No Means No
Maddox
Nobody said no to Evelyn Whitmore-McGuiness. Not the board. Not the family. And not even my assistant, who'd let my mother waltz into my office without an appointment.
On second thought, make that nobody but me.
I'd been saying no for years.
This probably went a long way in explaining why my brother was the favorite, why I was the black sheep, and why she was currently glaring from the other side of my desk.
She wasn't sitting. Neither was I.
If history repeated, neither of us would.
Evelyn Whitmore-McGuiness looked exactly like what she was – a full-blooded Whitmore. Her silver-blonde hair was swept into a perfect twist, and her cream-colored suit was every bit as elegant as the woman wearing it.
Diamond studs glittered at her ears, understated but flawless, just like the rest of her. She carried herself with the same regal confidence she'd possessed for as long as I could remember, standing ramrod straight as she fixed me with a look I'd seen too many times to count.
Her eyes hardened as she asked, "What do you mean no?"
I hadn't seen her in months – not since the fiasco with the wedding. But forget happy reunions. I said it again, working in the word twice for good measure. "No means no. And besides, I thought I was disowned."
With a light scoff, she said, "Oh, like you care."
She was right. I didn't care. Or maybe part of me did, but not so much that I'd beg for a seat at the table.
I'd spent the last ten years building a fortune of my own, and if things kept going on their current trajectory, I would eclipse them all before I died – well, assuming she didn't murder me now.
Standing with only a desk between us, she looked seriously tempted.
When I said nothing in reply, she announced, "I am prepared to forgive you, you know."
I didn't know. Plus, it was a lie. Maybe she thought she would forgive me, but after years of disappointing her, I knew exactly how this would play out.
She wouldn't forgive. I wouldn't forget. And both of us would be frustrated.
I smiled. "Who says I'm willing to forgive you?"
She gave a brittle laugh. "Forgive me? For what?"
As if she didn't know. I gave her a look and just waited.
Finally, she sighed. "Sloane is perfectly lovely. The two of you would've been happy enough. And she would've been stellar for the brand."
Fuck the brand. I still waited.
Her chin lifted. "And she did love you. Surely you can admit that much."
I admitted no such thing. Maybe it was true. Maybe it wasn't. But in the end, it didn't matter, because Sloane's financial fuckery with the wedding had given me the out I'd been wanting.
And I had wanted it.
I just didn't realize it, that's all.
Oddly enough, it had taken someone else – not Ryder, but Delaney – to make me understand that I'd been looking for an escape hatch all along.
Fuckery or not, I never would've said "I do."
This was something I'd realized nine days ago, when Delaney Sinclair had officially left Chicago.
Call me an asshole, but I'd cared more about Delaney's departure than I'd ever cared about the wedding.
Into my stubborn silence, Mother continued. "And she wouldn't be writing that book at all if only you'd handled it better."
"Handled it how?" I asked. "By marrying a cheat?"
"Oh, don't be ridiculous," she said. "It's not like she was sleeping with her personal trainer."
I shrugged. "Not that you know of."
"Don't be crude." Her mouth tightened. "I'm just saying, cheating with money isn't the same as actual cheating. And you remember how things were with your father."
I didn't, actually. Or rather, I didn't remember much of anything firsthand. I'd been only four years old when he'd died in some yachting accident off the coast of Greece.
But thanks to photos, I could picture him just fine. Or hell, I could practically see him in the mirror, because unlike my brother, I looked almost exactly like him.
His death wasn't the only thing that had happened half a world away. My parents had spent very little time together.
One time, as a teenager, I'd spent a rainy afternoon digging through the family's media archives. I'd read countless articles, but it was the photos that told the real story. Nearly none of them showed my parents together – or even on the same continent.
Pushing aside the memories, I replied, "Maybe I want something different."
"Oh, please," she said. "You're thirty-three years old. If you haven't found something different by now, I don't know what to tell you."
Delaney was different.
She'd made me feel almost human.
Almost.
To Mother, I replied, "And yet, you're about to tell me plenty."
"Only this." She gave me a long, penetrating look. "Maybe you're too picky."
"Or maybe I want to pick someone myself." Even so, it wasn't lost on me that I'd come dangerously close to letting the family make one of the most important decisions of my life.
At the time, it hadn't seemed like a big deal. My logic had been simple. I didn't believe in love, so I hadn't been giving anything up.
Or at least, that's what I'd told myself while slipping that engagement ring onto Sloane's finger.
But then, when it came time for the other ring, I'd balked.
Balked and walked.
Huh.
Maybe I had some belief in love after all.
Mother's eyes narrowed. "Regardless, you're not going to find anyone suitable if you let Sloane Hayworth define the narrative."
Fuck the narrative. But I didn't say it out loud, because even I had limits.
And besides, she was already saying, "Which is why you'll be releasing a book of your own."
And here we were. Full circle.
I said it again. "No. I won't."
And now, she was glaring again. "You wouldn't need to write it yourself. As I've already explained, I've hired an excellent ghost writer."
"So un-hire them," I said. "Because it's not gonna happen."
"So you're going to what? Let Sloane be the only one who tells your story?"
"What do I care?" I scoffed. "She's been telling stories for months."
"Yes, but not all stories are the same."
"Meaning?"
"I do have publishing contacts, you know."
"So?"
"So I've gotten a peek at some excerpts. If you're not concerned, you should be." She gave me a pointed look. "It's not flattering."
She wasn't worried about me. She was worried about the family name. But hey, I wasn't the one chasing headlines.
Fucking Sloane. I shoved a hand through my hair as I processed this latest post-wedding surprise. Except it shouldn't have been a surprise at all.
In my mind, I could already see it, Sloane sitting on a talk-show couch, holding her book and telling the world yet again that I was some kind of monster.
As if sensing blood in the water, Mother said, "You need to get ahead of this. Listen, I'll have the ghost-writer call you. You can set up a time to work."
Yes, I was pissed.
Yes, I was also more surprised than I should've been.
And yes, when it came to stories, Mother had a point.
But my answer hadn't changed, so I said it again, quietly but firmly. "No."
She argued.
I refused to budge.
A few minutes later, Evelyn Whitmore-McGuiness stormed out of my office without ever sitting down.
Just as I'd predicted.
As for Sloane, apparently she wasn't done with me yet.
Just how much bullshit could one spurned woman reasonably fit between two covers?
And how much of that bullshit would be read by Delaney Sinclair?
If history repeated, I knew just how much she'd believe.
All of it.