CHAPTER 42 Charlie
CHAPTER 42
Charlie
O n Thursday night, we’re seated in the back seat of a large Mercedes-Benz.
“I’m so fucking nervous, I think I’m going to throw up,” Rowan mutters. His driver Hector is taking us to Bel Air for a holiday party at Bree St. Thomas’s house.
Rowan looks fabulous. He’s wearing some kind of trashed, skinny pants with a shiny button-down shirt, and he looks like a model. I like him in anything (or nothing), but the fancy designer clothing does suit him. Plus, in a way, it’s armor. He’s meeting the rest of his family all at once—ones who grew up together and have history he doesn’t share.
“They’re gonna kick me out,” he whispers.
“No, they’re not. You belong there just as much as they do.”
“As what? The long-lost bastard child?”
I squeeze his clammy hand. “You’re the only child of your dying father, who looked for you for years. You’re the rightful heir to the St. Thomas estate. I read through all the trust documents.”
“Hmm.”
He stares out the window at the holiday lights and increasingly nice houses we’re passing .
How can I help him not panic?
Be his daddy.
“You walk in there like the badass you are,” I order. “Back straight, head held high. You fucking belong, baby boy.”
Rowan gives me a grateful look I catch in the streetlights. He lifts his chin. Good .
“Are you going to own that party?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says, and his voice is stronger than it was a few moments ago.
“Well, then. This should be fun.”
Hector pulls through a gate and up a private road, following a line of cars to a circular drive, where he stops at the entrance to what appears to be a transplanted Tuscan villa. The place is as big as a city block and has to be on a couple of acres, which in this neighborhood … I can’t imagine the cost. I’m guessing the house is fifteen thousand square feet. Maybe more.
Holiday lights illuminate the architectural features. A series of arches invite you to stroll across a manicured lawn and terraced gardens overlooking, I believe, a golf course.
We step out of the car, and … holy shit.
I thought old money types were supposed to be understated—the whole quiet luxury thing where they don’t announce their wealth.
This party is the opposite of that. But then, I suppose Bree St. Thomas isn’t old money, if I understand her history correctly.
We’re serenaded by violinists playing Christmas music as we walk up the stairs. A quartet bundled up like they’re from merry olde England sings carols. Candles are everywhere, in quantities like they’re trying to burn the place down. Every spot that could be decked in garland, is. An enormous wreath hangs over the front doors.
And that’s before we get inside.
The doors open, and we step into a grand entrance hall with staircases going up three floors. We don’t have time to goggle as we follow the flow of people into a ballroom. Yeah, there’s a ballroom in the house, like we’re in the 1800s or something. More than just family is invited to the party—I’d say there are at least a hundred people here. Waiters circle with trays of drinks, caviar on toast, and tiny appetizers like lobster cakes and wild mushroom tarts.
When Rowan and I enter, first one person, then the next, then the next turns to look at us.
Soon, the room is silent, apart from a string quartet over in one corner.
I want to yell This is the new St. Thomas heir, jackasses . But I can keep my mouth shut.
Maybe.
I look over at Rowan, who is holding up his chin, his back straight, thousand-mile stare on his face. Oh, yeah. The pink hair. The small stature. He stands out.
And he’s a threat to their entire way of life. Because he will control the purse strings in a little over a year.
Thankfully, Nana comes over and hugs him tight. “Rowan and Charlie! I’m so glad you’ve come.”
I give her a hug, too. She smells nice.
The guests start to chatter again, and I’m sure they’re talking about Rowan.
“You know how to make an entrance,” Nana says, winking at him.
Before Rowan says anything, a short, older man approaches. He’s a dapper twin to Rowan, with the same eyes and nose. But his pallor and slow movements, not to mention the nurse moving discreetly behind him, make it clear that he’s ill. This has to be Remi.
My heart aches for Rowan.
“Remi,” Rowan says, shaking his hand formally. “This is my boyfriend, Charlie Cooper. Charlie, this is my father, Remi St. Thomas.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Charlie.” Remi shakes my hand with surprising strength before coughing into a linen handkerchief.
Remi shouldn’t be here. He should be resting at home. But if this is his last Christmas, it makes sense that he would want to spend it with his family.
“I’m glad Rowan is with someone who is supporting him,” Remi continues. “He told me a bit about his upbringing, and I don’t know how I can ever forgive myself for not finding him sooner.”
“You tried,” Rowan says.
“At least I’ve found you now.”
A movement behind Remi, and a tall, older woman comes up and wraps her arms around his neck. It’s Bree St. Thomas, who I met last week at the Albrecht College party. “Uncle Remi, nice to see you.”
“Hello, Bree.” He nods, gently extricating himself. “Anastasia,” he says to a slightly younger version of Bree. “Bree and Anastasia, this is Rowan. I’ve finally found my son.”
“Nice to meet you both.” Rowan shakes each of their hands in turn, his movements slow and cautious and his head cocked. His narrowed eyes cut to me.
“Pleasure,” Bree says flatly. Her eyes flit to me and widen in recognition.
“Likewise,” Anastasia says, echoing Bree’s lack of enthusiasm.
A server comes by with champagne, and everyone takes a glass. I’m not sure what I was expecting tonight, but it was not this huge event. I think of family holiday parties as everyone in the kitchen, getting in the way, while football is on in the living room.
