28
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AURORA
Two weeks.
It's been two weeks since Evander Laurent orchestrated the most elegant corporate coup I've ever witnessed, and I'm still processing the aftermath.
The emergency board meeting lasted three hours. I watched it unfold from Evander's penthouse office—he'd set up a live feed so I could see the moment his mother's face went from smug satisfaction to absolute horror as the votes came in.
55% to 45%.
She was removed as CEO, stripped of her board position, relegated to a minority shareholder with zero actual power in the company her husband built.
And Evander? He walked out of that meeting as the Architect of Laurent Global. Twenty-one years old and running a multi-billion dollar empire with Tristan, Lucius, and Landon at his side.
The business world is still reeling. Forbes called it "the most ruthless succession in corporate history.
" The Wall Street Journal ran a front-page article titled "The Ice Prince Cometh.
" Bloomberg devoted an entire segment to analyzing how someone so young managed to outmaneuver one of the most powerful CEOs in America.
But Evander barely glances at the coverage. Barely acknowledges the congratulations flooding in from business partners and competitors alike.
Because his greatest victory isn't the empire.
It's the seven-year-old boy currently enrolled at Westbridge Academy—the most exclusive, most secure, most ridiculously expensive private school within a fifty-mile radius of Ardencrest.
Liam.
My brother, who two weeks ago was attending public school in a town six hours away, is now living in Evander's penthouse.
Sleeping in a bedroom that was professionally decorated in less than forty-eight hours—race car bed, custom bookshelves, a reading nook with pillows so expensive I'm afraid to touch them.
Evander did all of this without asking my permission. Just made phone calls, signed documents, had Marcus coordinate logistics, and presented me with the fait accompli over breakfast three days after the board meeting.
"Liam starts at Westbridge on Monday," he'd said casually, like he was discussing the weather instead of completely reorganizing my brother's entire life. "Mrs. Calloway is not moving in this weekend, but Tristan said to fuck off—to just take care of my business and Iris's mother is his business. "
I should have been furious. Should have told him he can't just make unilateral decisions about my family. Should have demanded he ask before throwing obscene amounts of money at problems I've been handling myself for years.
I didn't.
Because I saw the way he looked when he said Liam's name. Like he was talking about someone precious. Someone worth protecting. Someone who mattered.
And I realized—Evander Laurent is treating my brother like the brother he lost.
Matthias died when Evander was eight years old. Drowned while Evander stood paralyzed by the trauma his mother inflicted. For thirteen years, he's carried that guilt. That failure. That gaping wound where his little brother used to be.
And now he has Liam. A seven-year-old boy who looks at him with absolute hero worship. Who calls him "Evan"—the only person in the world allowed to use that name without getting a death glare.
Who makes Evander smile. Actually smile. The kind of genuine, unguarded expression I didn't think he was capable of until I saw him kneeling on the floor building LEGO sets with my brother, patiently explaining architecture concepts to a child who mostly just wants to build spaceships.
So I let him spoil Liam rotten. Let him pay for the school and the bedroom and the private security that shadows my brother everywhere he goes. Let him be the protective older brother he never got to be for Matthias.
Because watching them together is healing something in both of them.
And maybe in me too.
Now I'm standing outside the gates of Westbridge Academy at 3:15 PM on a Friday afternoon, waiting for dismissal. The school looks like something out of a movie—brick buildings with ivy climbing the walls, perfectly manicured lawns, a playground that probably cost more than my childhood home.
Evander is beside me, one hand resting on the small of my back. He's wearing a charcoal suit that probably costs more than a semester's tuition, his hair perfectly styled, looking every inch the billionaire CEO.
Except for the slight tension in his shoulders. The way his eyes are locked on the main doors. The barely perceptible way he straightens when the bell rings.
"You're nervous," I observe quietly.
"I'm not nervous." But his hand tightens on my back. "I'm just making sure he's okay."
"It's his second week. He's fine."
"You don't know that. Kids can be cruel. He's the new student. The scholarship—" He stops himself. "The full-ride student. That makes him a target."
I turn to look at him properly. "Did you seriously just almost call him a scholarship student when you're paying his full tuition?"
