Chapter 22 Mason
MASON
“This is a fucking mistake,” Kane whines as we step out of the car at the entrance of the grand Devereux Hall.
“I thought you would like being here, you know, keep your head attached to your shoulders, after the stunt you pulled.” I tighten my tie and run a hand through my hair. “A favor that can be easily rescinded if you fail to cooperate.” I pat his shoulder.
Kane gives me the death glare. “You know you’re lighting matches in a room full of gas, right?”
“Then I guess it’s about to get lit.” I smirk. “Good thing I’m fireproof.”
“Your kingdom isn’t fireproof, heir,” he snaps.
“My kingdom. My girl. I’ll deal with it all.”
“Until you see red. Then you’ll torch everything, and Pike and I have to clean up your mess.
” He waves a hand toward Hugo, who is walking up the stairs toward us.
Hugo’s father and mine follow behind, deep in conversation.
“And he’s fucking useless. So that just leaves me.
” Hugo flips him off without enthusiasm.
“Problem?" my father asks, coming to a halt in front of us as Kane the arsehole continues to sulk away.
“This could go very badly,” Kane replies, bluntly. “You’re asking for trouble just walking in here.”
“Learn from your father, Kane,” Tom scoffs. “Live a little.”
“Tom is right,” my father adds. “So is Mason—whatever brain pills he’s been taking. This is good for us. It’s time you three widened your network.”
“We all know networking is not why we are here,” Kane grumbles, shortening his lifespan with every protesting word. “You are getting carried away. Again.”
“The ideologies you question so much are the reason you have a seat at the table, son.” My father smirks. “Now, quit being the saint we both know you aren’t, and get on board. And that’s an order.”
“Yes, sir.” Kane nods and stands aside to let my father and Tom climb the steps.
“Happy now?” I ask with a grin.
“Sometimes, I wonder if you’re a secret genius or just this fucking lucky,” Kane mutters.
“Can’t it be both?”
“No.” Hugo raises a finger, shaking his head. “Let’s stick to our roles, people. He is the brain. You are the face. I’m the charm. Now, let’s go score some London girls.”
“You’re both wankers,” Kane grumbles. Hugo and I laugh and follow him inside.
The Devereux ball—better known as posh London twats parading in tailored suits, silk gowns, and heirlooms, weighed down by history and inherited power. An annual spectacle of silent dominance and deafening privilege.
Under the chandeliers, which are worth more than most British people's homes, is where it happens.
Deals disguised as pleasantries; nods trade like stock.
Fortunes move hand to hand, clean and quiet, no paper trail in sight.
Signatures are just formalities for later; the real transactions are sealed in the room with the right whisper in the right ear.
The atmosphere in Devereux’s great hall tightens the moment we pass through the towering double gold-carved doors.
The whole room startles. Conversations falter mid-word, laughter hangs unfinished with every step we take.
We need no introduction. The hush does it for us.
Fort is rarely seen at these kinds of events.
Invitations always come, but attendance is occasional.
This marks only the third time Fort families have shown their faces.
My first.
As we descend the entrance steps, the tension thickens. Guests clear a path like their posh egos may catch fire if we get too close. Even in designer suits, we’re not mistaken for one of them. Good. I’d rather be found dead in a ditch.
My father introduces Kane and me to some of our allies, and a handful of businessmen smart enough to know they need us, powerful enough not to pretend they don’t.
Fuck them and their double standards.
They can frown upon how we earn our wealth all they want, but no one is a saint in this room. The snakes who whisper about our ports and offshore networks later queue up to profit from the same off-the-book deals.
I fucking suck at pretense. I don’t have whatever gene Kane Berkeley has that makes him smile like a politician and lie without blinking, even when he’s hating their guts. It took my father decades to master the skill—one I have no interest in indulging.
We don’t need this. We are more powerful than most of these fuckers combined, whether they care to admit it or not. Things will be different under me. Until then, they can smile and pose as they please.
I have more important things on my mind, anyway.
Speaking of which, where the fuck is she?
The invitation listed Etheridges as the guests of honor. If she doesn’t come tonight, this will have been a fantastic waste of my fucking time. One I will take out on her by breaking into her glass fortress.
Would rather not trigger a war.
But that’s her call now.
“Come on, little dove,” I mutter to myself when a familiar man blocks my line of sight.