I wrap an arm around Rowan’s waist and hold him to me. He relaxes against my chest, which tells me I did the right thing.
“Nana told us,” Bree says to Remi in a conversational tone, “that you changed the trust beneficiaries because you found Rowan. Is that true?”
Remi makes a teeter-totter motion with his hand. “You know Grandfather’s trust can’t be changed. I just clarified that Rowan is my child, in accordance with René’s wish to ensure the St. Thomas family funds go to the oldest child of the oldest child. With my own trust, yes, I changed the beneficiary.”
“What will happen to us?” Anastasia asks. “When someone new and outside the family is in charge?”
“Rowan is family,” Remi says sharply. “As for the two of you, stop throwing parties like this and invest what you already have. It’s more than enough for you to live on, if you make intelligent choices.”
Anastasia pinches her lips together, while Bree’s face is stony.
“Are you doing okay?” Anastasia asks Remi, her kind-ish words belied by her uninterested expression.
Remi shakes his head. “Not really.”
“So sorry to hear that,” Bree says, pasting on a sympathetic tilt to her eyebrows. “Do you have a prognosis?”
“Probably a few months,” he says.
Rowan rubs the heel of his palm against his chest.
“That’s too bad,” Anastasia says. “We hope you aren’t in a lot of pain.” Her tone suggests otherwise.
I can see Rowan reaching for his back pocket, likely to pull out his blade and show them what actual pain is. And while that would be amusing, I step in and suggest, “If you two don’t have anything nice to say, why don’t you move along.”
After looking Rowan and me up and down, Bree and Anastasia excuse themselves, and Remi turns to us. “Those two have been gold diggers their entire lives. I’m glad that they’re not getting the St. Thomas fortune. They’d just waste it.”
Rowan swallows a few times. I need to think of something to say that will make this all better, but what could achieve that?
His father’s dying.
His extended family is a motley crew, some of whom clearly resent him.
And he doesn’t yet feel comfortable with any of this .
A bell rings, and everyone moves into another room for dinner. Long tables like I’ve seen in photos of palaces are set with fine china.
Rowan and I are seated far away from the main action. I’m on the end, likely intentionally, but I’m good with that, because I don’t want to talk with any of these people anyway. Rowan talks with the woman next to him, who is some incredibly distant relative.
The food is pretty great—a chateaubriand en cro?te, which is a beef tenderloin with mushroom duxelles covered in puff pastry. At least that’s what they tell me. It’s served with green beans amandine and hasselback potatoes, and for dessert, a sticky toffee pudding.
Rowan whispers, “I think the beef needed more Frank’s hot sauce.”
I snort.
Later in the evening, Rowan and I are standing off to the side of the ballroom, talking with Nana, when Bree sweeps over to us. She’s clearly had more wine than when we were talking earlier.
Rowan’s distracted with Nana, and Bree leans close to whisper in my ear. “I remember you from the Albrecht College party last week. Weren’t you there with Tristan Graff? Wow, you get around. Is Rowan your flavor of the week?”
“Tristan’s just a friend. Rowan’s my boyfriend.”
“Oh? Is that so? How long has that been going on?”
“We met last month,” I say, feeling foolish that I’ve fallen so hard so fast. But then I remember that … I’ve fallen hard and fast. Fuck anyone who thinks that’s a problem. Anastasia, who seems to be joined to Bree at the hip, comes up next to us.
Bree sips her wine. “If you don’t think Rowan’s bought himself a legal fight, you’re wrong. Remi’s not in his right mind. He’s not well. He can’t change the trust.”
My lawyer training kicks in. “He didn’t change the St. Thomas family trust; it was created generations ago. He simply clarified Rowan’s relationship to the current beneficiary. With his own trust, he can do as he wishes. And he doesn’t have to be perfectly healthy to prepare an estate plan; the standard for testamentary capacity is very low. He has to know the names and understand what he’s doing, which he clearly does.”
Bree sniffs. “I’ll talk to my lawyer.”
I roll my eyes. “No one’s stopping you, but I am a lawyer, and I know what I’m talking about. What do you need the money for, anyway? What’s the interest on his billions? I’m sure you have enough squirreled away for the rest of your life. Or you could sell this place. It has to be nine figures.”
Anastasia gets up in my face. “We want to fund Albrecht’s endowment, for starters.”
I huff. “What does Albrecht need more money for?”
Bree shrugs. “Then we’ll funnel it toward other causes we care about.”
Don’t ask. Don’t ask. “And what are those?”
She gives me an evil smile. “Supporting traditional American values.”
Oh, shit. So if we don’t make sure Rowan gets his billions, some asshole’s probably going to get into power and fuck over the whole United States. Which could filter to the whole world.
My brain goes dark fast.
Anastasia nods. “We want to make sure that all those liberal social causes don’t take over.” She looks me up and down. “We want to bring America back to the way it used to be.”
Okay, that’s enough. I know it’s Rowan’s family’s holiday party, but if these jerks want to take away my rights, I’m going to give them a piece of my mind.
Only, before I let loose, they both turn on their heels, fake smiles in place, and descend on their next victim.
“What’s wrong?” Rowan asks, wrapping an arm around my waist .
“Bree just threatened to fight you for the money so she can fund despicable causes.”
“Ugh. Let her try. I know a lawyer,” he says, grinning.