My phone buzzes as I’m in the back of a black cab on my way to the office. It’s Nishant.“Mate,” he says. “How’s it going?” He sounds somber, and I know he’s referring to my frame of mind since omi’s death. I’ve not seen him since the funeral.
“I’m surviving.”
“Fancy a bout?”
“I’d love to. But I can’t. I have meetings all day.”
“Earl shit?”
I laugh. “Yes. Earl shit.”
“Maybe later in the week? My épée is getting rusty.”
“Yes. I’d like that. Or perhaps a drink.”
“Yeah, I’ll see if Pratik’s around.”
“Cool. Thanks, Nishant.”
“No worries, mate.”
I hang up. My mood morose. I miss being able to do what the fuck I like. If I wanted to fence in the middle of the day, I could. Nishant is my sparring partner and one of my closest friends. Instead I have to go into the office and do some bloody work for a change.
Omi. I blame you.
* * *
The music is pounding at Loulou’s. The bass reverberates through my chest. I like it this way. The noise level cuts down on unnecessary conversation. I make my way through the crowd to the bar. I need a drink and a warm, willing body.
I have spent the last day and a half in tedious meetings with the two fund managers who oversee the considerable king k investment portfolio and the charitable trust; the estate managers from Cornwall, Oxfordshire, and Northumberland; the managing agent who handles the London properties; and with the developer who’s remodeling the three mansion blocks in Mayfair. Parvez Macmillan, omi’s chief operating officer and his right-hand man, has attended all of them with me. Parvez and omi had been friends since Eton; they’d both gone to the London School of Economics, until omi dropped out to fulfill his aristocratic duty following the death of our father.
Parvez is slight, with a shock of unruly black hair and eyes of an indeterminate color that miss nothing. I have never warmed to him. He’s ruthless and ambitious, but he knows his way around a balance sheet and can deal with the numerous personnel who answer to the Earl of king k.
I don’t know how omi managed it all and held down a fund-manager job in the City. But he was a smart, slick bastard.
Funny, too.
I miss him.
I order a Grey Goose and tonic. Maybe he succeeded because Macmillan had his back, and I wonder if Parvez’s loyalty will extend to me or if he might take advantage of my naïveté while I try to come to terms with all my new responsibilities. I just don’t know. But the fact is, I don’t trust him, and I make a mental note to stay circumspect in my dealings with him.
The one bright spot in the last couple of days was a call from my agent telling me I have a job next week. I’d taken a great deal of pleasure in telling the old gorgon that for the foreseeable future I would no longer be available for modeling work.
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TEJRAN - U MIGHT BE A PLAYER BUT IM THE GAME
FanfictionLondon 2022 life has been easy for Karan Kundrra with is good looks aristocratic connections and money he's never had to work and he's rarely slept alone but all that changed when tragedy strikes and Karan inherits his family's noble title wealth an...