not have made it this far. You make me whole every day. I love you “that much.” For the rest of you, that means from the beginning to the end and every point in between. Thank you, my dearest love, my heart and soul, for putting up with me, for believing in me, and for loving me.

  My husband deserves a special gold star for listening to me obsess over this book and for never once complaining while I brought these characters from my mind to the page.

  You pushed me when I needed to be pushed. You supported me when I felt discouraged. You believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. If it weren’t for you, this book never would have come to life.

  Also by Ellie Masters

  Changing Roles

  Heart’s Insanity: an Angel Fire Rock Romance

  Ashes to New: an Angel Fire Rock Romance prequel

  The Ballet: With Love at Christmas Anthology

  Sensual Secrets: Not Your Mother’s Coffee Table Book

  Twist of Fate

  Learning to Breathe Box Set

  The Ballet

  Learning to Breathe

  Becoming His

  Off Duty

  Finding Peace

  Nondisclosure: a Fidelity Kindle World novel

  COMING in 2018!

  The Starling

  Heart’s Desire: an Angel Fire Rock Romance

  Redemption: The Collective Season II

  AND

  Ellie Masters writing as L.A. Warren

  Vendel Rising: a Science Fiction Novella Series

  Table of Contents

  Nondisclosure

  Dedication

  Also by Ellie Masters

  Chapter 1: Legacy

  Chapter 2: Privilege

  Chapter 3: Pratt

  Chapter 4: Lunch

  Chapter 5: HRH

  Chapter 6: Opportunity

  Chapter 7: Interview

  Chapter 8: Infinity

  Chapter 9: Whiskey Neat

  Chapter 10: Slipper

  Chapter 11: Client

  Chapter 12: Employee

  Chapter 13: Compliance

  Chapter 14: Meeting

  Chapter 15: Game

  Chapter 16: Push

  Chapter 17: Mile-High

  Chapter 18: Nothing

  Chapter 19: Consequences

  Chapter 20: Freddy

  Chapter 21: Termination

  Chapter 22: Tower

  Chapter 23: Dais

  Chapter 24: Kneel

  Chapter 25: Charter

  Chapter 26: Hospital

  Chapter 27: Home

  Chapter 28: Heir

  Chapter 29: One Week

  Chapter 30: Papers

  Chapter 31: Trust

  Chapter 32: Wait

  Chapter 33: Sponsor

  Chapter 34: Library

  Chapter 35: To-Do

  Chapter 36: Downstairs

  Chapter 37: Union

  Chapter 38: Game Room

  Chapter 39: Decisions

  Chapter 40: Departure

  Chapter 41: Tea

  Chapter 42: Conversation

  Chapter 43: King

  Chapter 44: The Rules

  Chapter 45: Last Month

  Chapter 46: Contract

  Chapter 47: Tea

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Connect with Ellie Masters

  Final Thoughts

  Chapter One

  Chapter 1: Legacy

  Rowan

  “Rowan, there’s nothing more we can do,” Henry Porter said with a weary sigh.

  Son of Ralph Porter, Henry might be young for a lawyer, but he led a team of eight lawyers and accountants from the Savannah law firm of Hamilton & Porter. He was being groomed for succession and sat across from me with a serious expression. His job was to deliver news I wasn’t prepared to hear. He didn’t want to give it. I didn’t want to listen to it. But neither of us could deny the truth of it.

  Money didn’t lie.

  The Porter’s had managed my family’s accounts for generations. Henry, and his father, Ralph, knew where all the bodies were buried, if there were any. My father never shared his business dealings with me, which left me to rely solely on Henry’s advice. Unfortunately, he had nothing good to say.

  With me, a partnership spanning generations would die.

  “Nothing?” I held my hands clasped tightly in my lap. It took every ounce of self-control not to fidget and twist my fingers.

  The sadness in his expression spoke more to the truth than any of the numbers and figures printed on the reams of paper littering the desk. I barely glanced at the reports. I didn’t need to. I knew.

  Heat pricked beneath my lids, but I’d been born and bred to privilege. I was a proud Southern lady, a blue blood of the great South. The women in my family didn’t cry—at least, not in public. I could faint. There was that option. A hundred years ago, that would have been acceptable behavior for a young lady of my standing, but I sat in a plush leather chair and had more respect for myself than that. Besides, I was over and done with drama.

  No matter what I did, the legacy of my birthright couldn’t be erased, escaped, or ignored. I would always have my name—for what that was worth. The Cartwrights had built Georgia into what it was now. We stood proudly alongside the Montagues, Fitzgeralds, and other prominent Southern families. We owned land, companies, and banks. Lots of land and lots of banks. Our money made money. Most of the land was gone though, and there was precious left of the companies my father had run. As for our money? That was why I’d found myself in Henry’s office.

  “How long?” I asked.

