Chapter 4
Conrad
The text message hits my phone like a bullet, the vibration strong enough to make both Atticus and me jump. The only people who ever call this number are the Titans, and we're all here.
For a second, I think it's whoever hacked our systems—whoever left the body on our table—calling with demands.
Instead, my father's name lights the screen.
Dad
Conference call. You, the other Titans. Five minutes. Don't be late.
No warm greeting, no asking if we have time or how we've been. Just a demand. But of course it is.
I don't reply. He wouldn't care if I did. He isn't requesting anything, and there are no options other than being on that call. The only response he expects is my compliance—no, my obedience.
All the same, my thumb hovers over the keyboard for one lame millisecond where my brain ponders and dismisses a half-hearted response. I lock the screen instead.
With a sigh, I show Atticus the message. He rolls his eyes nearly as hard as I do. I push off the counter, half listening while he runs through what the hackers managed to do.
I understand some of it, but this high-level tech shit is Atticus's domain. I don't bother learning the specifics. I count threats and exits; he counts packets and ports.
And at this point, I just want to find the person responsible, put my hands around their throat, and squeeze. Be done with it. But first I have to deal with this bullshit.
"Maverick, go get Storm. And Phoenix” I add as an afterthought. “She may as well be here for whatever this is. Parental units are demanding our immediate attention. Conference call. Five minutes."
"Fuck," he groans, heading for Storm's room.
Atticus is still typing, and I know he won't move until the last possible second. His fingers fly; his neck is hunched; his eyes are already bloodshot, pupils blown too wide for stress alone.
A pill bottle sits open beside him.
My jaw tightens when I look in. It's nearly empty. I don't know when he refilled it last, but he hasn't had to pull long nights recently—at least not the kind that require drug-induced focus.
"Atticus," I say, trying to pull him off the screens.
He doesn't respond—just keeps muttering about “fucking code” under his breath.
I grab the edge of the desk and pull his chair back an inch, just enough to break the trance and force his eyes to me instead of the screen.
"What?"
"How many?"
His brows knit. "How the fuck am I supposed to know how many it took to break my—”
"Not what I mean." I nod at the bottle. "How many did you take?"
He blinks, then rolls his eyes. "One," he says, voice low. "For now."
I stare him down for five full seconds, watching for the lie.
Nothing. No shift, no twitch, no dodge. His eyes are bloodshot and his pupils wide, but his gaze holds mine steadily.
He's telling the truth, and I feel like an ass for doubting him.
He doesn't lie about control—not after the bullshit and accusations that came when his parents found out that he was taking Adderall without a prescription. We kept ourselves away from scandal, but we weren’t able to keep it from his parents.
The manipulation that followed—the drama and the guilt—we all agreed to keep ourselves under control.
"Good." I nod.
"When this is over, I say we spend like a month just sailing away from the bullshit" he says, turning back to the keyboard.
“You want to be trapped on a boat with Phoenix for a month?”
“I’ll need something to do without wifi.” He offers with a shrug.
"Deal." I spin his chair to face me, needing him to hear me instead of stare at the screen. "We have a call with the parents. Back to code after."
"Fuck," he says, standing and stretching. "Because today wasn't enough of a shitstorm."
By the time we make it into the other room, the body is gone. Somehow, the dining table looks the same—mahogany rich and spotless and blameless.
It seems wrong. Wood shouldn't be able to look innocent.
Twenty-four hours ago, we spread Phoenix on that table and shared her. It was supposed to be a punishment, proof that she wasn't enough. We were supposed to break her. I wanted to show her that she wasn't strong enough to take everything we could give.
Everything we are.
The only thing anyone proved is that Phoenix is stronger than we expected, and it was going to take something more to leave her fractured and in pieces.
I was looking forward to the challenge. Her broken heart in my hands was the one prize I coveted above all others.
None of us were expecting the girl. The pretty blonde who stripped down—probably willingly if the price was right—who was then killed and used as a message that we’re not as untouchable as we like to think.
And now the table looks the same as it always has.
