The Wrong Billionaire Groom

1. Gabriel

Gabriel

If there’s one thing I can’t fucking stand, it’s a man who doesn’t realize he’s bad at his job.

And this idiot, Neal Dixon? He’s a few cards short of a full deck. Of course, I’d be willing to bet nobody’s ever told him that. That’s why he’s here, consulting at Thorne Enterprises, in a position only the most confident people in his field can reach.

Confidence, unfortunately, is no substitute for competence.

“—and users will simply have to fill out the survey,” Dixon babbles, using a laser pointer to circle the accompanying bullet point on his PowerPoint. “Then the algorithm will match their mental state to specific videos each time they open the app.”

Across the table, my brother Tristan, now the CEO of Thorne Enterprises, sits with one hand resting on his jaw, his expression partially obscured by his fingers—an intentional move if I ever saw one.

He thinks this guy is a hack, just like I do.

As the CEO, though, he can’t put his foot down quite as hard as he probably wants to.

He has the company’s image to think about. He needs to keep things civil.

Fortunately, the rest of us aren’t bound by the same level of expectation.

“So every time the users open the app, it’ll hit them with a survey about their mood?

” Beckett repeats, incredulous. Beckett, the youngest of my four brothers, doesn’t have the same responsibilities to hide his expression, which is a good thing.

He doesn’t have the same diplomatic sensibilities as Tristan, which is fine for a Chief Marketing Officer.

With his charm and creativity, he was practically born for his role at the company.

Dixon nods, apparently oblivious to the way his pitch is landing on us. “That’s right. That way, the content they receive will be tailored to their needs in the moment.”

Beckett frowns, and I catch the glance he exchanges across the table with Dominic, another of my younger brothers. All four of them are here with me today, as are Tristan’s personal assistant and a couple guys from the FlashUp team.

FlashUp was supposed to be a slam dunk. Short-form video has been taking the social media world by storm, so to keep up, Thorne Enterprises released its own platform for it.

Snippets of content from independent creators, as well as behind-the-scenes stuff and individual scenes from shows and movies on our networks.

It should’ve been a success, but so far, it hasn’t been. User engagement has been lagging behind projections. The app has only been downloaded half as much as we’d hoped.

Neal Dixon isn’t the first consultant to stand in front of me and my brothers, pitching ideas to fix FlashUp. He probably won’t be the last, either. But he’s definitely the stupidest.

“This format will keep users engaged, and could be marketed as a mental health tool,” Dixon tells us. “‘Content to keep you content.’ It’ll be—”

That’s it. I clear my throat, cutting him off mid-sentence. He pauses, looking flustered. He glances from me to Tristan as if waiting for the CEO’s approval to keep talking.

Before Tristan can nod to him, I say roughly, “Yeah, that’s about enough from you. Thanks.”

There’s a quiet huff beside me as Dominic tries and fails to stifle a laugh.

“But I have four more slides,” Dixon says, visibly crestfallen.

I shrug. “Hopefully you’ll be able to recycle them next time someone calls you in to pitch. But we’re not interested.”

Dixon blinks, his gaze once again sliding to Tristan.

Tristan holds up his hands. “Don’t look at me. I’m not the one kicking you out of this conference room.”

Swallowing, he turns back to me, trying and failing to look me in the eye. “Um, what… if I may ask… what isn’t grabbing you? Because I’m sure I could—”

“Oh, it’s the whole thing. Don’t bother.”

Sweat breaks out on Dixon’s forehead. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat for a moment, then he says, “The whole… the whole thing?”

“Yes,” I reply. “Mood-based selection algorithm. I can see why you might’ve thought it could be interesting. It’s eye-catching, with a lot of marketing potential. And you sure seemed proud of that slogan, ‘content to keep you content.’” I can’t help but roll my eyes.

Dixon crosses his arms, his body language closing off. He’s pissed but trying hard not to let it show. “Listen, I’ve been working on this for—”

“Unfortunately, the whole premise is just a bust,” I continue, talking over him as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

“See, no one in their right mind is going to keep using an app after it flashes a survey in their face every time they open it. People want to be entertained, not analyzed. Especially not constantly. It’s invasive, annoying, and a surefire way to lose users. ”

Dixon’s jaw tightens. He’s trying to keep his composure, but it’s clear he’s not used to being shot down like this. “But the survey’s only a few questions, and it provides valuable data to enhance the user experience. It’s personalized—”

“It’s a huge fucking hassle,” I interrupt. “If I’m sitting down with my phone, trying to unwind after a bad day, the last thing I want is to be asked how I feel right now before I can even watch a video.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Dominic nodding.

