Prologue #2
Gerald Morrison walked into my apartment like this was perfectly normal. He nodded at my grandmother. Nodded at me. Settled into the armchair across from the sofa with his ancient leather briefcase balanced on his knees.
"Mrs. Dubois." He pulled out an actual leather-bound notebook. Who still used those? "Shall we proceed?"
"Yes." My grandmother turned to look at me. "Gerald, please begin the process of removing my grandson from my will."
"Certainly." His pen moved across the page. "I'll have the preliminary documents ready for your signature by tomorrow morning."
I watched my grandmother sit there, serene as a Buddha, while her attorney took notes about cutting me off. The whiskey sat forgotten in my hand. "You can't be serious."
My grandmother raised an eyebrow. "Can't I?"
"This is..." I set down my glass before I threw it. "I'm your grandson. You can't cut me off because I won't get married on your timetable."
"I can do whatever I like with my money. You've wasted three months, Xavier." She tilted her head. "You have six months left. I suggest you use them wisely."
Gerald's pen hovered over his notebook. My grandmother watched me with those sharp brown eyes, waiting. The whole thing felt like a play I hadn't been given the script for.
I knew my grandmother. I knew the difference between her dramatic flourishes and her actual intentions. And right now, watching her sit there with her hands folded and her expression serene, I realized she meant every word.
She would do it. She would actually do it.
Well, damn. Seems like I’d been backed into a corner. "Fine."
My grandmother smiled, and I instantly regretted my decision. "Gerald, hold off on the paperwork. For now."
Gerald closed his notebook. My grandmother reached for her teacup. And I stood there, feeling like I'd just signed away my entire life.
Then there was a knock at the door.
Of course. Because this night wasn't humiliating enough.
Sebastian walked in without waiting for an answer. My brother surveyed the scene with his usual intense expression. He took in our grandmother on the couch, the lawyer in the armchair, and me standing by the window, looking like I'd just lost a fight.
His gaze lingered on my half-open shirt, the lipstick I still hadn't wiped off. One eyebrow lifted a fraction of an inch. That was Sebastian's version of open mockery.
"Grandmother." He nodded at her. "Is everything okay?"
"It depends." She gestured for him to sit. He remained standing. "I want Xavier to have a role at the company."
Sebastian glanced at me, at our grandmother, then back at me again. "Fine. You can have a small role in marketing since you know all those people. You might as well put all that socializing to good use."
"No." My grandmother shook her head. "I want him to be Vice President."
The entire room plunged into silence. I would have laughed if they weren’t discussing my life as if it were the weather.
Sebastian went very still. "Absolutely not."
"Sebastian..."
"He has no experience. No training. He's never worked a day in his life. He'll destroy everything I've built."
"Hey." I straightened from my position by the window. "Standing right here."
Sebastian turned to me. His expression didn't change, but his eyes went cold. Colder than usual, which was saying something. "Fine. Tell me. What would the Vice President even do?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "I... would..." Nothing. I had nothing. "Oversee... things?"
"Things." Sebastian turned back to our grandmother. "Do you see? He can't even pretend to know what he's talking about. This is insane."
"Xavier is your brother." My grandmother's voice hardened. "He's capable of learning. Teach him."
"Teach him?" Sebastian laughed. "You want me to teach him how to run a company he's never shown the slightest interest in?"
"Yes."
They stared at each other. Battle of wills. I'd seen this before, usually from the sidelines, usually with a drink in my hand and a bemused expression on my face. This time, I was the subject under discussion, and it was significantly less entertaining.
Sebastian's jaw flexed. A muscle twitched near his eye. These were the only signs that he was furious. Anyone else would be shouting by now. Sebastian just got quieter. Stiller. More dangerous.
"Fine." He bit out the word. "VP. But when he fails, and he will fail, it's on your head. Not mine."
My grandmother patted his arm like he was a sulking child. "That's all I ask."
She rose and gathered her coat. Gerald materialized at her side with the briefcase, and they swept toward the door like a matched set, attorney trailing matriarch.
At the threshold, she paused. "Six months, Xavier. Don't waste them."
The door clicked shut.
I let out a breath I hadn't known I was holding. Crossed to the bar cart. Poured another whiskey. "Well. That was fun."
Sebastian didn't respond. He stood in the middle of my living room, hands in his pockets, staring at the spot where our grandmother had been sitting. Then he moved to the bar cart, poured his own glass, and drained it in one long swallow.
"Don't make me regret this."
"Sebastian..."
"I mean it." He set down the glass. Turned toward the door. "This is not a joke. This is not one of your games. Show up. Do the work. Or so help me God, I will make your life miserable."
“You won’t regret anything if you’d just put a stop to this. You owe me, remember?”
Sebastian stopped. His shoulders tensed. "Excuse me?"
"Last year. The situation with Aria." I moved closer. "You promised you’d do me a favor and I told you I’d collect..."
"This isn't what I meant." He turned. Sebastian looked just as terrified of our grandmother as I was. "Ask for something else. This is way above my pay grade."
He left. The door closed softly behind him.
I stood alone in my apartment, surrounded by all my expensive things, and wondered how my life had gone so wrong so fast.
The next six weeks were a disaster.
I wasn't about to make this easy for them. Not a chance. If they wanted to force me into a corner, I'd make them regret it.
I showed up late on Monday. Deliberately. I strolled in at 10:47, coffee in hand, and smiled at the assistant who'd been assigned to manage my schedule. She looked like she wanted to cry. By Wednesday, she'd requested a transfer.
They sent a replacement. Young guy, fresh out of business school, eager to please. I asked him to reorganize my entire office by color. Then by height. Then by "general aesthetic vibe." He lasted three days.
The third assistant was a middle-aged woman named Patricia who reminded me uncomfortably of my grandmother. She took one look at my cluttered desk, my untouched reports, my general attitude of amused disinterest, and put in her transfer request after two weeks.
Sebastian's reports piled up in the corner. I didn't read them. Didn't even open them. I took long lunches that became long afternoons. I charmed the interns, irritated the executives, treated the entire thing like an elaborate joke.
Because if I took it seriously, I'd have to admit I had no idea what I was doing. And I wasn't ready for that.
The first time Sebastian called me into his office, I knew it was coming. I'd been waiting for it, actually. Looking forward to it, in a perverse way.
His corner office was everything mine wasn't: organized, pristine, intimidating. His desk was a massive slab of dark wood, empty except for a laptop and a single folder. He sat behind it like a king on a throne, and when I walked in, he didn't stand.
"Close the door."
I did. Then I dropped into the chair across from him, sprawling like I owned the place. "You wanted to see me?"
"You've been late every day this week."
"Traffic."
"You live six blocks away."
"Terrible, terrible traffic." I smiled. His frown deepened.
"Three assistants have quit." He leaned forward, hands folded on the desk. "You haven't read a single report I've sent you. You've taken two-hour lunches every day. Yesterday, you left at three o'clock to get a haircut."
"It was an emergency." I touched my hair. "Split ends."