“Fuck you, Seth.”
He laughs and pulls a bright green box from his briefcase. “Here. Dad wanted me to give this to you.”
I grab it, placing it between us.
“You’re not going to open it?”
“Not without calling the bomb squad first.”
“He bought you a pen.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s an engraved pen that says, ‘I miss our old holidays & I’m sorry,’ in case you want to know. He also wrote you a short letter. I’m sure it’s a bit different from the one he gave to me, but …”
I tune out his voice and look out the window. Stop and go traffic is far more interesting than anything my father has to say after years of treating me like nothing.
A switch went off for him the moment he lost my mother, and he transformed into a coldhearted bastard who raised his children like soldiers instead of sons. As far as I was concerned, our relationship wasn’t worth the years of circuitry and labor it cost to fix.
He’s not sorry about anything. He needs money.
I let out a sigh and pull out my phone. I scroll down to Savannah’s name to send her a quick text.
Me: My father is attempting to play the sympathy card again. How much money did I send him last time? I forgot.
Her response is instant as always.
S. Grey (She’s Not Yours…): Fifty-thousand. I advised you to send seventy-five. Would you like me to send the remainder now? (How sure are you about the blue dress?)
Me: Yes. Thank you. (500%)
I tap my fingers against the screen, wanting to ask for a picture of her wearing this dress, but I know that’s crossing the line.
The two of us dance around each other every day—somehow never spinning into one another. The tension between us is palpable and ever-present, but we pretend like it doesn’t exist.
S. Grey (She’s Not Yours…): Not that I value your opinion, b/c I don’t, but since you’ve never seen it, do you think this will work for Joshua? [img.]
The image downloads and my cock instantly stiffens. The dress is an extremely low cut one that exposes almost the mounds of her C-cup breasts.
The fabric clings to her curves in all the right places, cinching her right at the waist.
Right where I would start kissing her before going lower…
It takes everything in me not to text back, “Joshua doesn’t deserve you,” but I hold back.
Me: Dress is perfect. You can go back to work now. Your office isn’t designed for fashion shows, and I’m not paying you a multi-six-figure salary to help pick out your dresses.
S. Grey (She’s Not Yours…): *middle finger emoji*
“So, uh… I’m not coming to the party this year.” Seth’s words jerk me out of my thoughts.
“Excuse me?”
“I meant to tell you last night but I got busy with the Yardley proposal. Aren’t you going to ask me why I won’t be there?”
“Not at all.”
“Well, I’ll tell you anyway. I’m proposing to Amelie Foster—the woman I introduced you to a few months ago.” He looks as if he’s waiting for me to tell him that this is okay. That he’s somehow above the rules because he’s the CFO and wants to run off for personal reasons.
I cross my arms and keep him waiting.
“She’s the love of my life.” He pulls a small velvet box from his pocket and opens it, showing me a massive diamond ring. “I know it’s fast, but I’ve never felt this way about anyone before, and I hope she says yes.”
“Amelie Foster used to work in Accounting,” I say. “Did you start dating her before or after she quit?”
“What does that matter?” He scoffs. “She doesn’t work for you now, so hang up whatever fantasy you have of making your younger brother an example of your iron fist rule.”
“I’m just asking a question.”
“And I’m refusing to give you an answer.” He glares at me. “Would you prefer if I handled Amelie like you handle Savannah?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t play stupid.” He shrugs. “I should walk around in denial and focus on my job, right?”
“I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about,” I say. “But I will make an example out of you, and if you don’t show up with everyone else, I’ll be hiring a new CFO in January. You’re supposed to be my partner.”
“Your business partner. Not a psycho who lives, breathes, and eats work twenty-four hours a day.” He rolls his eyes. “I have a life, Garrett.”
“So, do I.”
“Do you?” He looks me right in my eyes. “Because for the past decade and a half, the only thing you’ve talked about is West Media, and all the films and production studios you’re operating. Which is quite ironic, because I don’t think you’ve sat through a single movie in years.”
I try to refute that, but it’s true. The longest video I can remember watching is on YouTube.