I open my mouth to ask Maverick where the body is, and then shut it. Ignorance might be safer for the next five minutes. At least until we get done with the call.
"Sit over here," Maverick says, guiding Phoenix toward the corner. I'm still floored by how perfect she is, just sitting there, hair in a long braid that leaves a wet stain on the oversized shirt she borrowed from Storm.
How dare she look so unphased when she brought all this bullshit to our doorstep.
She looks at me, and my breath burns in my chest. I can still see her as she was last night—spread out on the table, her hair spilled like bourbon over the polished wood, her face caught somewhere between pain and bliss.
When she was mine.
Not just mine.
Ours.
"Conrad wants you in the room," Maverick is telling her. "You should hear whatever bullshit he's about to spin. But let's not put you in the line of fire."
Fuck that. She’s always going to be my target. I want her here because I want her to know what she’s pulling our focus from.
Even if I literally asked for this.
She gives him a thin smile and nods. He kisses her temple. I glance at Storm, expecting jealousy—something. Some hint of annoyance or that knife flying through the air again.
His face is already blank. The mask he wears for the parents is locked in place.
Atticus squeezes drops into his eyes to clear the red. Maverick squares his shoulders, bracing for the coming shit storm.
I do the same—shake off the unwilling pull I feel when I look at Phoenix and slide on the mask of bored indifference after making sure there's no evidence of the last few days on me or in the room. Everything is clean.
Not that any of it will matter.
The conference chime sounds from my laptop. I answer. My father’s gaze flicks around before he speaks, cataloging me at the head of the table and Maverick to my right, Atticus to my left, and Storm behind me in the shadows.
He can be seen, but barely. That’s the way he likes it.
The call splits to four screens almost immediately: my father; Maverick's father; both of Atticus's parents sharing a frame; and Storm's mother. For a moment I get a flash of a naked woman behind Maverick’s father. He adjusts the screen, but no doubt that was Maverick’s new stepmommy.
I remember her from high school. I used her once to make Phoenix jealous after we split, I hope she got better in bed. All I remember is loud moaning, and her idea of dirty talk was to tell me all the things she wanted me to buy.
Someone should have told her that fucking Atticus’s dad would have gotten her more. You can’t have a prenup for hush money.
None of us exchange greetings. Just bored glances, as if we had called this meeting and interrupted their day. Disappointment sits on their faces like it's carved there.
My father opens the discussion, his gaze direct on me like I'm an employee and not his son. "We’ve made a decision."
I didn’t know there was anything in question…?
I bite my tongue. Provoking him never helps. It's best to let him think he's in control. I keep my hands flat on the table in front of me, my shoulders loose, my eyes steady.
"This summer we’ll be conducting a trial run to see if you boys are ready.”
“Ready…?” Storm’s question is a murmur, barely audible. His mother glances down as my father barrels on.
“You will be taking over the entire Savannah property for the next quarter."
We sit in silence, waiting for the catch. There's always a catch when it comes to our parents.
Atticus's father speaks next. "We’ve given you everything you need to succeed and take your place in our world, but you’ve seen fit to squander the gifts we’ve offered."
"You must understand, we are concerned for your future. The future of Titan-Wynn. It’s obvious that we raised you too soft. Gave you too much," Atticus's mother cuts in, unwilling to let him have the last word.
Storm's mother rolls her eyes. “Speak for yourself, Carine. Storm knows what is expected of him, and the punishment if he fails.”
Maverick's father jumps in before the bickering really starts.
"Look at it this way. You boys have an opportunity here. A real chance to prove we did right by you. If you rise to the challenge, you’ll enter the next stage of your life as our equals."
“Which is it?” Maverick murmurs. “You were too soft on us, or you did right by us?”
My father sends a sharp glare through the screen. "Effective immediately, the four of you will assume operational control of all facets of Titan-Wynn Resort. Casino, security, VIP services, hotel management, entertainment—everything."
"Why now?" I ask, though I think I know the answer.
"Because I said so.” He gives me a flat look.
I return it. It’s Maverick's father that ends up offering more, explaining as the silence stretches.