The Enemy Contract (Westbrook #2)

1. Hunter

Chapter 1

Hunter

T he winding driveway up to Westbrook Meadows always made me feel small.

Not in a shaky or uncertain way, but in the way that sprawling estates and towering family legacies quietly remind you they’ll always loom larger than you.

I’d been summoned by my mother Betsy to discuss what she’d described as impending doom .

Knowing that she tended to exaggerate, I’d been able to keep calm.

When it came to chaos, Betsy was always in control. Hopefully today would be no exception.

Driving toward the house, I took a moment to appreciate the splendor that was my mother’s estate. Towering oak trees dripping in Spanish moss lined the driveway which curved gracefully through five hundred acres of rolling pasture. White fences caught the afternoon sunlight, framing the landscape and the professionally manicured gardens beyond.

I parked my car near the fountain—because God forbid I park anywhere near Betsy’s flowers at the front of the house—and sat in silence for a moment, trying to guess what the impending doom get-together might be about.

Unfortunately, I didn’t dare let myself hope this meeting could actually be about a potential bequeathment. When my father passed away, he left a sizable estate of six hundred million dollars to my mother, with instructions to distribute a total of one hundred million to family members of her choosing.

Recently, Mother bequeathed thirty million to my brother Logan who had used some of the money to quit his demanding job and spend more time with his son Henry and his new partner, Casey.

Today, I hoped it was finally my turn, and I hoped my bequeathment was similar in size to Logan’s. Thirty million—or even a fraction of that—would change my life forever.

I’d bought myself some time by selling my luxury travel agency recently for a tidy six-figure sum. But at thirty-six years old, retirement wasn’t an option for me. If a bequeathment wasn’t in the cards, I’d need to figure out my next move.

Hell, even with a fortune handed to me, I’d still want to keep working. Restlessness had consumed me since selling my travel agency, and I knew myself well enough to know that I’d never want to be idle. Wealthy or not, I’d always crave something to keep me moving.

But I was willing to bet this meeting wasn’t about bequeathments.

Mother liked an audience whenever she made dramatic announcements, and I’d been informed that today’s meeting involved just the two of us.

Over the phone, she’d mumbled something about the Ashford family, and that could only mean one thing: trouble.

I gripped the steering wheel and took a deep breath, hoping I didn’t have to listen to another one of Mother’s marathon venting sessions about the Ashfords. She could ramble for hours about the long-standing feud. Her diatribes twisted and winded through every perceived slight and betrayal since the dawn of time.

And leaving before she was finished?

That wasn’t an option.

The Westbrook-Ashford feud was legendary. It was Charleston’s worst-kept secret and had been endlessly dissected in society tabloids for years.

Decades ago, the Ashford family, founders of Harborstone Gallery, found themselves in dire financial straits after a series of bad decisions collided with a terribly timed economic downturn. Desperate to save their high-end art business, they’d turned to my parents, Betsy and Frank Westbrook, who were known for their wealth and savvy financial deals. My father saw an opportunity and agreed to loan them several million dollars to save Harborstone.

But the terms were strict.

The contract stipulated that if the Ashfords failed to repay the loan within five years, my parents would gain a fifty percent stake in the business. My father believed it was a win-win. Either the Ashfords would succeed and repay the loan, or the Westbrooks could secure a foothold in the prestigious art world through Harborstone, which was already a world-renowned institution known for its elite clientele and rare collections.

The Ashfords had been unable to meet the repayment terms, so they defaulted, forcing them to cede half ownership of Harborstone to my parents.

Dad deemed it fair, but the Ashfords saw it as a betrayal of their family legacy.

The fallout had been swift and crushingly bitter.

The Ashfords accused my parents of exploitation, while my dad insisted that it was simply business.

Even now, decades later, the animosity fueled by the feud still burned hot.

