Brom was quiet for a moment. When I glanced over at him, I could see the same worry reflected in his eyes that had been keeping me awake at night.
“Things are going to change,” he said finally. “The question is whether we can change with them, or whether change is going to happentous.”
It wasn’t exactly comforting, but it was honest, and I appreciated that about my brother. He had never been the type to blow sunshine up my skirt when reality was staring us both in the face.
“What if we can’t save it?” I whispered, voicing the fear that had been growing stronger every day. “What if everything our family built just… disappears? We’re like the seventh generation? We’re the ones that destroy over four hundred years of hard work? That sucks.”
“We’re not there yet, Sylvie. We’ve still got fight left in us.”
He was right. We weren’t defeated yet. Tomorrow was a new day, the start of a new season, and maybe this would be the year we figured out how to bring the magic back to Northwood.
CHAPTER 2
KENT
Istared at what had to be the most pathetic excuse for a map I’d ever seen in my life. Hand-drawn lines that looked like they’d been sketched by a kindergartner mid-sneeze crisscrossed the yellowed paper, marking what I could only assume were roads, rivers, and other geographic features that meant absolutely nothing to me. Was this masterpiece drawn by one of my nephews or nieces? I had no idea what I was looking at or why?
“This is a road map to my personal hell,” I muttered, turning the damn thing around, trying to make heads or tails of it. Mountains. Trees. Rivers. Ravines. It meant nothing to someone like me who didn’t know the area.
My father’s hand cracked against the back of my head. I was a grown man and my father still liked to pop me in the back of the head like I was a mischievous ten-year-old. He reached over to spin the map back to its original position with the kind of exaggerated patience usually reserved for dealing with slow children.
“Pay attention, Kent,” Dad said, sitting back in the leather chair across from me in his home study. “This isn’t a joke.”
I rubbed the back of my skull and shot him a glare, but kept my mouth shut. When Armand Bancroft called you into his study the day after Thanksgiving, it wasn’t for a friendly father-son chat about football scores and leftover turkey. It was business. It was always business with him.
The manretiredyears ago. Except he didn’t. He still ran the family like he was our CEO. He was our patriarch. Big difference.
But I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him that.
The first snowfall of the season was coming down outside the tall windows that overlooked the estate grounds. It was like nature’s way of announcing that winter had officially arrived. I could hear Kathy humming Christmas music while she directed the house staff in hanging garland along the bottom sections of the stair bannisters.
“Silent Night” drifted through the air, all cheerful and festive. I had to suppress a groan. It wasn’t even December yet and the Christmas assault had already begun. By the time we got to actual Christmas Day, I’d be ready to burn every piece of tinsel and mistletoe in a fifty-mile radius.
“Kent.” My father’s voice cut through my internal grumbling and dragged my attention back to him. “I’m sending you there.”
I looked down at the map again, then back up at him. “Where, exactly? This looks like the middle of bum-fuck nowhere. Are you sending me to purgatory? Is this Siberia?” I slapped the heel of my palm to my forehead. “Oh! It’s the North Pole, isn’t it?”
“Stop being an ass.” Dad leaned forward and tapped a barely visible speck on the map. The dot was so small I’d initially mistaken it for a coffee stain. “I’m sending you here. To Northwood.”
“Northwood.” I squinted at the tiny mark on the paper. “No thanks.”
My father dismissed my attitude with the kind of wave he’d perfected over forty years of dealing with his sons’ various forms of rebellion. “Northwood might be tiny, Kent, but it’s sitting on something very valuable. Something that could make the family a considerable amount of money if we play our cards right.”
I sat back in my chair, already knowing I wasn’t going to like whatever came next. When he got that gleam in his eye—the one that said he’d spotted an opportunity to expand the family empire—it usually meant someone was about to get steamrolled. And based on the fact that I was the one sitting in his study staring at a hand-drawn map, I had a sinking feeling that steamroller was going to be me.
He’d made our family very rich. So rich we never needed another business deal. Our children wouldn’t need to work a day in their lives. Hell, their children wouldn’t need to work.
So, why did I?
“A decade ago, some colleagues and I discovered that the area around Northwood is sitting on what might be one of the largest untapped oil reservoirs left in New York State,” he continued, settling back into his chair with the satisfied air of a man who’d just revealed his winning poker hand. “Completely untouched. Ripe for the taking.”
Of course it was oil. Never mind the environmental impact or the people who might be displaced—if there was black gold in the ground, Dad wanted it. If he didn’t snap it up, some other rich friend of his would. Their greed would never be satisfied. I hoped I never let myself turn into him.
“When I first considered pursuing it over a decade ago, the town was thriving,” Armand went on. “The local businesses were doing well, property values were stable, and nobody was interested in selling because they were all perfectly happy where they were. But times change, Kent. People struggle. And struggle creates opportunity.”
Something cold settled in my stomach that had nothing to do with the weather outside. “What kind of opportunity?”
“The kind where everyone wins.” His smile was the sort that sharks probably wore right before they bit you in half. “The town is struggling financially now. The main businesses are failing, property values have dropped, and the locals are getting desperate. It’s the perfect time to swoop in with an offer they can’t refuse.”
