Skyscraper Cinderella Read online

  SKYSCRAPER CINDERELLA

  K Webster

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  STROKE OF MIDNIGHT

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  PRINCE CHARMING

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  THE GLASS SLIPPER

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  About Midnight Dynasty

  Copyright

  STROKE OF MIDNIGHT

  K Webster

  CHAPTER ONE

  Winston

  The silence is bliss.

  No murmurs, no laughs, no bullshit.

  A sense of pride washes over me when they all yield to my simple demands. It’s what keeps the wheel greased and moving efficiently. We’re not a Fortune 500 company and one of the world’s most prestigious acquisition firms for nothing. It takes an iron fist to keep everyone in perfect submission. All because they obey my one golden rule.

  Work over play.

  I reward them handsomely for it, too.

  Halcyon requires everyone to play by the Constantine rules—by my rules—in order to maintain the utmost control over this godforsaken city.

  The one-thousand-seven-foot skyscraper Halcyon Building is more than the hub for a multi-billion-dollar firm but is also the home of three five-star restaurants, a bar and cigar lounge, a state-of-the-art wellness spa, three elite residential floors, and a rooftop private terrace. It’s one of the most revered and admired pieces of architecture in New York. We’ve been in every architectural magazine, and a movie was even once filmed here.

  This building is our proverbial balls.

  Huge. Powerful. Intimidating.

  The Morellis only wish their presence in this city were anywhere close to ours. No matter how hard they try to claw their way out of the gutter and dress up to fit our world, they’ll always be rats in fucking suits.

  “Good morning, Mr. Constantine,” Abby chirps. Pretty blonde. Big tits. Three kids.

  I tip my head. “Abby.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Constantine,” Brenda calls out, a wide smile on her wrinkled face. Sixties. Widowed. Obsessed with yoga.

  “Brenda.”

  HR hates my obsessions.

  Order. Cleanliness. Rules.

  But, because I own them too, they indulge me despite whatever laws they were trained to follow.

  “Good morning, Mr. Constantine,” Cara says, waving a manicured hand. Failed model. Daddy issues. Loves Chinese food.

  “Cara.”

  Our four secretaries that assist the executive offices follow the strictest guidelines. Namely, confidentiality isn’t simply a request, it’s a necessity. We have too many rats in this city waiting for a crack so they can weasel their way inside. It’s my job to know everything about everyone who works beneath me to make sure they’re solid, and I don’t take well to vermin.

  I reach the last desk—each one angled perfectly and aligned the way I like—and wait for my secretary to end her phone call. As soon as she’s done, she plasters on her veneered grin and hands me my coffee. Black and piping-hot with a dash of nutmeg.

  “Good morning, Mr. Constantine.” She bats her fake lashes at me. Divorced. Career ladder climber. Master organizer.

  “Deborah,” I say back. “Any calls?”

  “Your brother. Perry.” Ahh, Perry. Still sucking on Mother’s tit like he can dip his hand in her deep, deep purse and pull out whatever the fuck he wants whenever he wants. Silly boy. “He said he’s been trying to reach you. I asked if he’d like to set up a meeting, but he declined. Though, he used far more colorful words than I thought were necessary.”

  We both share a smirk.

  Baby Constantine hates when he’s pushed aside or ignored. I blame it on Mother’s nanny, Ivory. The woman never could have children and treated Perry like he was hers. He’s spoiled as fuck, and that’s saying something coming from our blood.

  “I suppose I’ll give him a ring at some point next week,” I say as I bring my mug to my lips. “Ahh, perfect as always.”

  Deborah preens. “The best for you.”

  I give her a wink, slightly annoyed at one of my self-imposed rules. Don’t fuck the staff. Often, I consider breaking it for Deborah. She’s so eager to please and that shit makes my dick really fucking hard. However, I know what a storm that would create. No matter how nice the woman looks in a pencil skirt and how the idea of having her on her knees under my desk is quite enticing, it’ll end messily. Deborah is too good at her job to lose her to feelings gone awry. And they absolutely would go to hell because I’m not exactly a relationship kind of guy.

  “I have a meeting with Ralph Bison from Bison Group in an hour. Hold my calls. If Perry calls, ask him how much.” We both know Perry only blows up my phone when he needs money for whatever fucking prima donna reason he has next.

  “Of course, sir.”

  I stride over to my office door and set down my deep-brown Venezia leather laptop briefcase so I can enter in my code. Though I trust Deborah with a lot, access to my office when I’m not here is a boundary she’s not allowed to cross.

