Aiden
Winter Financial’s headquarters gleams in glass and steel, a reflection of the empire my grandfather started, my father nearly broke, and I rebuilt.
I modernized the family business. Tripled its worth in five years—three as Senior Vice President, two as CEO. And yet, my father still acts as if he had something to do with our success.
I let him.
I was raised to respect my elders. And while I resent how long it took him to hand over the reins—not until the investors finally told him to step down or they’d take their money elsewhere—he’s still the patriarch of the family.
My phone buzzes as I step into the elevator. It’s Tristan, my brother. He can’t make it to a meeting and wants me to handle it. Again.
He doesn’t make it to a lot ofmeetings.
I’m sure if you look up ‘nepo hire’ in the dictionary, his face would be flashing there like a damn GIF.
Tristan is Director of Strategic Partnerships—a title that sounds impressive until you realize it’s basically code for “talk to clients, schmooze, and let someone else do the follow-up.”
He’s supposed to cultivate high-value investor relationships, smooth things over when the numbers don’t add up, and act as a bridge between our brand and our top-tier stakeholders.
Instead, he dumps half his work on Marissa—his boss—who happens to report directly to me. She’s sharp, no-nonsense, and probably two ignored emails away from putting Tristan’s face on a dartboard in her office.
I text back:What’s up?
Tristan:Just can’t.
Me:It’s the Williams account. It’s important.
Tristan:That’s why you need to take it.
I grit my teeth, and slide my phone into the inside pocket of my suit jacket.
In the real world, Tristan would have been fired for bullshit like this—where he checks out without any explanation. I’m his brother and his boss, so he doesn’t even bother with a “my grandmother is sick” excuse. Just that he can’t make it, and that’s that. Because he knows I’ll cover him. Like I’ve done his whole life. It’s expected. My father and mother have babied Tristan—and now I’m paying for it.
But he has something I don’t. He has a son. An heir.
Eight-year-old Nelson Junior—of course, theynamed him after Dad—is the heir apparent. They also have a daughter, Carla, who is five. I adore those two. They’re well-behaved and kind, probably because they’re being raised by their French Nanny, Lulu, instead of Betty, their mother, or Tristan.
One day, Junior will take over Winter Financial, which means I can’t tell his father to fuck off. Tristan knows this, which is why he spends his time perfecting his golf handicap or doing God knows what rather than working.
But this is what family does, right? At least that’s what I’ve been taught. We bury the mess for the people we’re supposed to admire.
The elevator doors open straight into the executive wing.
My assistant greets me with her usual clipped efficiency. “Diana’s waiting for you in your office. The board packet is on your desk.”
“Thanks, Jolene.” I don’t slow my stride.
I push the door open and can’t stop the grimace when I see Diana.
She’s got her hip settled on my desk as she browses through her phone. She’s in a navy sheath dress that hugs every inch of her ambition.
She’s blonde. Beautiful. Polished.
She’s got the demeanor of someone who owns the room she’s in—and right now, in my office, she’s smiling at me like she thinks she ownsme.
That blastedkiss!
I toss my coat on the rack. “I thought we had a meeting later.”Where there will be other people.
