4. Dimitri
4
DIMITRI
S he’s not coming.
Of course she isn’t. I’m here, after all.
My hand involuntarily tightens around my fork as Morgan keeps babbling about her baby sister’s amazing grades. Like I don’t have a full copy of her transcript sent to my inbox every semester. If Willow Brown had been anyone else, I would have sent head hunters to recruit her years ago. But the last thing I need is for her to work for me.
Again.
The summer she interned at my company a couple of years back was the single most unproductive time in my entire life.
“I don’t like the sound of the company she works with,” Camden says, eyes narrowed. “The staff turnover is too high for an entry-level position—and too low for old, entitled pricks.” He his frown on me. “Can you still keep an eye on her?”
“Certainly,” I say easily, as always.
He’s asked me that every year since he got together with Morgan. My answer has always been the same.
Back when I didn’t even know her name, it meant having her on the very short list ofcontacts who could actually get through to me any time, in case she had an emergency, and having my name as one of the point of contacts with her school.
Now, many eyes under my employ are constantly on Willow Brown, and it has nothing to do with Camden or his wife.Neither of them are aware of how closely she’s monitored. It would likely reassure them, but it would also open a line of questioning I’m not prepared for.
Why do I have a security detail on your kid sister? You see, I spanked her ass once and thought it a good idea to know what she was up to twenty-four seven since.
That’s completely logical and not at all insane.
In truth, Willow has proven that my instinct to have her lightly stalked was wise. But now’s not the time to think about her second life as a cam girl, fucking herself on camera for tips.
"It's delicious, as usual, Morgan," I say, mostly to distract myself—and change the subject.
I mean it.
I have a Michelin-star chef working for me around the clock, but it's rare I ever eat something homecooked for me. It's a nice change. Morgan uses more salt and cheese and grease than Leonor ever would.
"Yes,"Adrian readily agrees. "Thank you for the invite, Morgan darling."
"It's not much of a Christmas dinner," she admits.
"I'll take it over eating fine dining alone back home, any day," I say.
I don't know when we all agreed to ditch our formal Christmas plans in the Hunt mansion in favor of lasagna at Camden and Morgan's new place, but I'm glad for the change.
I may not be related to anyone in this house, but to me, they're family.
I've known Adrian my whole life. Growing up, my father used to drop me off at the Hunts’ any time he had business in the States, which was often, and later, when I went to boarding school, it was understood that I would spend the holidays there. Valentina was always more than happy to have me around.
Adrian's a dozen years older than me. He could have completely ignored the moody, dark kid brooding in the shadows, but instead, he took me in, like a big brother, teaching me to play ball, skating, hunting. And how to have fun. I wasn’t great at that until I met him.
I was seven when he knocked up his then-girlfriend. I figured he'd be too busy for me from that point; instead, when he married his baby mama and set up his own house, he had a room for me. So, in turn, Cam became like a little brother to me.
Fast forward twenty-two years, and it feels right for all of us to be around the table, Valentina still gorgeous in her sharp, white dress, wearing too many diamonds, Morgan, with her messy bun and her denim shorts, Adrian and Cam.
There are two people missing in this picture: Adrian's elusive girlfriend—we all pretend we don't know about her, as he doesn't seem to want to speak about it yet—and Willow.
Something will have to be done about Willow. She can't keep missing moments like these. It saddens her sister, worries Cam, and drives me fucking insane.
The baby monitor comes to life on the table, and Morgan sighs.
"Do you mind getting him, Cam?" she asks, standing. "I should clear the table for dessert."
I get to my feet. "No way. You cooked, you sit. We'll clear the table."
Adrian joins me, in full agreement, while Camden goes to check on their toddler.
When they were trying to conceive back in Boston, I fucked around with them a couple of times, but I stuck to Morgan's mouth and ass.
I used to joke the kid looked a little like me, but now that he's a year old, it's pretty clear that he's all Cam, down to the attitude, the messy golden-brown hair and the amber eyes.
And a good thing too; I can't afford illegitimate children.Or legitimate ones, for that matter.
"How's attending Stanford with a toddler in tow?" I ask Cam.
Their college careers have been all over the place; Thorn Falls for a couple of years, then Boston to finish their undergrad—followed by a year off when Cameron was born, and now, Stanford. I think they’re trying to get a stamp from as many expensive institutions as possible.
It fits Cam; not unlike me, he’s a spider, knitting webs around influential spots, collecting contacts.
He shrugs. "We manage. Valentina and Adrian often take him, and he has a nanny, too."
"Is she hot?"
He rolls his eyes. "She's fifty-seven and built like a linebacker."
"I’ll take that as a yes," I quip, amused.