  After opening my door, I pick up my briefcase and hit the lights, illuminating my massive office. It’s not necessary considering the lack of furniture, but I like the negative space. A sleek, five-foot wide black floating desk sits in the middle of the room. It can be converted to a standing desk with a push of a button, which is an absolute must considering how much pacing I tend to do while working. I stride inside, noting an unfamiliar sweet scent lingering in the air, and set my mug and briefcase down on my desk. Like always, I make my way over to one of the two walls of floor-to-ceiling windows so I can look down on the ci
ty we own.

  This isn’t New York City. This is Constantine City.

  I smile as I think about the quote my father used to always say. “The Constantines make the Rockefellers look like beggars.” Our family drinks, breathes, and shits money. That’s my quote, much to Mother’s horror.

  The city sparkles under the May morning sun like diamond-encrusted model buildings. I could take the time to count each one that belongs to us, but I only have about forty more minutes until Bison and I discuss how he’s going to bend over and let me fuck him. Not literally, but I’m going to figuratively make that man’s rich ass my bitch. Point is, I don’t have all day.

  I’m extremely satisfied for a Friday morning, which will only bleed into my call, ensuring I get exactly what I want. I begin my usual pacing as the cogs inside my brain start turning. But then I hear a crackle.

  Small. Insignificant. But, oh-so-wrong.

  Pausing, I lift my foot. Nothing. I drop my foot and take another step. Crackle. A flare of fury rises inside me like a volcano, angrily erupting. Lifting my foot once more, I grab my ankle and twist to see what’s on the bottom of my shoe.

  A candy wrapper.

  I pluck it from my sole, irritated as fuck at the red stickiness left on the bottom. I was never allowed candy as a child, and as a nearly thirty-six-year-old man, I’ve never so much as indulged once. This candy isn’t one I’m familiar with.

  Where the hell did it come from?

  Yanking my shoe off so I don’t track sticky residue across my floors, I storm over to my chair and take a seat. The wrapper says Starburst. Cherry flavor.

  Someone was in my office.

  Who?

  One glance at my John-Richard Collection silver fog oil painting tells me no one fucked with my safe. It’s unmoved and straight. All my files are kept on my laptop, protected and encrypted. There’s nothing of value besides what’s behind that painting.

  “Deborah!” I bark out, growing more and more pissed by the second.

  The clacking of her heels is hurried and frantic. Her brown eyes are wide as she takes in my furious state.

  “Sir?”

  “What the hell is this?” I growl, holding up the offending wrapper.

  Her face bleeds of color. “I, uh, I’m not sure. Perhaps you tracked it in?”

  Several long seconds go by where she begins to tremble, because we both know I did not track this shit in.

  “I’ll find out. I’ll look at the security footage and contact the cleaning company—”

  “I’ll handle the footage,” I snap. “You figure out who not only forgot to clean my office, but also thought it was okay to leave a fucking trail.” I lean down to drag the wastebasket out from under my desk. Four more wrappers sit in the bin.

  “I’ll have them terminated immediately,” she assures me, her face now turning purple with her own fury. “This is absolutely unacceptable.”

  This is a mistake of epic proportions.

  Not only will the cleaner be let go if this is what this is, but I’ll destroy the entire firm for allowing such unprofessionalism at Halcyon. It’s abhorrent. I knew I shouldn’t have allowed Mother to refer her cleaning company. I don’t give a shit if Caroline Constantine will throw a bitch fit over this. Father never would have allowed this to happen.

  “No,” I bark out to Deborah. “I want you to start with who was working last night. Then I want every boss above them all the way to the top. Each and every name. I want them all in an email in the next half hour so I can deal with it.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  She clacks out of my office in a rush to do my bidding. Soon, Cara hurries in with a wet cloth. I fume as she cleans off the bottom of my shoe. She goes to snatch the wrapper from my desk, but I swat her hand away.

  “Leave it,” I grumble as I take my shoe back and shove it on my foot.

  She nods before rushing out of the room. I grab my bag and pull out my laptop. Once I have it powered on, I flip through to the building security app. My sister Tinsley says I’m a control freak like our father. I call it keeping your eyes open. When you close them and assume everyone has your best interests at heart, they rob you blind or shoot you in the back. Having access to the security cameras is something I absolutely require and sift through often.

  I flip over to the recording from last night. Around nine in the evening, the lights turn on, and then a woman in a light blue uniform walks in, dragging a cart with her. She starts to clean, but then sets her cloth down on my desk before sitting in my chair. I watch, disgusted, as she spins around in my chair enough times it makes me dizzy. Finally, she stops and then pulls a red, square, wrapped candy from her pocket.

  I’ve caught the culprit.

  Now I’m going to make her pay.

