Dear Future Ex-wife

I wanted my office to remind me of the Hacker Hostel I lived in while I was in college. We sat around gaming and coding for hours, stumbling into class with little sleep, and sometimes high. Back then, I had no responsibilities and loved life.

An oak mini bar sits beneath the Queen Takes King logo, a massive structure shaped from pieces of iron, copper, and a deck of playing cards. Harley designed our new logo—two interlocked crowns hovering above the queen of hearts and the king of spades. Every time I fix myself a drink, I stare up at what Harley created, admiring her artistic brilliance. She’s the most talented person I know.

I extend my hand toward the table. “Please, sit.”

Staring at me with wide blue eyes, Sophie rolls her tongue across her bottom lip. I glare at her, my hand still extended, and then she does as I command. Once she’s seated, I approach the table with caution.

Sophie has no idea that she’s not my type.

Blonde. Bossy. Beautiful.

Harley McQueen.

That’s my type.

Sophie blushes ten shades of red that spreads down to her chest. Dressed in a blue blazer and a white dress shirt, she tugs at the first few buttons, which are open, exposing her black lacy bra. Her skirts are usually too short, a clear sign she’s trying way too hard. Harley is sexy without even trying, gorgeous, but not in the traditional sense.

Harley doesn’t have straight teeth or a perfect nose, but it’s in her imperfections that I’ve always seen her beauty. She could wear one of her messy aprons covered in acrylic paint, and she would still be the most beautiful woman alive. Harley couldn’t care less what anyone thinks of her, and even less about what I think.

“So,” Sophie says, snapping me back to reality. “Stefan wants us to talk about the commercial for Ashborn.”

Oh, it’s Stefan now? That fucking asshole. If my brother wanted to do a favor for his fuck buddy, he should have left me out of it.

“You should talk to my brother since he’s taking all of the credit for my work.”

“Umm…” Sophie bites her bottom lip. “I thought we were going to discuss the marketing strategy. Your brother said you have ideas for the commercial.”

I cock an eyebrow at her. “This is news to me.”

I’m the Chief Technology Officer, the CTO of Queen Takes King. I’m in charge of the tech, not the marketing. I don’t know the first thing about directing a commercial, nor do I care to learn.

My brother is the lead engineer for Ashborn, even though I created most of the fantasy world and wrote half of the code. After my dad flipped out over the game, Stefan slapped his name on it, claiming he came up with the idea before it was even in beta. I let him have it because what difference did it make? I still outrank him and own more shares in the company.

“Mr. King,” Sophie says as she slides her hand onto my thigh.

I narrow my eyes at her and scoot my chair away from hers. What the fuck is she doing? I lowered my guard because she’s clearly with my brother, but I guess one King isn’t enough for her. I’m going to kill Stefan for setting up this meeting. Like I need another headache to deal with right now.

Sophie leans forward, her fingers touching my knee. “I was hoping we could work on more pressing projects.”

Before I can push her hand away, my door hits the wall with a loud boom. My dad strolls into my office, looking like Wall Street Santa, with his white beard, round belly, and rosy cheeks. Though, to his credit, he’s dressed impeccably in a bespoke suit that makes his stomach look slightly smaller and a pair of Berluti leather loafers that look as if they were military spit-shined. King men learn the importance of looks from an early age. You have to dress for the job you want, not the job you have.

My dad points his finger at Sophie. “What’s your name?”

“Sophie Davenport,” she stammers, visibly shaking.

My dad’s nostrils flare as he approaches the table. “And where do you work, Sophie Davenport?”

She slides her chair out from the table and jumps to her feet. “In the marketing department, sir.”

He glares down at her. “Go pack your things. You’re fired.”

“Dad, no.” I push out my hand between us as I get up from the chair. “Nothing happened.”

“I’m sick of this shit, Nate.” He turns to Sophie and then points at the door. “Out. Now.”

“You’re not fired, Sophie,” I say. “Just go back to your desk.”

“Don’t you dare undermine me, boy,” he growls, his face inches from mine.

Sophie gathers her notepads and folders and rushes out of the room in tears.

“Way to go, Dick,” I snap.

“Don’t call me Dick. I’m your father, goddammit.”