Awaiting me. “Where is it?”
“This way, sir.”
I step inside, my loafers quiet on the floor. Paige’s pumps click. The sound is oddly soothing, reassuring me that she’s following.
Genuine European crystal chandeliers, marble-inlay flooring from Italy, thick Persian and Turkish rugs and matte wallpapers with flower patterns all boast money—plenty of it.
But all that money can’t buy taste.
Whoever designed the chandeliers had zero aesthetics, stringing crystals together without any thought to balance or beauty. The walls and floor look like a toddler had a temper tantrum with buckets of paint. The only things worth anything are the paintings hanging on the walls, and those were done by my grandfather. But whoever put them up has no regard for their themes, creating a mishmash that makes my jaw clench.
“Who designed the interior?” I ask.
“Mrs. Reed, sir.”
“The, uh, current one?”
“Yes, sir.”
Jesus. Wife Number Five was bad. But Wife Number Six is even worse.
Grandpa’s paintings deserve respect, not this…shit. My gaze lingers on a landscape of Tuscany—the sky dark, wind and rain and lightning churning the sea and raging through the field. Yet somehow there is a hint of light in the work, a sense of a better day to come once the storm passes over.
It’s one of my favorite pieces, a reminder of the happy summers I spent with my grandfather. I wanted to buy it, but Dad refused to sell once he realized how much it meant to me.
Fucker.
So instead, I got an olive tree that looks just like the one in the painting tattooed across my left shoulder and back. It reminds me that I can succeed so long as I work hard. That was my grandfather’s constant refrain, and if it hadn’t been for his encouragement, I might’ve never even attempted acting.
The housekeeper comes out and leads Paige to a sitting room. “Strictly a family matter,” Jarvis says in a stage whisper.
I almost roll my eyes at Dad’s ridiculous attempt to separate the “small” people from the family. As my assistant, Paige knows everything there is to know about the family situation. She takes a chair by the door and pulls out her phone, while I go farther in.
Jarvis takes me to the second floor and opens the fifth door to the right. It’s an office, newly done, every wall covered with shelves brimming with brand new leather-bound tomes. I see Shakespeare, Milton, Ibsen and Proust. Dad won’t read any of them—and probably neither will Wife Number Six. He doesn’t marry them for intellectual curiosity.
Dad isn’t in the room, but Blake and Elizabeth are. Blake looks a lot like me—the dark hair, the famous Pryce profile—but hard-edged, with an expression that says he’ll fuck you up just because. He’s dressed in black, including the denim pants. I can’t remember a time when my older brother didn’t look forbidding.
He gives me a nod.
Elizabeth is softer, and she has a gentle smile that puts people at ease. But then she works tirelessly to feed and educate underprivileged children. She is one of the few women whose inner beauty matches the outer.
And there is a lot of outer. If she weren’t my sister, I might’ve fallen in love with her.
She’s chosen a conservative pink dress for the showdown. Her expression makes me pity her a little. Nerves show in her trembling mouth, and I squeeze her hand before taking a seat in a brown barcalounger.
“Don’t worry, sis. You’re his favorite.”
A small smile pops onto her face, and the muscles in her shoulders relax.
Unlike me and Blake, she has Dad’s coloring, if not his temperament. That made him proud, although it wasn’t enough for him to keep Mom. And she had too much pride to beg him not to break up the family. She lawyered up, retaining the nastiest piece of work she could find, and crushed Dad in court.
“What do you think this is about?” Blake says.
I shrug, trying not to imagine the worst. It’s surprisingly difficult. “Dunno, but maybe he just wants to yell at us for missing his wedding.”
Of course it isn’t our fault he and his bride chose to marry on the same weekend as Mark. But I’m sure that isn’t how he sees it.
The door opens again. I turn, expecting Dad, but it’s my half-brother twins. They really took after their mother’s coloring—dark hair and pale skin that burns easily—but got their pale blue eyes from Dad.
They’re completely identical, like they’ve come off a production line. I wouldn’t be able to tell them apart except for hairstyles. Lucas wears his long, and it falls so that it covers half his left eye and most of the left side of his face. Hidden underneath is a jagged scar that runs from the corner of his eye to an inch below the bottom of his ear. An accident two years ago left him that way, and he’s changed since then—although he denies it.