8. Henry
HENRY
The bass from the club seeps through the walls even with the office door shut. I don’t know how Dean works with the floor vibrating underfoot, but somehow he does.
His office at Aura is spotless. The kind of clean that makes you second-guess touching anything. A black leather couch sits against the far wall. The desk is chrome and glass. Even the liquor bottles on the shelf are lined up by height, labels facing forward like it’s a showroom, not a workspace.
I watch him read a message on his phone. Back straight, tie perfect. He looks irritated, but then again, he always does. Finally, he locks the screen and looks up.
“What’s wrong then?” he asks.
“Who says something’s wrong?”
“Please. Mr. Important doesn’t wander into my club on a week night just to say hello.” He raises his eyebrows. “So?”
That nickname’s still as irritating as ever.
I don’t even remember who came up with it.
I miss one dinner because of work, and suddenly I think I’m too important for my family.
Like it was a choice. They don’t get it.
They all control their own time. Will runs his own law practice.
Dean’s wrapped up in his clubs and restaurants.
Max bounces between DJ gigs and real estate deals.
They’ve built their own lives. Me? I’m under Mom’s microscope.
She’s a workaholic who expects me to be one too and she critiques everything from my calendar to my choice of tie.
That’s why I’m here. I just spent the afternoon getting chewed out for “misusing company funds” to frame a photo of myself. I told her I paid for it. Didn’t matter.
I could’ve told her the truth. That Natalie Wright sent me a giant portrait of myself.
But there was no chance I was saying that out loud.
I’d rather the office think I’m a narcissist than to get Mom involved in this.
Besides, Mom wouldn’t get it. Natalie and I…
we’re just messing around. Flirting, mostly.
When Mom finally calmed down, she said something like, “If you want to be in charge here one day, you need to start acting like it.”
I just stood there thinking, Do I even want it?
“There is something,” I say, the words coming out rougher than I mean. I hate this. Asking my little brother for advice feels backwards. But Dean’s the only one who’s ever seen through the act. He doesn’t say much, just drops these offhand comments I’ve spent years brushing off.
“What if,” I start, the words feeling strange in my mouth, “hypothetically…I don’t want Carter?”
“Hypothetically,” he repeats, drawing it out. He leans back, fingers laced behind his head. “Well, hypothetically, I’d say it’s about time you admitted it.”
“I’m not admitting anything. It’s hypothetical.”
“Right. Of course.” He lets that hang between us. “Okay. Hypothetically, if the anointed one, suddenly grew a backbone, I’d ask what he does want?”
The question is simple. The answer isn’t.
Carter’s been my future for as long as I can remember. I don’t even know when it started, it just was. I never let myself consider anything else. Never paused long enough to ask if I even wanted it. I was sure this was it for me.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“What don’t you like about it, then? The work?
The industry?” Dean’s tone is light, almost casual, and somehow, that makes it easier to answer.
The truth’s been there the whole time, I just haven’t looked straight at it.
My brothers built their own success. People respect that.
Me? I’m seen as the guy who had it handed to him.
No matter how hard I work, it’ll never be mine the way theirs is theirs.
“It’s not mine,” I say.
Dean watches me for a long moment, like he actually understands.
“So leave.”
I shake my head. He doesn’t understand.
“You act like Carter’s some anchor around your neck. You don’t want it? Walk away.”
This was a mistake. I should’ve known that’s what he’d say. Mom’s a nightmare to work for, sure, but she’s still my mother. I can’t leave.
“Don’t tell Mom,” I say.
Dean just blinks at me. You couldn’t waterboard his breakfast order out of him. But still, I say it. Not because I think he’ll run to her, but because the thought of her knowing makes my skin crawl.
I change the subject, ask Dean what he’s working on next. Expansion might as well be his middle name. He’s always chasing the next big thing. He’s just starting to answer when the door swings open. Four women spill in, glittering in sequins and mini skirts.
“We heard you were here tonight,” one of them says.
Dean doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m working. But why don’t you take Henry out for a drink? He needs some cheering up.”
They pivot toward me like they’ve just hit the jackpot. Normally, this is where I’d happily buy a round, and see how many of them I could take home. That was the game. That was the reputation. But it’s a game I don’t feel like playing anymore.
“I’m good,” I say, clipped.
Their smiles falter. Confusion flashes, then quickly smooths into polite disappointment.
One of them reaches out, fingertips brushing my arm, like maybe I’m bluffing.
I don’t move. Dean saves it with a laugh and some vague promise to join them later, then ushers them out with practiced ease. The door clicks shut.
When I look at him, he’s watching me, studying me with that unnerving patience he’s always had.
“I’m tired,” I say, with a shrug.
“Funny. You used to call that a warm-up,” Dean says, striding back to his desk and dropping into his chair. “I do have work to do. So, unless you want to complain some more, I’m busy.”
I roll my eyes as I get up. “Thanks for the advice.”
“It’s good advice. You’re just too scared to listen,” he says.
Scared? The word itself doesn’t bother me. It’s who’s saying it. Dean acts like he invented cool, like he came out of the womb in a tailored suit. He forgets I’m the one who taught him how to talk his way out of trouble and how to throw a punch. He learned from me.
“Remember your first day at boarding school—”
“Jesus Christ, not this again.”
“Jake Wallace had you scuffed against that brick wall—”
“We all know the story—”
“And you were crying—”
“For fuck’s sake.” Dean rubs a hand over his face like he’s trying to scrub the memory out of existence.
“Who took care of that?”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to.
“And you really should clean your office, there’s dust all over those bottles.”
That gets him. He’s on his feet before I even turn the door handle. There’s no dust. There never is. But he’ll pull them all down and clean them anyway. It’s a little cruel, maybe, but I’m not scared.
I drop into my car seat and check my phone before heading home. A name in an email makes my pulse jump. Linda’s finished her research on Natalie’s background. I take a breath and open the file.
This can’t be right. Public school in the bad part of town? Her father’s a mailman? Wrong Natalie. My Natalie is—
I scroll down to a grainy photo of her from a high school newspaper. She’s too thin, maybe 16. Wearing a blazer two sizes too big, grinning, like she doesn’t even notice.
I sit back, staring at the screen.
Just when I thought she couldn’t surprise me anymore. She’s not old money. Not even new money. She’s no money.
I fire off a message to Linda asking her to keep this between us.
She’s discreet, but I’m not taking chances.
If Mom gets hold of this, she’d whisper it into the right ears until the story spreads everywhere.
Then nobody would see Natalie’s work anymore.
They’d see a charity case. That’s how this world operates.
It’s not what you build, it’s where you started.
I stare out the windshield.
What the hell is Natalie thinking? Going after Carter with nothing behind her. No dynasty. No safety net. Just herself. It’s insane. Completely reckless.
“You ridiculous woman,” I say under my breath. “Now I’ve got to keep you out of trouble.”
What the hell am I even saying? I drag a hand down my face as the realization hits.
Will warned me about this. Said it wouldn’t feel like anything before. That when I met the one, she’d wreck my plans and rewrite everything. I didn’t believe him. Now I do.
I toss my phone onto the passenger seat and start the car. She’s going to fight me on this. Every step of the way.
She’ll fight it, but I’ll win.