Chapter 1
Theo
‘It’s not just that the…’ Mum trails off, her eyelids drifting closed in distaste, because hell will freeze over before Laura Montague says the T-word.
‘Threesome.’ My smug arse of an older brother crosses his arms and presses his lips together in a studied expression of moral superiority.
But I don’t miss the smirk fighting at the corners of Miles’ mouth.
He’s utterly thrilled that once again I’ve proven my mettle as the useless middle son.
And I suspect he’s jealous AF that I had two girls’ hands wrapped around my—
‘Thank you, Miles.’ Mum’s eyes open and fix icily on me, her glare radiating disapproval and disappointment.
Thank fuck Dad’s in the States, overseeing the reopening of our Upper East Side hotel after a long and painful renovation.
I’ll take a disciplinary committee of two rather than being bollocked by the usual triumvirate.
Mum forges gamely ahead. I feel bad, but believe me, this conversation is just as excruciating for me as it is for her. The only one enjoying it is Miles.
‘It’s not just that what you did was deeply disrespectful to those two young ladies.
It’s that the whole thing was broadcast for the world to see, and I can’t tell you how damaging that kind of lewd behaviour is to our brand, Theodore.
The name Montague has always been associated with class.
Elegance. And your… antics have threatened that.
Tarnished it. Our guests choose The Montague Group because it’s discreet.
And you, darling, have been anything but. ’
I shift in my seat. I need to defend myself here. ‘Look, Mum. Firstly, I didn’t disrespect them. Believe me, they were very happy. And I’m not sure I’d call them ladies.’
Because Trixie and Dixie (I kid you not) Tanner-Leyland may technically be Lady Trixie and Lady Dixie, but that’s as far as their ladylike qualities go.
They’re little minxes, the two of them, and they know exactly how much of a double threat they are with their identically pretty faces, arse-length blonde hair and dangerous bodies.
And as for the identical twin thing—it was fucking awesome for me, but I don’t get how they can do that with their own sister. I mean, Jesus. It’s creepy. It’d be like Miles and I getting into bed with the same girl at the same time...
Oh, Jesus.
What a visual.
Bile rises in my throat. I really think I might puke.
‘Mate.’ Miles’ tone suggests that verbally criticising the ‘ladies’ I defiled is a new low, even for me.
‘Nobody was disrespected in that room. Okay? There were three consenting adults, and that’s all you need to know.’
‘Unfortunately, we know a lot more than we needed to about your little menage. The whole world does.’
Alas, Miles is right. It turns out the producers of Charmed in Chelsea, the semi-scripted reality TV show to which I signed up for a season, are devious little shits with a penchant for editing the hell out of footage to make it look far more salacious than it is.
Although even I can concede that a threesome is salacious enough on its own.
But still.
The editing was brutal.
Charmed in Chelsea Season One aired in one go on streaming platform Azure earlier this week, and my Trixie-and-Dixie-fest has been the single most talked-about storyline of the whole shit-show.
I signed up to Charmed—reluctantly, I might add—to increase profile for my businesses, especially for my NFT art marketplace and gallery, to attract funding and to show my family I’m truly worthy of running with a slice of our hotel portfolio.
Unfortunately, I’ve emerged looking like a kinky playboy.
As an aside, being painted as a kinky playboy has its advantages.
I discovered this last night when I went out in Knightsbridge and was mobbed by women.
Usually, I get the minor aristocrats looking for a husband who actually has money—someone who can afford to re-roof their leaky castles every few years.
Last night they gave me a wide berth and the ones like a moth to a flame were those who actually liked the idea of me being a dirty bastard.
Hmm. Definitely a helpful development for my sex life. Though I’m aware I’ll have to keep my encounters discreet for the time being.
‘It’ll blow over.’ I sound far more confident than I feel. ‘It’ll be old news by next week.’
‘Either way,’ Miles says, ‘it’s plain unhelpful, Theo.
You keep saying you’re ready to step up.
I just don’t see it. Here we are’—he gestures to him and Mum, united across the table from me—‘working our arses off to keep the Montague brand on the front foot. We’re revamping the whole portfolio, bringing the older hotels into the twenty-first century.
We’re building. Acquiring. Expanding. And from where I’m sitting, you’re fannying around on excruciatingly trite TV shows and shagging anything that moves. ’
It’s so fucking unfair. I open my mouth to say so, and he stops me with a hand.
‘You keep saying you’re ready to step up, but frankly, I don’t see it.
Sure, you’re doing a good job with the gallery and the wine stuff.
A really good job. We all know you’re far from stupid.
But being at the helm of this ship we’ve built isn’t just about business acumen.
It’s about sacrifice. Strength of character. Foresight. Judgment.
‘And anyone who allows himself to get completely arseholed in front of a bunch of TV cameras, for fuck’s sake, and then allows them into his flat with not one but two women, is decidedly lacking in anything approaching judgement.’
He sits back in his chair and fixes me with his trademark stony glare.
I want to punch him in that smug face. I really do.