Climbing out of my car, I noticed Martin, the family butler, waiting for me with impeccable posture near the front door. He was wearing his signature black uniform, crisp and perfectly ironed with a starched white shirt. Martin looked as if he’d just stepped out of an etiquette manual, standing next to the oversized mahogany door with its intricate carvings and frosted glass frame.

But the expression on Martin’s face looked troubled.

This can’t be good , I thought.

I couldn’t shake it—something about today felt off in a way that unnerved me.

The air was humid and heavy with the scent of freshly cut grass and the floral tang of whatever exotic flowers Mother had imported this year.

Martin silently opened the door, and I stepped inside. It was obvious that this wasn’t just a casual visit; it was a summons, regal and loaded with the kind of unspoken weight that only someone like Betsy Westbrook could effortlessly command.

Crossing into the grand parlor, I braced myself for whatever storm had brought me here.

Betsy was perched like a queen on the edge of her favorite armchair, her legs crossed and one heeled foot bouncing erratically. She appeared poised yet seething, as if ready for battle.

Her hair was styled in the perfect chaos she somehow always managed to pull off.

The grand parlor itself was always equal parts homey and intimidating with a striking blend of old-world sophistication and Mother’s unmistakable flair for the dramatic. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed beautiful views of the sprawling gardens, and sunlight filtered through the sheer, embroidered curtains, adding an ethereal glow to the room. Mother’s favorite chandelier hung from the high, coffered ceiling, casting subtle rainbows on the walls.

But the expression on my mother’s face sucked the air right out of the room.

Something was seriously, undeniably wrong today.

She waved a book in the air, her movements filled with fury. “Do you know what this is, Hunter?”

“A book?” I ventured, cautiously stepping a little further into the room. “Looks heavy. Cookbook? Self-help?”

Her eyes narrowed into a sharp stare that could stop traffic. “Self-help? If you mean helping the Ashford family smear us in the most repulsive way possible, then yes!”

She slammed the book shut with a resounding thud and threw it on the coffee table.

The cover gleamed under the light with a title that practically screamed at me.

Legacy of Scandal: The Shadowy Secrets of Charleston’s Elite.

I quickly realized that it wasn’t about the gallery directly.

It was something much worse.

“What is this?” I asked, picking up the book carefully as if it might explode.

My mother’s face turned into a scowl as if I’d asked her to explain advanced trigonometry.

“It’s a hit piece,” she said, her voice a low growl. “An assault on the Westbrook name and everything your father and I worked for. Secrets spilled, outrageous stories fabricated, and lies masquerading as truth.”

Martin rushed into the room pushing a gleaming silver tray with assorted plates of cheese and fruit.

“And do you want to know the worst part?” she asked, as Martin plated something for her.

“Let me guess,” I said, holding up a hand, “there’s an entire chapter dedicated to you.”

“There are three chapters about me, thank you very much!” she said, rising to her feet and pacing the room like a tigress. “There’s a full chapter about the so-called ‘betrayal’ of the Ashfords, another chapter about our ‘excessive’ wealth, and another entirely about me. They’re implying that I’ve turned this family into some sort of evil empire.”

She paused and pointed her manicured fingernail at the book. “The author even had the audacity to call me conniving !”

I tried to bite back my smirk, but it was no use. “I mean…”

“Don’t you dare say it,” she warned, squinting at me. “This is serious, Hunter. Do you know what’s at stake here?”

I grinned, shrugging my shoulders casually. “The only thing at stake is public opinion, and the Betsy Westbrook I know doesn’t give a damn what anyone thinks.”

She shot me a withering glare. “There are hundreds of millions of dollars at stake, Hunter. There’s something you don’t know. You’ll want to sit for this.”

My smirk disappeared as the weight of her words sucked the air out of the room, and my pulse quickened as a cold dread pawed at my chest.

I swiftly sat in the chair she was pointing to.

Mother sighed, her tone heavy. “What you don’t know is that I’m trying to sell Harborstone Gallery. A few months back, my attorneys met with the Ashfords’ lawyers, and we all agreed it was time. We’re all worn thin from the constant tension of managing the gallery, and even the Ashfords agreed that it’s best to call it a day and sell the business.”