"Semantics." But there's a hint of color on his cheeks. "The point is, he's new. And if anyone gave him shit today—"
"You'll what? Ruin their parents financially?" I'm teasing, but only slightly. Because Evander absolutely would destroy an entire family if they made Liam cry.
"If necessary." He says it so matter-of-factly that I almost laugh.
The doors open. Children pour out in a wave of navy blazers and plaid skirts—the Westbridge uniform that Liam initially protested until Evander told him it made him look "distinguished" and bought him six sets so he'd always have a clean one.
I scan the crowd, looking for my brother's dark hair and gap-toothed grin.
And then I see him.
Liam bursts through the main doors, backpack bouncing on his shoulders, his tie already loosened because seven-year-olds have zero patience for formal wear. He's talking animatedly to another boy his age—making friends already, thank god—but his eyes are scanning the crowd of waiting parents.
Looking for us.
He spots us. His entire face lights up with that smile that makes my chest ache because it's the same smile our mother had before she got sick.
And he runs.
Not toward me.
Toward Evander.
"EVAN!"
He launches himself with absolute confidence that he'll be caught. No hesitation. No doubt.
Evander catches him easily, swooping him up and settling him on his hip like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like he's been doing this for years instead of two weeks.
"Hey, little man." His voice is softer than I've ever heard it. Gentle. "How was school?"
"It was awesome!" Liam's talking a mile a minute, his words tumbling over each other in excitement.
"We learned about the solar system and I told everyone about how you explained orbital mechanics and Mrs. Chen said I was really smart and—oh!
And there's this kid named Austin and he has the same LEGO set I have and we're gonna build it together tomorrow and—"
"Breathe," Evander interrupts with a small smile. "One thing at a time."
Liam takes an exaggerated breath. "Can Austin come over to build LEGOs?"
I expect Evander to hesitate. To make up some excuse about security or privacy or not wanting strangers in the penthouse.
Instead, he says, "Sure. I'll have Marcus coordinate with his parents. What's his last name?"
"Anderson! Like Anderson![6]" Liam bounces in Evander's arms. "This is the best school ever. Thank you for letting me come here."
Something in Evander's expression softens. "You don't have to thank me."
"Rora says I should always say thank when people do nice things."
"Your sister is very wise." Evander glances at me over Liam's head. The look he gives me is warm. Possessive. Full of things we can't say in front of a seven-year-old. "But you still don't have to thank me for taking care of you. That's just what family does."
Family.
The word makes my throat tight.
Liam doesn't seem to notice the weight of it. Just grins and hugs Evander tighter. "You're the best big brother ever."
I watch Evander's carefully controlled expression crack. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to see the raw emotion underneath—grief and healing and desperate hope all tangled together.
"Did anyone mess with you today?" His voice drops to that protective tone I've learned to recognize. The one that means he's already planning retribution if the answer is yes. "Give me names."
"No one messed with me." Liam pulls back enough to look at Evander seriously. "But there was this one kid—Tyler—who said my shoes were weird."
Evander's eyes narrow. "Tyler who?"
"Tyler Morrison. But it's okay! I told him my shoes were limited edition Jordans and he got really quiet and then he asked if we could trade at lunch."
"And did you trade?" Evander asks carefully.
"No! You bought me these!" Liam looks scandalized at the suggestion. "I'm not trading them. They're special."
The smile that crosses Evander's face is small but genuine. "Good man."
I'm about to suggest we head to the car when another vehicle pulls up. Sleek. Black. The kind of understated luxury that screams money without being obvious about it.
The door opens.
Landon Ashford steps out.
I tense automatically—because the last time I heard about Landon, he was driving a fountain pen through a security guard's throat and threatening to murder Evander's mother with the same pleasant smile he uses to order coffee.
But that Landon is nowhere in evidence right now.
The man walking toward us is smiling—genuinely smiling—with an expression so warm and soft that it completely transforms his face. Makes him look younger. Approachable. Almost normal.
Almost.
"Landon Bro!" Liam shrieks with pure joy.
Evander sets him down and Liam immediately sprints toward Landon, who catches him with the same easy competence Evander showed.
"There's my favorite person." Landon's voice is warm. Affectionate. Nothing like the cold, empty tone he must have used to threaten Vivienne Laurent. "How was your second week at the fancy school?"