“Problem?" my father asks, coming to a halt in front of us as Kane the arsehole continues to sulk away.
“This could go very badly,” Kane replies, bluntly. “You’re asking for trouble just walking in here.”
“Learn from your father, Kane,” Tom scoffs. “Live a little.”
“Tom is right,” my father adds. “So is Mason—whatever brain pills he’s been taking. This is good for us. It’s time you three widened your network.”
“We all knownetworkingis not why we are here,” Kane grumbles, shortening his lifespan with every protesting word. “You are getting carried away. Again.”
“The ideologies you question so much are the reason you have a seat at the table, son.” My father smirks. “Now, quit being the saint we both know you aren’t, and get on board. And that’s an order.”
“Yes, sir.” Kane nods and stands aside to let my father and Tom climb the steps.
“Happy now?” I ask with a grin.
“Sometimes, I wonder if you’re a secret genius or justthis fucking lucky,” Kane mutters.
“Can’t it be both?”
“No.” Hugo raises a finger, shaking his head. “Let’s stick to our roles, people. He is the brain. You are the face. I’m the charm. Now, let’s go score some London girls.”
“You’re both wankers,” Kane grumbles. Hugo and I laugh and follow him inside.
The Devereux ball—better known as posh London twats parading in tailored suits, silk gowns, and heirlooms, weighed down by history and inherited power. An annual spectacle of silent dominance and deafening privilege.
Under the chandeliers, which are worth more than most British people's homes, is where it happens. Deals disguised aspleasantries; nods trade like stock. Fortunes move hand to hand, clean and quiet, no paper trail in sight. Signatures are just formalities for later; the real transactions are sealed in the room with the right whisper in the right ear.
The atmosphere in Devereux’s great hall tightens the moment we pass through the towering double gold-carved doors.
The whole room startles. Conversations falter mid-word, laughter hangs unfinished with every step we take. We need no introduction. The hush does it for us. Fort is rarely seen at these kinds of events. Invitations always come, but attendance is occasional. This marks only the third time Fort families have shown their faces.
My first.
As we descend the entrance steps, the tension thickens. Guests clear a path like their posh egos may catch fire if we get too close. Even in designer suits, we’re not mistaken for one of them. Good. I’d rather be found dead in a ditch.
My father introduces Kane and me to some of our allies, and a handful of businessmen smart enough to know they need us, powerful enough not to pretend they don’t.
Fuck them and their double standards.
They can frown upon how we earn our wealth all they want, but no one is a saint in this room. The snakes who whisper about our ports and offshore networks later queue up to profit from the same off-the-book deals.
I fucking suck at pretense. I don’t have whatever gene Kane Berkeley has that makes him smile like a politician and lie without blinking, even when he’s hating their guts. It took my father decades to master the skill—one I have no interest in indulging.
We don’t need this. We are more powerful than most of these fuckers combined, whether they care to admit it or not.Things will be different under me. Until then, they can smile and pose as they please.
I have more important things on my mind, anyway.
Speaking of which,where the fuck is she?
The invitation listed Etheridges as the guests of honor. If she doesn’t come tonight, this will have been a fantastic waste of my fucking time. One I will take out on her by breaking into her glass fortress.
Would rather not trigger a war.
But that’s her call now.
“Come on, little dove,” I mutter to myself when a familiar man blocks my line of sight.
Sir Lionel Arnoult. French old-money royalty.