"I never quite understood why you rushed to have a kid, though,”Adrian says.
I can only nod. It would have been one thing if Cameron had been an oopsie baby, but I know Cam and Morgan actively tried to procreate.
"I have too much money to not have an heir," Camden retorts. "Now I can offset some profits in his trusts every year. It's a good tax break."
That does catch my attention. "Really?"
"What, you're gonna impregnate Irina to save a few million now?" Adrian says.
I snort, the idea so ludicrous I can't possibly take it seriously.
I'll never have a child with Irina.
"One day, you'll have to tell us what's the deal with you and your wife," Morgan says. "We never see her."
Adrian and I exchange a look. We've never discussed Irina, but we don't need to. He perfectly understands why I had to marry someone like her.
"I'd tell you, but I'd have to kill you," I retort with a wink.
I'm only sort of joking. I wouldn't put a hit on Morgan for knowing too much about the business. Irina is another story, though.
"Cameron, it's late. You can kiss everyone and go to bed, as agreed."
"No!" the little boy retorts. "I stay."
We all grin at the toddler in his father's arms, both pairs of golden eyes glaring at each other with an identical steel resolve.
Adrian leans back on the counter, chuckling. "Look at how the tables have turned. I knew I'd enjoy seeing you on the receiving end of that nonsense."
Camden shoots his father his middle finger without ceasing to glare at the kid; neither of them blink. I think they could be at it for the rest of the night.
"Hey, little man," I say, "wanna come see if Father Christmas hid an early present somewhere?"
That catches his attention. "Present?"
He's not yet two; his vocabulary isn't extensive, but he perfectly understands “present.”
"Early presents are only for good boys who go to bed on time, though."
"Me! I a good boy."
Cameron holds his arms up to me, jiggling to get out of Camden's hold and into mine.
"And that's how it's done," I tell Cam, winking.
"That's called bribery, and all it does is spoil him," my godson grumbles.
"He's a firstborn, currently only child, heir to the Hunt fortune. Spoiled is a given."
It's not my first time putting Cameron to bed; I find my way easily enough, stopping by my room on the way to "find" a present—the bedtime book I picked up. I start to read it to him, and the overexcited kid's down for the count before the lion catches the antelope.
Jeez, kids’ books are unnecessarily violent. I guess it prepares them for real life.
As I make my way downstairs, I stop by a closed door, finding myself frowning as I push it open.
It's tidy, and a little bare, but there are clues whom this space belongs to. A custom computer, opened up, with two gigantic fans. A lab set on a desk. There's no teddy bear or frilly little girl things. Not that Willow's a little girl now. She's twenty. But she's never been one for superfluous belongings; maybe because they could never afford pretty things for no other reason than wanting it. The bedding's royal blue, with white curtains billowing around it. There's a plush white rug on the floor, and a great sound system. The walls are bare, painted lavender, and the furnishings, white.
Willow has her own room in every Hunt house: Valentina's, Adrian's, Morgan and Cam's new villa here on the hill in Thorn Falls, and the one in Boston, too.
All of them look like this one; impersonal, barely lived in. If I didn't know better, I'd say she has issues with her family, but her dorm room on campus was exactly like this. Now, she's sharing an apartment with two roommates in the Upper West Side, and while their shared space is lively, hers is still tidy, bare. Like she doesn't feel settled enough to put her stamp on it.
And yeah, it's slightly concerning that I know exactly what her room looks like, but I've long stopped trying to check my behavior as far as she's concerned. I'm not one for pointless endeavors.
Knowing exactly what she's up to, who she's with, and how safe she is at all times is a habit. A compulsion. A need.
I shut the door softly, stepping back.
She should be here.
Absentmindedly I reach for my phone and open my text conversation with her. The last one is two years old, sent the day before her eighteenth birthday.
One picture of her lying back on her bed, pouting at the camera, those baby blue eyes smoldering. There's a hint of cleavage that suggests she's not wearing anything at all.
Brat: Come wish me a happy birthday tomorrow?
My jaw tightens. So does my cock.
Fucking brat . I should have gone right there and taught her another lesson.
But I didn't.
I lean back on the wall, sighing before my fingers fly over the keyboard.
Me: When will you stop pouting and get your ass to family dinners?
I hover over the send button, hesitating. But I end up deleting it.
The thing is, the uneasy balance between us has reached status quo, and anything like that text would break it.
I'm not prepared for that specific storm to hit quit yet. It's inevitable, but I prefer to avoid it for a little while longer if I can.
I put my phone back in my pocket and head downstairs, trying not to think about the brat pouting in New York City, or the reason why she's not with us.
Me .