And yet, the galling thing is I totally agree with him.
I’m the mutinous toddler, again, despite being able to plead a plausible case for why our family dynamics have made me that way.
I can’t deny that cavorting around Chelsea on camera, a titled (and entitled) blonde on each arm, may make me a hero in the eyes of some guys and a target for legions of women. But in the eyes of my family it makes me a laughingstock.
Nothing more.
It’s time for a rethink.
Besides, however tempting it is to get defensive, to throw my toys, Miles and Mum won’t warm to that.
Miles especially. He’s always been the over-competent and confident first-born, ruling our parents’ hearts for the first eight years of his life and consoling Mum through several miscarriages until I finally showed up.
And the thrill at a second son was short-lived when, against all odds, Stephen showed up a mere thirteen months after me.
It’s the most basic law of middle children: do whatever it takes to get attention.
Miles has always achieved, effortlessly, spearheading The Montague Group’s incredible growth in recent years.
Stephen is one of the good guys. I mean, he really is.
He’s a fucking teddy bear, and he and his equally lovely wife, Margot, have already given Mum and Dad twin granddaughters.
He’s a successful chiropractor, having happily eschewed any part of the family business in favour of helping his fellow humans.
And me?
I’ll let you know when I figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do in this family.
But I’m smart enough to know that while I figure it out, I’d better smooth things over here. Mum and Dad don’t deserve this grief, and Miles won’t hesitate to freeze me out. Cooperation, or perceived cooperation at least, are the only way forward for the time being.
I put my hands up in surrender.
‘It was a dick move. I get it. I’m sorry, Mum. Momentary judgement lapse. But I do get it. I know you don’t think I do, but I do. I’ll do better from now on.’
Miles is clearly expecting more of a pushback from me. He nods. He may be a prick, but he’s a fair one, and to his credit, he doesn’t hold grudges.
‘Good. Let’s move on. Keep your head down, okay mate?’
Mum rises and steps around the table. She bends and kisses my forehead, her hands framing my jaw.
‘Apology accepted. It’s a life lesson, Theo.
Perception is reality. And there will always be people who want to tear us down.
Who resent anyone who’s built success for themselves, brick by brick. When they go low, we go high. Got it?’
She tips my face up and I resist the urge to roll my eyes, because Mum doesn’t just spout Michelle Obama-isms for appearances. This kind of shit is genuinely a mantra for her to live by. And she’s a sweetheart, and she doesn’t deserve her arsehole sons.
‘Got it.’ I smile as she squishes my face as if I’m five, not thirty.
‘Good boy. You’re so handsome. I just wish we could find you a lovely girl. Someone appropriate.’
I snort as she releases me. ‘Miles married someone highly appropriate and look where that got him.’
It’s a low blow, but it’s true. Miles married a sociopathic socialite from hell, Allegra, who was as entitled as she was hot, and she absconded to the US a couple of years ago, leaving him and my gorgeous little niece, Bea, to fend for themselves.
It was unforgivable. Thankfully, he’s since fallen head over heels for, and proposed to, Bea’s nanny, Saoirse, who is Stephen-and-Margot-level sweet and so fucking ravishing I could barely take my eyes off her when Miles introduced us.
If anyone can save Miles from disappearing up his own arse, it’s Saoirse. You could argue his daughter’s sweet, Irish, normal nanny was not the most obvious match for Miles Montague to make, but I’m just glad he saw sense after Allegra and did a full one-eighty on his taste in women.
My point: appropriate is way over-rated.
Miles’ jaw tightens at the mention of his ex-wife. She’s back in the UK now—she came scurrying back last Christmas—but he sent her packing.
‘We’re not saying you should go for someone who doesn’t make you happy.
Just try to find a girlfriend who’s not a total PR liability.
Someone… I don’t know. Someone you can forge a proper partnership with, who’ll understand the responsibilities you’ll have if you step up within the business. Someone sensible.’
A nice, sensible girlfriend.
Kill me now.
‘Where the hell am I supposed to find someone like that?’
‘Try our engagement party.’ Miles picks up his phone, signalling the end of the meeting. ‘There’ll be plenty of intelligent, accomplished, suitable women there. Just stay away from our business associates. And employees, obviously.’
I stare at him, my mouth hanging open. Is this guy for real?
‘You literally shagged your nanny, who you plucked from the hotel’s creche, for fuck’s sake. Are you seriously going to tell me to stay away from the employees?’
I’ve had high hopes for Saoirse’s friends at the engagement party. And the wedding. And the pre-wedding weekend in Cap Ferrat. She’s told me before that her bunch of fun-loving Irish, Aussie and Kiwi mates (mainly nannies at The Montague’s creche) will go crazy for me.
I’m holding her to it.
Miles is not amused. He narrows his eyes at me. ‘I kept everything above board with Saoirse. You know that. Why don’t you take it as a personal challenge? Find the most sensible woman at the party and charm the pants off her. That’s one skill you can’t deny you have.’
I suppose that’s challenge accepted, then.