He’d spent the first few days ensuring that he’d separated himself in name and legally from the company businesses, and the few ties that had remained, his father had most certainly taken care of. Then he’d told Callahan it was done and waited for the news to break.
With Beckett at work, Rhys did laps of the condo, stopping in the kitchen to reheat some of the lasagna Beckett had made for dinner the night before and to also pour himself a glass of wine. The intercom buzzed and he carried his wine to the door, pushing the button.
“Hello?”
“Let me up,” Sebastian said.
“Don’t you have a key?”
“I do,” Sebastian agreed. “And manners. Buzz me in.”
Rhys buzzed the unlock button and opened the front door before returning to the kitchen to reheat a second plate of lasagna for his brother. Sebastian showed up with Remington in tow, so Rhys pulled another plate out of the cabinet.
“It smells delicious in here,” Sebastian said by way of greeting.
“Beckett made lasagna. I was reheating some.” He shoved the bottle of wine in Sebastian’s direction. “Sit down and have something to drink.”
“Good to see you too, Rhys,” Remington chirped, taking a seat at the dining room table and waiting for Sebastian to pour them drinks.
Rhys busied himself with the lasagna, then he carried the three plates to the table and collapsed into his seat.
“Where is Beckett?” Sebastian asked, giving him a onceover.
“Work. Why?”
“You have…” Sebastian chuckled under his breath. “You have sex hair.”
Rhys reached up, suddenly self-conscious of how unkempt he must look. At least he’d come all over Beckett’s shoes, not his own.
“It suits you,” Remington offered, using his fork to slice into the lasagna.
Rhys flicked his stare up, and finding no ill intent or malice in Remington’s expression, he let the comment slide. Having friends was new to him. Being friendly with his brother’s boyfriend was another new thing, but he was trying. He wanted to be better. He wanted to be different.
“I’m sure you didn’t come all the way here to make fun of me for having sex,” he drawled, taking a drink of his wine. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
He thought maybe he should fix his hair, but he didn’t. He liked knowing that even when they were apart, he carried part of Beckett with him. Like a small reminder of the life he wanted to have, instead of the one he’d had.
“You haven’t seen the news?” Sebastian gave him a doubtful look, all raised eyebrows and tangled features.
“No?” He fished his phone out of his pocket and realized the alerts he’d had set on their father’s name had pinged all over the major local networks. “Oh.”
With one hand on his phone, the other securely curved around his glass of wine, he swiped through the news. One story after the other, all saying the same thing.
Marcus St. George was financially ruined. The empire around his name, while once great, had degraded itself into a sham held together by McMillian money and goodwill. Assets would be liquidated, questions would be asked, investigations launched. Rhys skimmed his way through article after article, listening to the sounds of Remington and Sebastian’s silverware clattering against their plates as they ate Beckett’s lasagna.
“I’m sure Callahan is relieved,” he finally said, having seen enough.
“That’s your first response?” Sebastian’s eyes widened.
“He can bulldoze the school into the ground and take that building that bears his name with it.” Rhys poured the rest of his wine down his throat and then refilled his glass. “And then we can be done with this.”
“Are you okay?” Sebastian asked. “About all of this? I know you worked so hard to preserve the family name. The money.”
“It was for you,” he snapped. Rhys cleared his throat and schooled his features. “It was for us, but it’s dirty, and there’s better things than the St. George name.”
Sebastian looked at him, amused. “Like what?”
Rhys gestured dismissively at Remington, then toward his own hair as proof of Beckett’s existence and presence.
