Chapter 3
Three
Giancarlo
I’d been haunted by the business card since returning home from The Skyline and discovering it tucked into my money clip.
In lieu of the money I’d arrived with.
I couldn’t bring myself to care about the petty theft.
Rowen Quincy had been the most interesting part of my evening—the only part I was still thinking about days later.
Obsessing over would be a more accurate assessment.
Lusting for even more so. All I could see when I stared at the card was the gap in his devilish smile.
When I closed my eyes at night, I imagined his lean body beside me on the bed—that delightful defiance submitting to me in the dark.
Or perhaps I don’t want him to submit to me at all.
Regardless of the direction of my fantasies, Rowen had implanted himself in my brain. All-consuming—like a memory I couldn’t quite place. It felt like there had never been a time when I’d wanted something so badly.
As if to remind me of the blasphemy of my thoughts, my attention was pulled toward Poppy #5 but, for the first time, my gaze didn’t linger.
Instead, I returned my focus to the business card.
It was bone-white with a serifed font that appeared plain until you noticed the ornamental swashes on select letters of his name.
Printed beneath was a vague title—Consultant—with a phone number in the bottom left and instructions to “leave a message” on the right.
Voicemail or text?
The choice was obvious to me. I didn’t particularly enjoy texting, and calling would allow me the possibility of hearing his sinful voice again, even if just on an outgoing message.
Knowing him, he’s kept the generic recording.
The issue was, I didn’t know him, but I wanted to. I wanted to know, memorize, and possess every inch of Rowen Quincy, inside and out, with an irrational craving that was steadily driving me mad.
I need to call him.
Hire him as a “consultant” for… something…
Before I could talk myself out of it, I reached for my phone, then nearly dropped it when it rang upon contact. For one delusional moment, I thought it might be Rowen calling me—despite him not having my number—but then saw Franz’s name on the caller ID.
My actual consultant.
“Yes?” I answered in a more apprehensive tone than I would normally convey—even to him—but Franz cleared his throat, seemingly anxious himself.
“Hey, Giano. I sent you those estimates I’d promised.” He paused, then added, “They’re a bit lower than I anticipated.”
That got my attention. I sat up, gripping the phone so tightly, I was surprised it didn’t crack. “What do you mean?”
Franz sighed. “The market isn’t what it was when your mother purchased most of her more valuable pieces. Between shifting tastes, influencer culture, and the current state of the economy thanks to…”
“Billionaires like me,” I finished for him, which earned me a chuckle.
“Not like you, Giano, but yes.” Another sigh. “I would actually advise you to hold onto the collection until—”
“I can’t,” I interrupted, setting down my phone and putting it on speaker before opening my laptop to check on the property I’d been monitoring almost as obsessively as I’d been staring at Rowen’s card. “I need to sell this collection at the next auction.”
Franz was silent for a good thirty seconds, and although I could tell he wanted to ask why it was so time-sensitive, he wouldn’t. He may have known more about me than my parents ever had, but he was far too respectful of my privacy to pry.
Good.
Because this is one thing I can’t tell him.
He cleared his throat. “We could nudge the starting bids up a smidge without scaring anyone off, and the estimated hammer prices I sent are on the conservative side… Perhaps we’ll get lucky with a bidding war?”
I can’t rely on luck.
“Is there nothing we can actively do to increase interest?” I asked, knowing I sounded desperate, but muscling through the discomfort for the sake of my goals.
“Well…” I heard him tapping his pen on the desk on the other end of the line. “I know this is the last thing you’ll want to do, but hosting a viewing party while the art is still hung in your family’s historic apartment could do the trick.”
That was, in fact, the last thing I wanted to do, but I grudgingly understood the strategy.
“I assume it won’t be difficult to fill the guest list,” I sighed. “Since no one’s been here in years.”
Franz laughed sadly. “I didn’t want to be the one to say it but… you’re correct. Angelica became a bit of a recluse toward the end of her life and, well, morbid curiosity is a motivator.”
Like vultures picking at a kill.
There was one more factor—aside from the art and the shadow of death—that would lure in this rubbernecking crowd.
The building my family’s three-story corner unit was located in was a historic landmark that held an almost mythical reputation in the city’s real estate market.
It was from the Art Deco era and notoriously impossible to buy your way into, because everyone who lived here was old money, just like we were on my father’s side.
The chance to be surrounded by such a timeless display of wealth would be too tempting an invitation for most to pass up.
Let the smoke and mirrors work their magic one last time.
“It also shouldn’t be difficult to acquire the funds for this soirée from Mother's trustee.” I gritted out, rubbing my temples against the beginnings of a migraine. “Since unnecessarily lavish parties are on the list of ‘approved’ expenses.”
Unlike how I’d rather be spending these inherited assets.
And that was the crux of the problem. Mother had left me an obscene amount of money upon her passing, but it was currently held in a trust, handled by an independent lawyer she’d appointed prior to her death. Someone who didn’t have any connection to me.
Entirely by design, I’m sure.
I wasn’t exaggerating about the restrictions.