Finally, it all started making sense.

Mother slid her plate of cheese aside and waved Martin out of the room with a curt nod.

“Leave us,” she said, her tone clipped.

The air in the room was charged with electricity. My mother, usually unshakeable, appeared unsettled. It was as if she were about to unearth a dark family secret—one I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear.

“We have an interested buyer,” she said. “A billionaire from New York by the name of Marcus Lockwood. We’ve been in negotiations for months and we’re finally circling around a sale price of four hundred million.”

My heart practically slammed to a halt.

Four hundred million?

The number hit me like a slap, and my expression clearly showed my disbelief.

Betsy’s lips curved into a knowing smile, but her eyes remained serious. “As you know, dear, I’m already a wealthy woman, but even I don’t scoff at a sale of this size. Everyone knows your father left me six hundred million. But even at my level, Hunter…” She leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing even further. “This is a big deal.”

I nodded as if I understood completely, even though numbers this large were hard to truly grasp.

Mother drummed her fingers on the table anxiously, each tap heavily laced with tension. It was rare to see her completely lost in thought.

Her stress was practically palpable.

“Half of that sale price goes to me,” she said, her eyes flicking to mine as she spoke. “That’s two hundred million, Hunter. Not exactly pocket change. Look, I’ve never felt the need to apologize for being an ambitious woman. My goal now is the same as it always was: to secure this family’s future for generations to come.”

It was odd to hear my mother speak about money in such a candid manner. She’d never been one to explain or justify herself.

She’d never needed to.

The fact that she was doing so now showed that she was rattled.

I hated seeing her this worked up. For years, she’d been a provider for all of us, the backbone of our family. When my brother Logan’s wife passed away, leaving him a single father to his teenager Henry, Mother had stepped in and helped raised him. She was the foundation of the Westbrook family, and I wanted to do anything I could to ease her burden.

She reached out and picked up a piece of cheese before examining it and putting it back, obviously too worried to eat. “The investor, Mr. Lockwood, is eyeing Harborstone because he wants to add prestige to his portfolio. It’s not about the financial profit for him, he just wants to improve his public image. And that’s the problem.”

“The problem?” I asked, taking a sip of sweet tea that Martin had poured before he left.

“Mr. Billionaire is unfortunately plagued by a somewhat dicey reputation,” Mother explained. “The media always hounds him, questioning the ethics of his business practices. He buys struggling companies, guts them, then allows for mass layoffs and community upheavals. Essentially, he’s hoping the acquisition of Harborstone will shine up his brand.”

“Shine up his brand?” I asked. “With fancy art?”

Mother nodded, pressing her fingers against her temples. “You can see the dilemma. Thanks to this disgraceful new book, the word ‘scandal’ might as well be stamped across our foreheads. Harborstone Gallery won’t salvage Mr. Lockwood’s reputation if we’re neck-deep in controversy.”

“You’re worried this book might scare off the buyer?” I asked.

“Precisely. All he’s going to see is a public relations nightmare. Not an opportunity.”

“And the Ashfords are on board with selling the company? I thought Harborstone was their crown jewel, their pride and joy.”

Betsy smirked knowingly. “Darling, the Ashfords are desperate to sell, which comes as no surprise. They’re wealthy, but not Westbrook wealthy.”

She was right. Charleston’s society pages made an art of dissecting fortunes, and it was well-known that the Ashfords net worth was a mere shadow of my mother’s empire.

She eyed me up and down. “That’s why we need to fix this.”

I took a deep breath as I sank into my chair. “And by we , you mean me. What exactly is the play here? Damage control? Issuing a public statement? We can’t rewrite history, Mother. The book is already out there, available for any interested party to read.”

She picked the book up from the table and examined the cover before glancing back at me. “I have a plan.”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh Mother, I was already quite sure you had a plan. The only question that remains is how insane is the idea you’ve cooked up?”