  She unwraps it and then tosses the wrapper into the trash can. My anger rachets up when she stands and walks over to my bookshelves. Her finger runs along the shelves, and she then holds a finger up in front of her face as though she’s inspecting it for dust. She admires my painting for a bit before returning to my chair. The woman—no, girl based on her young features—continues to eat her candies one at a time. She kicks her feet up on my desk and proceeds to scroll through her phone. This goes on for at least a half-hour. I fast forward through this part. Finally, she pockets her phone and then plays with my desk buttons making it go up and down a few times. Eventually she stands, steps on one of the wrappers she missed tossing into the bin and walks it over to where I stepped on it. It transfers to the floor at that point. She shakes her head as though she’s angry about whatever she’s thinking about, and then walks right up to the glass. Once she’s done gazing at my fucking city, she walks past the wrapper she managed to stick to my floor, grabs her rag off the desk, and then pushes her cart from the room.

  Un-fucking-believable.

  As soon as the lights go off on the video, I shut it down, ready to explode with fury. It takes several calming breaths before I manage to slow my heartrate. I’ll deal with this brat soon enough.

  Ping.

  I open my email, eager as fuck to find what Deborah has uncovered for me.

  Ash Ember Elliott.

  Brand new employee at FGM Services.

  Someone let this highly unqualified woman into my office. They’re all going down for this. It’s such gross negligence, I can barely see straight because of my rage.

  I could go straight to the top and let the manager fire all those directly responsible for this outrage, or I could take matters into my own hands. Punish the offender directly. I quite enjoy a good verbal reaming.

  Tonight, I’ll deal with Miss Elliott.

  She played in my office like a child, wrecked it with her mess, and took wages for a job she didn’t do.

  I’ve ended men for less, with a fucking grin on my face, too.

  I will absolutely enjoy destroying her.

  In fact, I’ll be counting down every second until her arrival.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ash

  I stare at my bank statement, once again hurt by Dad’s actions.

  It’s gone.

  All but seven grand was taken out by my father. Not because he’s a gambler or had to keep a roof over our heads. It wasn’t because his car broke down or we suddenly had medical bills that needed paying.

  No.

  Dad robbed my college fund for one reason only.

  Her.

  It’s hard not to hate the woman replacing your mother. Mom’s been dead ten years, so I should be fine with Dad having remarried. Manda is a nice enough woman. A little hoity-toity for my liking, but I get along with her okay. It doesn’t mean I have to like her.

  What I hate is that Dad is changing for her. Before he met Manda at a gala he’d been invited to last year, we’d been happy. Sure, we’d downsized from the home he shared with Mom upstate and moved to an apartment in the city to be closer to his job. We went from living comfortably to having to pinch pennies. Since Mom was no longer pulling in a sizable in
come with her speaking engagements, that meant Dad was the breadwinner. Luckily, they had plenty saved for my college.

  But for Manda, he wanted to level up to her. Be someone he’s not. Attend fancy functions and shower her with gifts. It wasn’t until last week when I was going to ask him to pull some money out of my college savings account to purchase a car for my birthday, that I learned how much he’d bled it dry.

  Five hundred thousand was drained over the course of six months.

  All for her.

  A pricey engagement ring. Expensive dinners. Trip to Europe.

  I knew he was spending money on Manda, but I didn’t realize it was coming out of my college fund. Seven thousand won’t even touch my first semester at Columbia University, which runs close to sixty grand a year plus housing, books, and meals.

  “Manda has generously offered to pay your tuition, doll.”

  I can’t help but shudder at Dad’s reply when I burst into tears after he told me where my education fund went. He made too much money for us to qualify for financial assistance, and even if I apply for loans right now, I’m not promised to receive funding by the time tuition is due. I’d worked so hard to get into Columbia, and now it feels like it’s being stolen away from me.

  Sure, the rich doctor who’s now my stepmother will pay for it.

  But everything Manda does comes with strings attached.

  “Someone’s pouting,” a deep, predatory voice says.

  Triplet Terror #1. Otherwise known as Scout. My wicked, terrible, awful new stepbrother.

  “Go away,” I grumble, snapping my laptop closed so he won’t see what little I have left in my account.

  He prowls into my room, scrunching his nose up in disgust at my décor that litters the walls. Dad calls it junk. I call it bohemian chic. I’d like to say I have an eclectic sense of style. I collect all sorts of fun, random things to make my space my own.

  “Mom is going to bite your head off for putting pin holes all over the walls,” Scout says, plopping down on my bed beside me.

  Too close.

  Always too close with this one.

  “Where’s Thing 1 and Thing 2?” I ask, giving him my bitchiest smile. Like I care about his brothers. I hate them all.