Chapter 3
THREE
brANDON
“ B randon.” Elijah’s voice carries that note of authority that makes my jaw clench. “Glad you could make it.”
“How could I miss it?” I meet his eyes. “Such a touching tribute.”
“We need to talk.”
“About what? How well I’m filling Dad’s shoes?” I adjust my cufflinks. “Or maybe, how I’m not living up to the Milton name?”
“Hey.” Naomi’s hand touches my arm, but I shrug it off.
“No, let’s hear what my big brother has to say. I’m sure it’s fascinating.”
“This isn’t the time or place,” Elijah says, voice low and controlled. Always so fucking controlled.
“When is it ever?” I spread my arms wide, drawing attention from nearby guests. “Should I write a formal proposal? Schedule a meeting with your assistant?”
“Don’t be difficult.”
I bark out a laugh. “How long did it take you to memorize Dad’s disappointed face?”
Sebastian tries to intervene. “Guys?—”
“Stay out of it,” Elijah and I snap in unison.
Great. Now we’re saying the same things, like some fucked-up twins.
“You’re drunk,” Elijah says.
“Not drunk enough for this conversation.”
“Can you, for once in your life, act like?—”
“Like what?” My voice rises. “Like you? Sorry to disappoint, but one Charles Milton Junior is enough.”
The muscle in his jaw ticks. “You’re crossing a dangerous line.”
“Save the lecture. I know my lines in this play.” I mimic our father’s voice. “’Be more like your brother, Brandon. Why can’t you take things seriously, Brandon?’ Did I miss anything?”
Silence falls between us, heavy with years of unspoken resentment. Naomi’s watching me with those eyes of hers, and I hate that I care what she thinks. That I see pure disappointment there.
I am a disappointment.
“Ten minutes,” Elijah says. “The speech is in ten minutes.”
“Pass.”
“It wasn’t a request.”
“For fuck’s sake.” Naomi steps between us, her hand pressing against my chest. The warmth of her touch cuts through my anger like a knife. “Both of you, stop.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she shoots me a look that could freeze hell.
“Shut up for once,” she says.
“I don’t?—”
“What part of ‘shut up’ is unclear?” She turns to Elijah. “And you. He’s here, isn’t he? That’s what matters.”
Elijah’s expression softens slightly. “The speech?—”
“Will happen,” she says firmly. “Right, Brandon?”
There is a slight tremor in her fingers clutching my chest. She’s nervous. No. Scared. Of what? That I’ll make a scene? That I’ll embarrass her?
“Fine.” I loosen my tie. The damn thing’s still choking me.
“Good boy.” She pats my chest condescendingly. Can she do that more often? “Now, Elijah, I believe your wife is probably missing you.”
He hesitates, glancing between us. “Ten minutes.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I wiggle my head like a pendulum. “Tick tock.”
He doesn’t answer and walks off.
“You’re an idiot.” Naomi’s hand falls away, and I immediately miss its warmth.
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“You’re also drunk.”
“Working on it.” I grab a champagne flute from a passing waiter.
She snatches it from my hand. “No, you’re not.”
“Since when are you my keeper?”
“Since you decided to pick a fight with your brother at an event that is held in honor of your father.”
The truth in her words stings more than I’d like to admit. “I?—”
“Save it.” She downs the champagne herself, placing it right back. “Just… get through the next hour without starting World War Three, okay?”
“Fine.”
She steps closer, close enough that I catch that apple pie scent again. “You’re better than this.”
“Am I?” I chuckle.
“Yes, you are.” All the amusement vanishes. “And you’re going to go up there, and you’re going to give that speech. Not for them. Not for Elijah. Not even for your father.”
“For who then?”
“For you.” She straightens my tie. “Because you’re Brandon fucking Milton, and you’re… funny.”
I stare at her, this woman who drives me crazy in every possible way. “You’re good at this.”
“At what?”
“Lying.”
Something flashes in her eyes. Hurt maybe? It’s gone before I can be sure. “You ready for that speech?”
No. I’m not fucking ready. I’ll never be ready to stand up there and wax poetic about what a great man my father was and how much he meant to me. It’s all bullshit.
But I nod anyway. “Yeah.”
My feet feel like lead weights, each step bringing me closer to a moment I’ve been dreading for months as she guides me behind the stage.
Novalie, my beautiful little sister, is already there, her smooth blonde hair catching the dim backstage lighting. She looks small in her black dress, fragile, like she might shatter if someone speaks too loudly. Her gray eyes meet mine, and fuck, I hate seeing that worry there.
Elijah was against her being here, but it seems like she won the argument.
“Brandon…” She takes a half-step forward, then stops. “You…”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” she whispers.
“Nova.”
Elijah appears, shoving a stack of cards into my chest. “Here. Try not to fuck this up.”
My fingers close around them reflexively.
“I’ll speak first,” Elijah says. “Then you. Then Nova.”
“Got it.” I flip through the cards, the words blurring together. “Say nice things about Dad. Pretend we were one big happy family. Should I cry for effect?”
“Just…” He takes a deep breath. “Just read the cards.”
Novalie’s hands twist in front of her, a nervous habit she’s had since we were kids. “Maybe we should not?”
“It’s fine,” I cut her off. “Everything’s fucking fine.”
“It’s time.” Gemma appears on Elijah’s side, her eyes darting between us. “Everything alright?”
“Yes. Thank you.” Elijah straightens his already perfect tie and strides onto the stage. “Let’s do this.”
The spotlight hits him, and if he doesn’t look exactly like Dad up there, tall, commanding, every inch the perfect Milton heir I don’t know what would.