“But—”

I don’t really feel like letting him drag this out.

“But nothing,” I say firmly. “It’s a dead end, man.

Nobody wants to be reminded how miserable they are every time they open an app.

Besides, how accurate do you really think those mood surveys are going to be?

Half the users are going to mash buttons just to get through it faster. ”

Dixon’s face reddens as his defense crumbles, and I can tell he’s realizing just how badly this has gone. I lean back in my chair, glancing at Tristan, who gives me the slightest nod of approval to finish it off.

“Thank you, Neal,” he says politely, ever the professional. “That will be all.”

Dixon’s hands clench into fists at his sides. He glances back to me, probably hoping I’ve had a change of heart. I haven’t.

He clears his throat. The silence that descends upon the room is thick and suffocating. Finally, he says, “Well, I appreciate the opportunity. Best of luck.”

As the door clicks shut behind him, the room goes quiet for a moment. Then Dominic, who’s been holding it in, bursts out laughing.

“Fucking brutal.”

“You didn’t have to rip him to shreds like that,” Reid comments, leaning back in his chair. “It’s not like we were going to take any of his advice—you could’ve just let him finish his pitch.”

I snort, shaking my head. “No regrets here. Do you know how much five minutes is worth in this room?”

“Still,” Reid says. “You were way more of a hard-ass than usual.”

“You good, Gabe?” Tristan is gazing at me with narrowed eyes. Well, shit. Now he’s trying to analyze my mood. And it’s every bit as annoying as it would’ve been in the FlashUp app.

“Fine,” I mutter. “Just don’t like having my time wasted.”

“Your time gets wasted all the time,” Beckett pipes up. I shoot him a glare. I’d been hoping that I could nip this conversation in the bud before it gets too personal, but of course my youngest brother has to join the dogpile. “That’s just the cost of doing business.”

“Next person to waste my time, I’ll ream their ass too. Any takers?”

“Yeah, I was right,” Reid says, nodding sagely. “You’re grouchy as fuck today. Something’s up.”

“I’m just tired,” I snap. “Didn’t sleep well last night.”

“You never sleep well,” Reid retorts.

I choose to ignore that comment, even though it’s true. I haven’t had a restful night of sleep in what feels like years. There are days—most days, really—where I muddle through on autopilot.

“I know what it is,” Dominic says, raising an eyebrow. All eyes turn to him. “You’ve got that engagement shoot with Alexis today, don’t you?”

My shoulders tense at the reminder, my jaw tightening. Fuck. It was only a matter of time before one of them hit the nail on the head. I haven’t exactly made a secret of my distaste for my… situation.

My arranged marriage to Alexis Beaumont is a ticking time bomb, one I’ve been trying to ignore for months. Every step closer to the wedding feels like another chain tightening around me, and this engagement shoot is just the latest reminder of how little control I have over my own life.

I never expected to remarry. Melanie’s death five years ago was all the emotional trauma I needed for one lifetime. Any chances of finding love again died with her.

That’s what I told myself at her graveside on the day of her funeral.

It’s what I told my daughter, Peyton, when she asked me about her mother a couple of months ago—in more delicate terms, of course, but essentially the same sentiment.

And it’s what I still tell myself every day, especially on days like today, when I’m about to stand in front of a camera with a woman I barely know and pretend that this whole farce is anything but a business transaction.

“I wouldn’t call it an engagement shoot,” I mutter. “It’s a fucking photo op for the company’s Instagram.”

It feels like there’s a collective sigh from my brothers. Frustration from Dominic, not at me, but on my behalf. Resignation from Reid, who’s in the same boat. Dismay from Tristan, who’s in a very different boat. A luxury yacht, really, compared to our shitty dinghy.

After all, Tristan got lucky. He fell in love with his arranged bride, Chloe.

She’s wonderful, and they’re great together.

Their chemistry has been undeniable since day one, and with each passing day, it seems to grow stronger.

I can see it in the way they look at each other, how Tristan lights up when Chloe walks into a room.

I know how that feels. I used to feel that way.

But now, in the aftermath of loss, I know that Tristan isn’t looking at this situation the same way I am. He can’t possibly understand how this is different for me, not fully.

“I know it’s not ideal,” Tristan begins, “but give it a chance. She might surprise you.”