She squinted at me. “Have you heard of Avery Ashford?”

I shook my head to indicate that I hadn’t. The Ashford family wasn’t nearly as prominent as we were. How could I be expected to know the names of each member within their family tree?

Mother paused, hesitating as if she was skeptical about telling me her devious plot. “He’s the thirty-three-year-old son of Reggie and Vivian Ashford.”

“Your mortal enemies.”

She nodded as if I wasn’t joking.

What she said next completely floored me.

Her eyes twinkled. “I want you to date Avery.”

The room fell completely silent as a look of incredulity washed over my face.

“I’m sorry, what ?” I asked, leaning forward, sure that I had misheard.

“You heard me,” she said confidently, as if she was a chess player about to sacrifice one of her pawns. “You and Avery Ashford. Together. A dazzling, highly public romance that will captivate the press and rewrite the narrative.”

I blinked, completely and totally stunned.

“Mother, I’ve never even met Avery Ashford.”

She grinned as she picked her phone up and turned it to show me Avery’s image on his social media profile. Despite my best efforts, I glanced down, bracing myself for an insufferable caricature of a man.

But Avery Ashford was… gorgeous.

His dark hair was swept back in an effortless style, and his sharp green eyes pierced right through the screen. Avery had the kind of jawline that looked as if it was sculpted from marble. He was standing on what appeared to be a gallery balcony, his posture relaxed but confident, with the Charleston skyline glowing behind him.

Immediately, I tried to freeze my facial expression, to control myself so that Mother wouldn’t know I was instantly attracted to Avery. She was like a hawk; once she locked eyes on something, she’d never relent.

“Well?” Mother prompted, smirking as if she could already detect the spark of interest on my face. “Don’t let Avery’s good looks distract you.”

Damn, she noticed.

“You can’t let this turn into a real romance,” she added. “This is strictly business.”

I glanced away from the phone, clearing my throat. “Mother, I haven’t even agreed to this yet and you’re already giving me tips. He’s a decent-looking man, but I’m sure he’s just photogenic.”

She blinked at me, wordlessly expressing that which I already knew.

I didn’t have a choice.

“The Ashfords are already on board,” she said. “Their reputations are just as bruised as ours, and they recognize the value of a captivating story.”

My mouth opened and I tried to force myself to speak, but no words came out. When I finally found my voice, it was dripping in concerned skepticism.

“Do you seriously expect me to fake-date someone I don’t even know? A random guy from a family we’ve been at war with for decades? What’s next, matching tattoos?”

“The world will eat this up,” Mother said with a scoff. “And you know it’s true, Hunter. Two rival families coming together—it’s the perfect distraction from that dreadful book.”

She paused, hesitating for a moment as if choosing her next words carefully. “And who knows… maybe if all goes according to plan, maybe I’ll feel inspired when it comes time to finalize certain family decisions.”

My heart stuttered as my mouth slightly opened. “Mother, are you bribing me with my very own future?”

A wide smile spread across her face. “Darling, bribery is such a strong word. I’m only reminding you that initiative is often rewarded generously in life.”

My voice was thick with suspicion. “Generously?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said with a casual inflection, picking an invisible speck of lint from her shirt. “I’m sure your brother Logan would use the word generous , don’t you?”

Well, yeah, you gave him thirty million.

I thought it but I didn’t dare say it.

Instead, I furrowed my brow, desperately trying to steer the conversation away from my sudden, inconvenient attraction to Ashley and my newfound anxiety about my inheritance.

I cleared my throat. “And what will happen when this little charade blows up in our faces?”

Mother shrugged her shoulders and reached for her tea. “By that time, the gallery will have already sold, profits will be pocketed, and the scandal forgotten. It’s a win-win for everyone involved.”

It wasn’t immediately clear if Betsy’s confidence was impressive or delusional.

“I’m not a fan of this diabolical plan.”

“Oh, you will be,” she said with a breezy tone. “Once you see how well it works out.”