“Good evening, everyone.” His voice booms through the speakers. “We’re gathered here today to honor a man who shaped not just our family but an entire industry…”
I tune him out, my fingers crushing the note cards. The same recycled bullshit about legacy and vision and whatever other corporate buzzwords they could stuff into this speech.
Novalie’s hand brushes mine, feather-light. “You okay?”
“Don’t worry, baby sis.”
She shifts from foot to foot. The stage lights cast shadows under her eyes, making her look even more fragile than usual. Christ, she shouldn’t have to do this. She shouldn’t be up here. She hates crowds and hates attention. But here she is, playing the dutiful daughter while I fumble through this farce.
“I could go next,” she whispers. “If you want?”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than intended. “Just… stick to the plan.”
Elijah’s up there plating perfection, garnishing every word with exactly the right amount of emotion, painting pictures of family dinners that never happened and of fatherly advice that was actually criticism in disguise. The audience hangs on every word, eating up this fairytale version of Charles Milton.
Meanwhile, I’m back here, raw and messy like a kitchen during rush hour, about to serve up something that’ll probably give everyone food poisoning.
“And now, my brother Brandon would like to say a few words.” Polite applause breaks out as Elijah steps away from the podium, gesturing at me.
Fuck.
“Don’t throw up,” Naomi mutters behind me.
I roll my shoulders. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
The stage lights hit me like a physical force as I step out. Hundreds of faces stare back, waiting. Judging. The vultures eager to pick apart whatever comes out of my mouth.
Time to lie through my teeth about what a great father Charles Milton was.
“Thank you, Elijah.” I set the cards down on the podium. “Our father…”
Was what? A hardass? A perfectionist who never saw me as anything but a disappointment? “Our father was…”
I glance behind me. At the gigantic picture of Dad on the screen. It looks ridiculous. Even after death, he manages to look down on us.
“My father wasn’t perfect. He was stubborn. Demanding. Sometimes, he was a real?—”
Elijah stiffens beside me like chocolate hitting cold water. Instant, harsh, brittle. His jaw locks, teeth grinding with that familiar sound of disapproval that runs in the fucking family.
At this rate, his dentist’s kids will be able to afford college.
“But he built something extraordinary. Not just this company but… us. We all learned a lot from him. His legacy isn’t in stock prices or profit margins. It’s right here.”
I gesture to Elijah, whose jaw gradually relaxes. “In the son who carries his vision forward.” Not like me. I point to Novalie. “The daughter who has his creative spirit. And…” The fuck-up who can’t even stick to the script. Dad would’ve loved this. His biggest disappointment managing to disappoint even at his memorial. Going for that post-mortem punch, old man? “We miss him. But we’ll carry on. Thank you for coming.”
I stumble off the stage, straight past Naomi, yanking at my tie like it’s trying to strangle me. Fuck the rest of this circus. Let Novalie and Elijah handle the sympathy vultures.
The bar at the entrance is mercifully dim and nearly empty.
“Whiskey. Neat.” I collapse onto a stool, signaling the bartender, a wiry kid with a bad attempt at a mustache. “Actually, make it a double.”
He pours, hands me the glass, and I down it in one go. It burns, a trail of molten cinders. I signal for another, and the kid has the audacity to hesitate. One glare, and he snaps to attention. I guess I haven’t completely lost my head-chef presence.
I take the second glass slower, letting the fumes fill my head and my nose.
When was the last time I got drunk? Not just buzzed, but full-on, obliterated. Probably that night with Dad in his study, him going on about profit margins while I knocked back his expensive scotch, pretending I gave a shit about quarterly reports. Even then, I couldn’t get drunk enough to tell him I’d rather dice onions for the rest of my life than sit in his precious boardroom.
“Starting the party without me?” Sebastian hops onto the stool next to me.
“Again, Bash. Kindly fuck off.”
“Charming as ever.” He signals the waiter. “That was quite a speech.”
“If you’re looking for tickets to my next performance, I’m fully booked. Though I hear Elijah’s doing an encore of ‘Perfect Son’ later.”
He raises his glass. “To Charles Milton.”
I snort despite myself, clinking my glass against his.
Connor joins in on my other side. The gang’s all here.
The bartender sets down another whiskey. My salvation in a glass.
“You took over my title as King of Miserable,” Sebastian raises his glass again.
I ignore it and take a sip instead. “Fuck you.”
He sighs. “Look, I know this isn’t easy. But you can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“This.” He gestures at me, at the glass in my hand. “Drowning yourself in booze, pushing everyone away. Especially Naomi.”
I stiffen. “Leave her out of it.”
“Cut the shit.” Connor yanks the glass out of my hand. “If you don’t get your shit together, you’re going to lose her. For good this time.”
“She’s only here because of the deal,” I say. “You know that.”
“Maybe at first,” Sebastian says.
I shake my head. “You’re delusional.”
“Am I?” His gaze sharpens. “You gave up your dream restaurant to play corporate puppet. At least don’t give up the one person who actually gives a damn about the real you.”
“She deserves better,” I whisper.
“Yeah, she does,” Sebastian agrees, brutal as always. “But for some godforsaken reason, she’s chosen you. So get your head out of your ass and start acting like someone worthy of her.”
“You know what your problem is?” Connor asks.
“Please, enlighten me,” I say. “Because clearly this night hasn’t been therapeutic enough.”
“You’re too caught up in your own head.” He taps his temple. “Always have been.”
“And here I thought my problem was daddy issues. Thanks for clearing that up, Dr. I-Hack-Therefore-I-Am. Should I venmo you for the session?”
“That too.” Connor’s eyes flick to something behind me. “Girlfriend incoming.”
Fuck. “How pissed does she look?”
Sebastian smirks. “On a scale of one to castration?”
“Shit.”