  How far can I make our dwindling reserves last? I had a plan but needed more time. I wasn’t screwed. I was royally fucked.

  There’d been a time when I held my head high and lifted my nose to look down on those beneath me. My family’s name might be steeped in the history of the South, but Savannah, Georgia, wanted nothing to do with my family anymore. Cutting stares and harsh whispers had brought crippling social distance until I became a pariah. I hadn’t even received an invitation to Adelaide Montague’s annual charity event. That hurt more than it should have.

  I’d been looking forward to seeing her daughter, Alexandria, and maybe even my old friend Patrick Fitzgerald. He’d been in the class above me at the academy. She’d been a year or two behind, but they were both ahead of me as far as life plans went. Patrick had finished his degree at Pratt, and Alexandria was well on her way to becoming a lawyer. They’d moved on, chasing their futures and pursuing their dreams, while I had taken several years off to travel the world.

  Back then, money hadn’t been a problem.

  Back then, there’d been no scandal.

  We’d had more money than I could count, and I’d had my heart set on seeing the world. One year had turned into two, and two had become three. Patrick and I’d kept in contact after his graduation, and it was because of him I’d finally found my way to the Pratt Institute for Design. I h
ad dreams, too.

  My father’s sins weighed heavily on my shoulders, suffocating every breath. His crimes had stolen any joy I might have once thought to squander. The Cartwright name should have endured the scandal that had brought my father down, except it hadn’t. Not after he’d taken the coward’s way out. His actions had affected not only my future, but also the plight of my brother. What will become of Freddy?

  I sat across from my lawyers, trying to salvage what I could.

  No tears fell from my eyes. My smile met the sorrow weighted in Henry’s expression. A core of steel ran through me. I drew on that, even as my insides swirled in a blender. The only problem with steel was, it only bent so far before it shattered. I had met my breaking point.

  Henry pushed the paper in front of him across the table. I refused to look at it. Instead, I kept my gaze level and fixed on his face. Maybe, if I didn’t see what was written in black and white, it wouldn’t be true.

  “How long?” I repeated my question into the overwhelming silence.

  His lips pursed, and those seated adjacent to him shifted in their seats, covering their unease with a cough. The oppressiveness of the conference room affected us all, but they would leave here and head to their fancy homes and fat bank accounts. The same could not be said for me.

  “If you make certain adjustments”—he rubbed at his chin—“we can wait to foreclose—”

  “How long?” I didn’t want the details.

  “Rowan, it’s not that simple.”

  “How difficult can it be?”

  How long until I’m broke? How long until I have to move Freddy out of the long-term care facility he calls home? How long until we’re destitute and on the streets? All these questions flitted through my head, but I held my tongue and waited for an answer.

  I needed more time—two and a half years to be precise.

  My degree in design wouldn’t make much money to start. I had to have enough to cover Freddy’s needs until then. Where I slept or what I ate didn’t matter, and I had closets of designer clothes to last at least that long.

  Henry swiped at his mouth, and he pulled a face, glancing down at the paper. “I can buy you six months.”

  “Six months!” I slammed my hand down on the tabletop and stood as my anger and frustration rose. “I need more than six months.” I needed two and a half years.

  Sara Donaldson, the only other woman in the room, cleared her throat. “What about quitting school? The tuition is steep—”

  “I can’t afford to quit school.” I needed the career it would bring. Besides, no one in New York gave a rat’s ass about some washed-up Southern belle.

  Sara arched a brow. “You can’t afford to remain either. You should look into scholarships.”

  I rolled my eyes. Of course I had. I’d exhausted all my options, but even though I would be bankrupt within six months, I didn’t qualify for scholarships, grants, or loans, not enough to cover my tuition, let alone pay rent on my apartment or cover other necessities like food. With the mess of my finances, no bank would extend a student loan.

  “I’ve considered everything,” I said, sinking back into my chair with defeat.

  Henry rolled his pen over the table. “Rowan, I’m sorry, but there is another option. Have you considered—”

  “No,” I said, feeling the heat rising. I was going to blow a gasket if someone mentioned that again. I wasn’t a whore, and I’d be damned if I sold myself to any man.

  I needed a drink and the oblivion of a good fuck. Alcohol to numb the pain and a man who could fuck me until I forgot my name.

  Chapter 2: Privilege

  Richard

  No matter what I did or didn’t do, the privilege of birth couldn’t be erased, escaped, or ignored. There were moments when my birthright smothered me with the weight of expectations I didn’t care to meet.

  “Richard…” My mother’s voice came out smooth as silk and covered in cream.

  She had been blessed with an angelic voice, and when lifted in song, it made angels weep. When filled with ire, kings fell to their knees, queens trembled in their shoes, and the leaders of nations took notice. I did none of those things. I met my mother’s iron will with the strength she’d instilled in me from my very first breath.

  “Yes, Mum?” I said, trying my best to look apologetic.