Aside from forbidding the sale of this apartment until ten years from now, Mother had meticulously listed everything she felt was an “appropriate” expense for me—as the only heir to the Luxford family estate.
While most of it was designated to the ongoing upkeep of my carefully crafted—by her—image, there were stipulations that made resentment lodge in my throat.
That only certain charities could be supported with the funds was infuriating, but the large sum earmarked for my future wedding cut the deepest.
Specifically the requirement of a bride at the altar.
It had been no secret I was gay, at least not within these walls.
Franz was the first to know—first to guess, although he’d waited for me to tell him myself when I was sixteen.
A handful of years later, after hearing about yet another painful date with the daughter of one of Mother’s society friends, he’d encouraged me to simply tell her the truth.
What a mistake that had been…
Franz had wholeheartedly believed if my mother knew how uncomfortable I was with her matchmaking, she’d no longer expect me to perform so publicly. Unfortunately, while his intentions were good, Mother was rarely anything other than self-serving.
And I was the perfect puppet.
“I am well-aware of your proclivities, darling,” she’d absently replied when I came out, while most of her attention remained on her own reflection in the vanity mirror.
“And you can enjoy anyone your heart desires once you’ve established your place in the company and in society… with a wife and children of your own.”
I could still remember the feeling of weightlessness, the white noise that buzzed through my head as I attempted to make sense of what she was saying.
“B-but I don’t want a wife,” I’d managed to reply, even as I nearly fainted from nerves. “That’s what I’m saying—”
She’d turned to fully face me at that point, pinning me in place with her infamously assessing stare.
“Oh, I understand what you’re saying, Giancarlo, but you are not understanding me.
All of this…” Mother had paused to gesture at the opulence of her master suite.
“All the privileges that you enjoy as a Luxford… must stay within the family. How do you suppose that will happen if there are no future generations to sustain our legacy?”
I’d been only twenty-two years old at the time, freshly graduated from the Harvard Business School’s MBA program with a family business all lined up for me—whether I wanted it or not.
The last thing I was thinking about was a marriage and kids on top of the life path I didn’t ask for.
If I hadn’t been so young, or so blindsided by what I was hearing, I might have been better equipped to present my case.
Then again, I already knew better than to argue with the very person who held my future—held my legacy—in her hands.
Her legacy.
“Just… toe the line, darling,” she’d added, sounding uncharacteristically tired as she returned her attention to applying the layers of cosmetic armor she wore for her evenings out. “For the family.”
She’d practically spat that last vitriolic remark, but I was already halfway out the door, headed to my private quarters on the top floor to scream where no one could hear me.
That occurred over a decade ago, and for all intents and purposes, I’d outwardly “toed the line” ever since.
Even when my life tipped on its axis for a second time, l’d played my part for appearance’s sake.
Whenever Mother reminded me it had been too long since I’d been seen out and about, I made the rounds, ensuring I was photographed with a supermodel or socialite to keep the rumor mill happy.
The only thing I was still proud of was how I hadn’t verbally promised to meet my mother’s unreasonable demands.
I still visited a high-end gay sex club where the staff were discreet, and I took great pleasure in fucking whichever escorts I wanted in comped rooms at my family’s hotel.
These tiny rebellions kept me going while I waited for things to change.
What a fool I was.
Mother had the last laugh in the end. Even after death, she’d still figured out how to back me into a corner.
“Very well,” I replied to Franz, resigned to my fate as the gracious host. “Let’s arrange this… viewing party.”
“I’ll make some calls, Giano.” Franz’s tone was sympathetic, although he blessedly kept the conversation moving.
“With the auction being less than two months from now, you’ll need to host this party as soon as possible.
An event planner I know owes me a favor…
She’s in fairly high demand, but if I can tell her to ‘spare no expense—’”
“Spare no expense,” I growled, because I wouldn’t have to.
Per the terms of the trust.
“You got it,” he smoothly continued. “She can also arrange for a press release. Get Page Six and Sunday Styles to send reporters to cover the event.”
I closed my eyes and rested my elbows on the desk, exhausted despite not being the one doing any work. “I wish I wasn’t so useless…”
Why would I say that out loud?!
“You’re not useless.” he interjected sternly. “You’re just no longer fulfilling the use you were previously used for.”
Humiliating tears pricked my eyelids, and I had never been more thankful to not be on a video call in all my life.
“Thank you, Franz,” I managed to choke out in a semi-steady tone. “I owe you one.”
He chuckled warmly. “My retainer fee is more than enough to cover friendship services.”
Now I wished he could see me, if only to witness my eye roll. “Yes, well, please continue offering your expertise in that area.”
Thank you.
“Always,” he replied before pausing. “And on that note, feel free to invite whoever you want. This is your party after all.”
That wasn’t entirely true, but I appreciated the sentiment regardless. It wasn’t until after we’d said our goodbyes and my gaze fell on Rowen’s business card again that I realized I now had the perfect excuse to contact the object of my obsession.
Another tiny rebellion.
Just for me.