Chapter 1
Connor
She’shere. Standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the manicured gardens, her Bluetooth earpiece in place, dressed in her usual armor. The cream Chanel suit and blonde hair pulled into a perfect chignon scream old money and a pathological intolerance for flaws.
Fuck my life.
It’s not enough that I can’t find my passport, now I have to endure being in the same room as my mother. My flight to Austria is in four hours, and I don’t intend to miss Alexei and Eli’s wedding. Though avoiding Viktor would be a bonus. He’s been insufferable since getting engaged to Coach Harper. Except I won’t be going anywhere if I can’t find my goddamn fucking passport.
I've already torn through my room, the library, every safe I have the combination for, and every conceivable hiding spot in this mausoleum that serves as our family home.
And nothing.
I yank open drawer after drawer, slamming each shut harder than the last. After the fifth, I slap the granite island hard enough to rattle the crystal fruit bowl. “Where the fuck is it?”
“Give me one second.” My mother presses a finger to the earpiece as she glares at me because Cordelia Walsh doesn't do interruptions. What she does do is engage in hostile takeovers, attend board meetings, and participate in social events that double as business opportunities.
Maternal concern? Not in her repertoire. Never was.
The only reason I fucking exist is because my father convinced her they needed an heir to take over the business. Some days, I wonder if she even remembers giving birth to me or if she's blocked out the entire inconvenient experience.
Her hazel eyes—the same shade as mine—rake over me like I’m a quarterly report that failed to meet expectations, stopping on my socks: black with anatomically correct middle fingers in neon green. Her lips press tight, a sharp exhale escaping through her nose, before her gaze flicks back up to mine. “Must you make such a racket?”
“My passport's missing and I need to leave for JFK in half an hour.”
She walks over, shutting the drawer I just opened. Her manicured nail clicks against the wood—thatspecific tap which means she's already won. “You're not going to Austria.”
My neck muscles constrict as I pin her with my glare. “Come again?”
“You heard me. Cancel whatever arrangements you've made. You won't be attending this . . .wedding.”
My molars grind hard enough to crack. “Try again.”
She laughs, short and precise, as if she's snapping someone's neck for punctuation. “Don't be naïve. Those relationships serve no purpose. They don't advance our interests, they don't strengthen our position, and they certainly don't prepare you for the responsibilities waiting for you.”
“They're family.” My voice drops low as I straighten to my full height.
She matches my stance. “You're a Walsh. You belong to thirty billion dollars, six continents, and a legacy that will outlast you. Family—”
“Shows up when shit matters,” I cut in, louder than intended. “Something you wouldn’t fucking understand.”
The slap lands exactly where it always does—left cheek, just below the bone. The sting is immediate and sharp, but I don’t flinch. Twenty-two years of this woman's indifference have made me immune to her cruelty.
“You will not speak to me that way.” Her voice is deadly calm with the kind of tone that makes junior executives shit themselves in boardrooms. “And what have they shown up for? Your parties? Or to use our private jet to take trips down to Miami?”
A muscle near my eye twitches as she continues to reduce the deepest connections I've ever had to mere strategic failures. But there's something else threading through the rage, something dangerously like the old desperation I felt as a kid, begging for scraps of attention from my parents.
Except I'm not that kid anymore.
“Now, you have a dinner date with Veronica tonight. Try to remember that appearances matter, even if genuine affection is beyond your current capabilities.”
“Funny, I was about to say the same about maternal instinct.”
“Lose the attitude. It doesn't suit you.” She reactivates her earpiece and walks out of the kitchen.
I look up at the ceiling, exhaling sharply.
Who I spend my time with, who I date . . . thought that would always be my choice. And they’ve never interfered in that area of my life before . . . until my father and Patrick Callahan started discussing a business merger nine months ago.
