ONE
Levi
PRESENT DAY
I miss her.
Fuck, I miss her.
It feels like it’s been forever and yet—
“She said she looks uncouth,” my mother cackles from across the sunroom. “That’s the word she used! My Lord, uncouth? I mean yes, Celestine’s hair has been a topic of discussion—but really, who even uses that word anymore?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
The high-falutin jargon always blurs when it’s my mother talking. Odette Astor hasn’t known a single day in her life without silk sheets and someone waiting to butter her toast. You’d think a pot of gold would appear if she just snapped her manicured fingers.
We’re not even that high society. Sure, multi-millionaires. But the way she carries herself, you’d think monarchies bowed and whispered your grace.
“Can we not talk about my fiancée’s hair, please?” I mutter. I really don’t want to.
“Son,” my father drawls, his shoulders stretching lazily over his seat. “You need to tell her to grow it out. If not for the clothes, I’d swear I was getting a son-in-law.”
And here we go. Again.
I quickly curb the anger that heats my blood at their careless words.
They’ve been obsessed with Celestine’s pixie cut since the moment the Wentworths introduced her a year ago. I’ve spent the last year dodging comments like landmines. But the way they act like her hair is a personal attack on their legacy?
It’s mind-altering.
She loves it. I love it. End of story.
Instead of responding—because I don’t think I can stop myself from snapping at them—I let my gaze drift toward the backyard. The glass walls of the sunroom glow with soft sunlight, surprisingly warm for this time of year.
My mind drifts off.
Cece—yes, Celestine—has been away for nearly a week now, for a work trip to Toronto. She’ll be landing soon, and I’ve been counting down the damn minutes. And yet, I can’t find a single acceptable excuse to leave this fake familial gathering early.
If I say I want to pick her up from the airport, they’ll lecture me about the Wentworths’ fleet of cars and how unbecoming it is for a man of my position to play her chauffeur.
If I say I miss her—God forbid—I’ll get a deadpan reminder that my time would be better spent prepping for the Astor-Wentworth merger.
And if I’m stupid enough to say I want to spend time with my fiancée, they’ll spin it into sexual needs again.
Last time I used that excuse, my father discreetly handed me a card. It was a sex club invitation, I realized belatedly. From a place he frequents apparently.
I gagged the second I noticed what it was. Promptly wanting to vomit when it sank in that he expected me to use it. Fucking hell.
“I still think you’re underestimating the valuation of the Coquitlam complex,” my uncle, Gareth, drones, flipping through a printout of the portfolio like he’s deciphering ancient scrolls. “The zoning approvals came through last quarter. That ups our leverage.”
His wife sits quietly, sipping her afternoon drink like this whole conversation doesn’t even make her bottom three topics.
I can relate, Aunt Valencia.
“The Wentworths don’t give a damn about leverage,” my father pipes up, but I don’t care enough to look. “They’re targeting a net positive on their Q3 reports, and you can’t blame them. Optics matter. Especially after that Vancouver board seat shuffle.”
I blink. Once. Twice.
Zoning. Optics. Q3.
God, it’s like listening to wallpaper peel. How do I tell them that they don’t even know half of what’s actually happening? I’m the one who is leading this. And their chatter is practically gibberish.
Unfortunately for me, I need to be here. Of all the things the last ten months have shown me, the one that tops is how I can’t trust any of them. Not even my own father.
Their usual passivity morphing into eager interest about the merger, has both me and Cece on edge.
I absently trace the rim of my apple juice glass. If I tilt it just right, I can almost see her name pop up on my phone through the condensation. She’s probably landed by now. Or about to text me, ranting about the gate delays and overpriced coffee.
What millionaire even does that?
But I’m stuck here. Pretending to care about their ill-informed discussions about the real estate vertical of Astor Holdings merging with the Wentworths’ global development wing.
Supposedly this is the “partnership of the decade.” One that will strengthen our grip on the Western market and push the Astors’ name further into sustainable luxury housing.
Whatever that means.
I know that’s why I’m supposed to marry Celestine Wentworth, the heir to the Wentworth fortune. The marriage is meant to be more than just a stepping-stone for the merger.
But I honestly haven’t thought about that aspect of our relationship in months. Maybe—
“Levi,” my father prompts.
Shit. I need to give this ten more minutes before I leave to pick Cece up. There’s a slight possibility that the alcohol on their empty stomachs has somehow loosened their tongues.
I glance up, feigning exasperation, even though my ears are primed to pick up on any marginal changes in their tones. “Hm?”
“What are your thoughts on the risks if we hire that Miller-Moore consulting firm?”
Of course, I’m being questioned on the one decision I made rather independently.
“I’m getting an audit in place. But this firm has had great success in M&A restructuring. I’m sure they’ll help us expedite the merger.”
I hear a grunt from one of the men. A few dull nods. But I can’t be sure if this means I have their approval or a complete dismissal. And if there’s any resistance, I want to see it. Now.
I sigh when my mother starts rambling about naming conventions for the new shared vertical—Astoworth Premier being her current favorite.
Kill me now. How do I even tell her?
As the droning continues, I casually slip my hand beneath the table and tap out a text to Taewon, my executive assistant. I’ve done my part for the day, and the conversations have predictably fallen into ornamental bullshit.
Me: Rescue Me. Now. Call in 2 minutes. Make it urgent. $5k bonus if you’re hysterically loud.
Exactly one minute and forty-three seconds later, my phone rings. I make a show of frowning at the caller ID. “Shit. Sorry, I need to take this.”
I stand and walk a few steps away from everyone, pressing the phone to my ear. “Taewon?”
“Finally! Mr. Astor.” His loud voice makes me yank the phone away from my ear.
He’s really going for it. “We’ve got a situation with the Burnaby expansion.
The… cost analysis report’s gone sideways, and legal’s having a meltdown.
They’re asking for a decision before the end of day or the contractors walk. ”
I nearly snort.
God, he’s good. I owe him good wine. And five thousand dollars, apparently.
I turn back to the room, expression grave. “Apologies, everyone. There’s a fire I have to put out.”
A chorus of noncommittal grunts and distracted nods follows. No one really wants to be here anyway. Least of all me.
Why the fuck can’t I just say, ‘sorry folks. You bore me. So if you’d just quickly tell me how you’re sabotaging the company, I’d stop playing detective and be on my way’?
I’m out the door before someone remembers to ask for a follow-up. Once I hit my parents’ driveway, I can finally breathe. Really breathe.
The cool air hits my lungs and all I can think is: Cece is back. I slide into my car, start the engine as I queue her playlist, and imagine her low, melodic hums I’ll be graced with in a matter of minutes.
Peeling out the main gates, I grin at the dashboard like an idiot.