Mikalo's Fate (The Mikalo Chronicles) Read Online Free PDF
Author: Syndra K. Shaw
strangers, moving our way together as we trudged down the aisle looking for our seats, and then, upon arrival, trudging off the plane before collecting our bags.
I had expected something normal.
Not this.
Or this, I thought now, looking around the luxurious cabin.
A mix of warm honey and rich caramel with slender accents of silver and chrome, polished sconces bouncing subtle light along the walls, it was nicer than some apartments I'd been in.
Deep leather swivel chairs in front of dark wood tables polished to a high gloss. An unbelievably comfy couch stretching along one side, perfect for kicking back and reading or holding long conversations or, frankly, falling asleep, my goal to find out who made that couch and where I could get one becoming an obsession now.
We had yet to eat anything, of course. Mikalo wasn't hungry and I was too nervous.
Very nervous.
And I couldn't help wonder why.
Deep inside, I knew.
I had never had to deal with the wealthy version of Mikalo. Until now, he was just Mikalo. Sexy, curious, funny, infuriating, nosey, hot as hell Mikalo. I'd yet to meet this version of him. The version he truly was. The version our life together thus far had insulated me from. The version I'd successfully avoided dealing with until now.
The billionaire.
Flying 50,000 miles in the air, seated in the lap of luxury, waited on hand and foot by three absolutely lovely ladies who obviously knew Mikalo and adored him, I couldn't help but realize this man I was marrying was, in some ways, a stranger to me.
A very wealthy stranger, but a stranger nonetheless.
I glanced out the window, the relative darkness of the cabin allowing me to see the stars in the distance, their light twinkling against the sharp black of the night sky.
I loved him, I reminded myself. I loved the Mikalo I knew. The wander into the kitchen sleepy-eyed and yawning, barefoot and in boxers for his morning coffee Mikalo. The never can ask too many questions while you're trying to tell a story Mikalo.
The Mikalo of soft kisses and gentle strokes and cumming so hard my legs shake as my grateful tears stain his sweaty shoulder Mikalo.
The Mikalo I loved had nothing to do with his money. I knew that. It was indisputable.
So why was this, the luxury of a private jet, worrying me so much?
Chapter Nine
"But it is not mine," he said again.
"Mikalo ... " I began.
"It is the company's," he interrupted. "My father's. It is not a thing I use that much, my Grace. So, it is a truth that this, this thing is not mine."
We sat at a table, one of those glossy, polished to shining perfection slabs of slender wood dotting the sumptuous cabin. Delicate plates of fine china sat before us, the delicious food long gone, our fingers toying with the stems of those clear crystal glasses of red wine we now savored.
"But you are the company now, Mikalo," I quickly said. "This is what your father left you and this, this jet, the stock, the, the buildings and apartments -- "
"And responsibility," he interrupted again.
"Yes, the responsibility, it's all yours."
"This is not a problem, I trust," he then said quietly, his eyes watching me.
I sat back, taking a sip of red.
My eyes found his.
"No, of course it isn't," I said.
He all but sighed in relief.
"It is an adjustment, though," I repeated. "I mean, for months you've just been Mikalo. This wonderful, sweet, funny guy I adore and love and want to spend the rest of my life with.
"And, really, I just kind of forgot about this other Mikalo."
"Ah, so now I am two Mikalos?" he joked.
"Well, yes and no," I agreed, flashing him a quick smile. "What I'm saying is I forgot about ... I don't know."
I stopped, reluctant.
To speak of his money felt wrong. That's not where my focus was at. Ever. But it was an issue, much to my surprise.
"It is the money," he said, reading my thoughts.
And then it was his turn to sit back and take a long sip of red.
"It's an adjustment," I said, leaning forward
I had expected something normal.
Not this.
Or this, I thought now, looking around the luxurious cabin.
A mix of warm honey and rich caramel with slender accents of silver and chrome, polished sconces bouncing subtle light along the walls, it was nicer than some apartments I'd been in.
Deep leather swivel chairs in front of dark wood tables polished to a high gloss. An unbelievably comfy couch stretching along one side, perfect for kicking back and reading or holding long conversations or, frankly, falling asleep, my goal to find out who made that couch and where I could get one becoming an obsession now.
We had yet to eat anything, of course. Mikalo wasn't hungry and I was too nervous.
Very nervous.
And I couldn't help wonder why.
Deep inside, I knew.
I had never had to deal with the wealthy version of Mikalo. Until now, he was just Mikalo. Sexy, curious, funny, infuriating, nosey, hot as hell Mikalo. I'd yet to meet this version of him. The version he truly was. The version our life together thus far had insulated me from. The version I'd successfully avoided dealing with until now.
The billionaire.
Flying 50,000 miles in the air, seated in the lap of luxury, waited on hand and foot by three absolutely lovely ladies who obviously knew Mikalo and adored him, I couldn't help but realize this man I was marrying was, in some ways, a stranger to me.
A very wealthy stranger, but a stranger nonetheless.
I glanced out the window, the relative darkness of the cabin allowing me to see the stars in the distance, their light twinkling against the sharp black of the night sky.
I loved him, I reminded myself. I loved the Mikalo I knew. The wander into the kitchen sleepy-eyed and yawning, barefoot and in boxers for his morning coffee Mikalo. The never can ask too many questions while you're trying to tell a story Mikalo.
The Mikalo of soft kisses and gentle strokes and cumming so hard my legs shake as my grateful tears stain his sweaty shoulder Mikalo.
The Mikalo I loved had nothing to do with his money. I knew that. It was indisputable.
So why was this, the luxury of a private jet, worrying me so much?
Chapter Nine
"But it is not mine," he said again.
"Mikalo ... " I began.
"It is the company's," he interrupted. "My father's. It is not a thing I use that much, my Grace. So, it is a truth that this, this thing is not mine."
We sat at a table, one of those glossy, polished to shining perfection slabs of slender wood dotting the sumptuous cabin. Delicate plates of fine china sat before us, the delicious food long gone, our fingers toying with the stems of those clear crystal glasses of red wine we now savored.
"But you are the company now, Mikalo," I quickly said. "This is what your father left you and this, this jet, the stock, the, the buildings and apartments -- "
"And responsibility," he interrupted again.
"Yes, the responsibility, it's all yours."
"This is not a problem, I trust," he then said quietly, his eyes watching me.
I sat back, taking a sip of red.
My eyes found his.
"No, of course it isn't," I said.
He all but sighed in relief.
"It is an adjustment, though," I repeated. "I mean, for months you've just been Mikalo. This wonderful, sweet, funny guy I adore and love and want to spend the rest of my life with.
"And, really, I just kind of forgot about this other Mikalo."
"Ah, so now I am two Mikalos?" he joked.
"Well, yes and no," I agreed, flashing him a quick smile. "What I'm saying is I forgot about ... I don't know."
I stopped, reluctant.
To speak of his money felt wrong. That's not where my focus was at. Ever. But it was an issue, much to my surprise.
"It is the money," he said, reading my thoughts.
And then it was his turn to sit back and take a long sip of red.
"It's an adjustment," I said, leaning forward
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