Sir Lionel Arnoult. French old-money royalty.
“Mason Grant.” He smiles, twirling his glass. “I was told you’d be attending. It’s nice to finally meet Reginald’s son. What finally brought you to London?”
A maddening existence who is trying to ruin my fucking life. How about you, posh twat?
“My father wanted us to make a presence. For old time’s sake.”
“He’s a clever man.” Lionel points in the direction of my father, who seems to be in a serious conversation with more suits than I left him with. “But I hear you’re more… pragmatic. I would very much like for us to stay in touch. Long term.”
“Of course, Sir Arnoult.” I offer my best smile. If only to end this conversation I have no interest in. He nods back with a wink, then blends into the crowd.
Hugo is already wrapped up in girls, mingling with a few guys I recognize from Kingsden. Two of them are Powell’s roommates who frequent 99, drowned in our alcohol and drugs. They wave toward me. I nod but ignore. I’m done with small talk tonight.
“This is such a fucking bore,” Hugo says as he approaches. “I can’t believe you dragged us to this.”
“Go sulk somewhere else,” I snap, scanning the new faces appearing at the doors.
“Will you calm the fuck down. Reginald is watching.” Hugo gestures at my fists that clench and unclench at my sides, knuckles whitening with effort.
I shove my hands into my pockets, gripping the fabric.
Something to keep me steady. “We’ll know when she’s here.
Etheridges are as low-key as a marching band at a funeral. ”
And then the temperature of the room hikes. The music lowers to barely audible, lights dimming on cue, making every head turn toward the spotlight at the entrance.
Only, no one is there.
Not yet.
Then they come—not the stars, but the opening act. Six men in black suits, all clean lines and cold stares, glide into the great hall. Two flank the entrance; two take position at the foot of the staircase; the last two post at the top. A choreographed synchronization.
Only then does the main performance begin.
Elton Etheridge—a gaudy short man—arrives with all the grandeur of a king stepping into a throne room rather than a ballroom.
All velvet smirk and calculated charm. He floats in with the slow, confident grace of someone who’s used to gravity bending around him.
His wave is royal, dismissive. The kind of gesture that suggests everyone else should be honored to be breathing the same air. The fucking prick.
A knot twists in my stomach, tightening until it presses against my throat.
I’d almost forgotten how much I hated that bastard—her grandfather.
The sight of him tastes like rust and bile.
The man responsible for the destruction of ancestral lands and businesses all over Fort.
Some we rebuilt from the ground up. Others just got lost with time.
I hadn’t considered that I wouldn’t be seeing her alone—wrapped in her hoodie and skirt, wearing sarcasm and rolling those blue eyes. No, this time, she’ll be one of them.
Will she still feel the same, standing beside that viper dressed in black?
And then my question is answered.
A chuckle escapes my lips. Hugo throws me a look.
What appears to be a planned delayed entry of the Etheridge heirs is her struggling in her high heels. Her eyes widen, like a deer caught in the headlights, as she walks into the spotlight, clinging to her brother’s arm in front of a hundred people.
My breath comes harder, as I take her in—dressed in a light pink gown that hugs her curves, then trails behind her, kissing the floor.
From the cascade of long warm-brown hair that is tied back with jeweled pins and falls to her arms veiled in fine net, to each diamond dangling from her ears, every inch is styled to perfection.
Decorated to fit beside them, an heirloom on display.
She looks like a dream.
A dream only I’m allowed to have. Something that doesn’t seem clear to every bastard in this room who turns to look at her.
Hungry, leering, wanting eyes, masked as admiration, strip her bare in seconds. Heat rises in my chest, scorching me from the inside.
It doesn’t matter whose DNA she shares, whose fucking diamonds she wears. Under all of that facade, she isn’t theirs. She is fucking mine.
And God help anyone who thinks they can change that.
My gaze moves to the man beside her, and my head pulses in response.
Daniel Etheridge—blond and groomed—looking every inch his name. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t frown. Just a formidable presence befitting the room he’s walked into.
Lord Devereux steps onto the stairs to greet Elton with a handshake. My eyes measure every micro-expression on her face as Lord Devereux turns to the crowd, a microphone in hand.
I can’t stand the fucking distance.
Her heels touch the same white marble I’m standing on, but she may as well be on another planet. I hate that I can't walk up to her.