Sebastian Roth. Second in line to the formidable Roth hotel dynasty. The sonofabitch has cost me millions on more than one acquisition. He also, for reasons I’ve yet to figure out, seems to be engaged in some kind of private pissing contest with me.
Since he first appeared on my radar nearly two years ago, I've begun to anticipate his moves in negotiations. I’ve gotten to know his family company's financials better than some of my own subsidiaries. And, I can admit, I’ve respected his intelligence even as I’ve worked to outmaneuver him.
But we've never been in the same room until this moment.
I take his offered hand, albeit reluctantly. The handshake is firm and brief—his testing mine, mine answering. Neither of us yields. Neither of us pretends to.
"Roth." I release first. My choice. "A bit out of your element, aren’t you? Youth outreach programs don't seem like Roth Hospitality Group territory."
"No. But I wrote a sizable check to your foundation tonight, so I figured that earned me five minutes with the host." The smile tightens without losing any warmth. "The work you're doing here is impressive, Baine. I don't say that to many people."
"I'll take the compliment. Now tell me why you're actually here."
"Curiosity." He lifts a champagne flute from a passing tray with the casualness of a man who was born for ballrooms and black tie while I was running around barefoot and wild in Florida swamps. "You and I have circled each other for years now without once being in the same room. That Al-Hassan property deal alone should've warranted a handshake."
I scoff under my breath at the mention of the Dubai hotel acquisition where he drove my price up by eight figures before backing off. He drops the reminder the way a fencer lowers his guard—casual, deliberate, daring me to respond.
"If you were trying to get my attention, there were better ways to go about it." I level a hard stare on him. "As for the Dubai deal, you lost. Not for the last time, either."
"True enough." Those gray eyes glitter with what I'd almost call appreciation. "I don't lose often. It’s good to find a worthy opponent."
“Is it?” I smile, the first I’ve allowed him. "I can’t say I know the feeling. Personally, I’ve met so few."
His laugh is low and unforced, totally unoffended, which tells me more about Sebastian Roth than any corporate filing I'veever read. Most men shrink when I turn cold. This one sharpens. He even finds the pushback entertaining, if his grin is any indication.
He takes a measured sip of champagne, then his gaze drifts past me—past the donors in their formal attire and jewels, past the crystal and candlelight—and lands on the projected dedication banner behind the stage where Avery is delivering her closing lines.
At first I assume Roth’s gaze is caught on my wife, but then I notice he’s not looking at her as much as he is looking above her. To where the letters on the banner glow in the soft light of the slideshow.
The Elizabeth Xavier Center.
The sardonic ease drops out of his expression like a switch being thrown.
"Elizabeth Xavier." He says the name quietly. Carefully. With a weight that has no business existing between two men who met ninety seconds ago. "I wish I’d known her."
There’s an intimacy in his tone, and it makes every muscle in my body lock tight.
My mother is not networking currency. She is not a card for a business rival to play over champagne to ingratiate himself. Her name is on that banner because she taught me that beauty was worth fighting for when everything around us was violent and ugly and hopeless, and she deserved to have that remembered long after the cancer stole her from me.
The fact that this man is standing here saying her name and speaking about her with the familiarity of someone who has a right to it sends ice through my veins.
"Careful, Roth." My voice drops to the register that makes people across negotiating tables sweat. "That name means more to me than you can possibly know."
He doesn't flinch. Doesn't step back. But whatever game he walked in here thinking he was going to play, he's done playing it. He sets his glass down on the bar without drinking from it.
"My mother's maiden name is Xavier too. Madeline Xavier. Elizabeth was her older sister."
The ballroom erupts in applause for Avery’s speech, but I barely hear it. All my surroundings, the people, the noise, the hum of conversations—everything fades to the far edge of my consciousness as I absorb the shock of what I just heard.
My mother had a sister.
Sebastian Roth holds my stunned stare. "We're cousins, Dominic."
What. The. Fuck. My mother never mentioned a sister. She never mentioned any of her family, except to mourn the fact that they’d all turned their backs on her. I never even knew their names aside from her surname.
I realize now that a part of me had grown convinced that they weren’t even real. Her family had erased her so completely I’d believed it possible that they no longer existed. No parents, no siblings, no aunts or uncles, no cousins. I built my entire goddamn life on that foundation.
On the fact that after my mother died, I was truly alone.