  The fake smile plastered to her face didn’t fool me. Her crystalline-blue eyes sparked with anger, and I braced for the harshness that would follow. She, however, wasn’t in a rush to lay down her condemnation and seemed content to take her time in dispensing judgment. When pushed past her tolerance of what was right and proper, Her Majesty Mary Margaret Windsor could be a cruel-hearted bitch, but she loved her younger son with the whole of her heart. Of that, I had no doubt. It was how I got away with so much, whereas my brother did not. She was about to attempt to whip me into shape, only I was no longer a six-year-old boy, and she’d never once been successful in the past.

  “Are you incapable of self-control?” Her left brow lifted, challenging me to deny the truth.

  We knew how this dance would play out. She would be stern. I would be remorseful. I would behave for a time, but we both knew I’d be damned if I ever bowed to the court of public opinion, and she didn’t have it in her heart to force me to do anything I truly hated.

  “Mum, it’s wasn’t like that,” I tried to explain, but it had been exactly like that. There were photographs speeding through the Web that attested to that fact.

  My brother, Edmund, gave a snort. “Oh, brother, you have stepped deep in shite with this one.”

  With a narrowing of my eyes, I shot daggers at my elder brother. Edmund had no place in judging my actions. He was worse than me. Unlike me, he’d perfected the art of discretion. He was everything I was not—proud, regal, in control, and ready to take the reins of our country. More power to him. I didn’t want that job, the pressure of marriage, or the need to produce heirs as quickly as possible.

  Eight years younger than him, my youth stretched before me. Heck, twenty-seven was much too young to settle down. Arranged marriages endured but not because either party found peace or happiness. I knew for a fact that my brother juggled several potential hopefuls. He had no room to judge my actions.

  Mother’s voice ripped through the room, making me flinch. “Wasn’t like what? Are you denying the photographs that are going viral, even as we speak?” She tsked her disapproval. “I don’t dare go online. I don’t want to see my son—my son!—exposed like that.”

  Her Majesty the Queen never went online. She had people for that, very well-paid analysts who scoured the Internet for what she should and shouldn’t be made aware of, but I understood why she would shy away from those images. I worked hard to live up to my playboy image, and I’d been caught with my trousers down—literally. She had every reason to chastise me for what I’d done.

  Edmund maintained a squeaky-clean image despite his multiple flings, but as the Prince of Wales, and heir to the throne, that was expected of the future king. I would never ascend to the throne, and I was grateful for that small miracle because I didn’t want the burden of the throne weighing me down. My position suited me well, and there was no reason not to have a little fun with royal privilege.

  I tried to defend my actions, opening my mouth to insert my foot, but Mother lifted an imperious finger and silenced me with her indomitable will.

  “In this conversation, you do not speak.” She made a pinching gesture, effectively sealing my lips, and leaned back in her favorite chair, looking very much a regal monarch rather than the mother of a recalcitrant son.

  The royal family had retired after supper to our private rooms where she was at liberty to execute this conversation and chastise me. Only the servants remained—eyes that saw everything, ears that heard every secret, and mouths that never uttered a single word about any of it to the outside world. They were at once ever present and invisible. One delivered Mum a cup of tea.

  She cradled th
e saucer in her palm and lifted the delicate china to her lips. Her eyes closed as she took a languorous inhale, and then she reveled in the first taste of an expertly poured cup of the finest English tea.

  I waved off the servant who held out a cup and saucer. I was thirsty but not for tea.

  Brandy and cigars would come later, and there was no doubt I would need the spirited liquor to soothe my nerves. That was, if I made it out of this conversation alive. Booze and a good shag—that was what I wanted. Alcohol to numb my soul and a girl with compliant flesh strong enough to exorcise my frustrations. What I really needed was time away from the public eye.

  “It’s time to settle down.” She took another sip from her cup as my heart raced to a sudden and profound halt. “I will speak with my advisers, and we’ll settle on a suitable match. The obligations of a family will prevent…such occurrences in the future.”

  Edmund chuckled and shook his head. “Good luck,” he said, lifting his cup.

  I wasn’t certain if he meant that for our mother or me.

  “Mum,” I said, speaking although commanded to silence—I never was good at following orders—“perhaps some time away?”

  I had a buddy in America who lived in New York—exactly the town where a person could disappear, even someone as royally screwed as me.

  Her eyes narrowed as she gave my idea consideration. With a slow nod, she granted my reprieve. “That might be a good thing. Let this negative press die down, and gain some distance from this debacle.”

  I inclined my head, grateful for a chance to escape familial obligations for a little while longer.

  “But, Richard,” she said, “you have one year to make yourself respectable.”

  “Mum!”

  Her head shook, informing me that her mind was made up.

  One year? I wasn’t Edmund. I was the spare, the heir who didn’t matter.

  However, I saw the truth in her eyes. She was giving me freedom, but it came with an expiration date.