He sends a link to some kind of tabloid site, and I click it.
In red capital letters, the headline declares: GREEDY BILLIONAIRES CLAMOR FOR MORE.
The basis for the inane proclamation is accurate—the deal Dad has with us, plus how Ryder and Elliot married so quickly afterward. Clearly, someone has provided inside information.
Why marry for a reason as crude as money when they already have so much? the article asks at the end, and I shake my head.
It’s an idiotic question. When you have a certain amount of money, financial gain stops being the primary driver. It’s usually something else—the adrenaline rush of winning, proving that you’re better than the competition or something personal.
The reason for our marriages isn’t something as crude as money—it’s the love we have for our grandfather…how fiercely we long to possess his legacy. I don’t know what Dad’s going to do with the other paintings he inherited from Grandpa, but I doubt he’ll hand them over to us. So the least we deserve is the portraits he specifically said were ours to keep—and look at any time we felt doubts about our self-worth or were facing criticism.
Sighing, I start to call Ryder, but he reaches me first.
“Did you see that bullshit?” he asks without preamble.
“Yes. How’s Paige holding up?” She’s already gone through a horrible social media backlash over marrying him. Apparently, unless you’re model thin and plastic-surgery gorgeous, you don’t deserve to be with a hot movie star.
“She’s surprisingly calm.”
“Good,” I say, even though I’m a little worried. She’s pregnant, and already has enough to deal with.
“I’m going to arrange a call with Blake, Elliot and Lucas after dinner to figure this out. You should join us.”
“Dinner, or the call?”
“Both.”
I shake my head. I don’t know how he can eat.
“I know you’re going to want to skip dinner,” he says, “but you shouldn’t let some trashy rag keep you from taking care of yourself.”
I sigh. “Fine. I’ll join you and Paige.”
“Good.” He hangs up.
Leaning back in my seat, I stare out in the empty cubicle area. What delicious gossip this is going to make. This is something I hate: the spotlight, speculation and judgment—positive or negative—from strangers.
Irritated and resigned, I get up. Ryder’s right. I should choke something down, just to show the jerks of the world they can’t affect me, and then help my brothers figure out how to fix the problem. At least I’m not alone in this fight.
* * *
Elizabeth
In spite of his earlier pep talk, Ryder doesn’t eat much, and neither does Paige. I don’t care for the food either, even though the chef made me a lovely enchilada and salad.
We also don’t talk about the article, doing our best to pretend it’s just an ordinary day. We discuss our work instead.
My phone beeps and rings a few times—texts and calls from Dominic. He sent me a couple last night too, which I ignored. And I’m ignoring these. I can’t deal with him, not right now.
Maybe not ever.
Although I nurse a vodka, the tension in my gut ratchets up when the conference with my brothers and their wives starts.
Blake starts off with blaming Dad, apparently not caring that Lucas is late.
“Fucking Julian,” he says. “It’s gotta be him.”
“Annabelle Underhill knew we had to marry,” Paige says, making sure we have all our suspects in a row so we can pick the right one. “She said as much at the charity dinner Elizabeth organized with Nate Sterling.”