Sophie’s skeptical gaze flits down to the lingerie in one of my shopping bags. “Friends? Mhmm. Whatever you say, darling. Whatever you say.”
Neither of us says much for the rest of the day, and the silence is comforting. In the same way that death comforts the ailing. Because I’m sick. Clearly so fucking sick.
THE BROWN SUGAR
QUINTON
The study reeksof Cuban cigars and sherry as I step inside. Reminds me of my childhood. Some things never change. My father leans back into the lounger, smoke slipping past his lips as he hands William the cigar. Their heads snap toward me, and my father arches a brow.
"Where have you been all day?” he asks, motioning for me to join them. “It’s been utter chaos in here. The decorator is a complete moron. Remind me to never use them again.”
The weight of the Nuit du Péché invitational keys sit heavy in my pocket. I’m fully aware that Emery doesn’t like surprises, but every fiber of my being tells me she’ll love this. That she’ll be open to the idea. That she’ll thrive there. She’ll be a fucking star.
“Christmas gifts,” I say casually, pouring myself a scotch. I glance at my brother and smirk. “Unfortunately, there seems to be a universal shortage of humility. Perhaps next year, Will.”
William snorts, adjusting the diamond cufflinks on his tailor-made suit. "Simply because I choose not to hide my wealth doesn’t mean I’m not humble.”
“Yourwealth?” I take a sip of my scotch. "And what is it that you do for a living again, dear brother?” I cock my head. “Last time I checked, living off your inheritance is hardly a career.”
William rolls his eyes. “Try and shame me all you want, Q, but I enjoy my life. I can’t fathom the idea of waking up at dawn every day and putting on a monkey suit.”
My father scoffs. “In order to have the honor ofwearinga monkey suit, you mustn’t have a monkeybrain.” William dramatically grasps his chest. “You should not be proud of your ineptitude, William. It is very unbecoming.”
William lets out an animated sigh. “Yes, yes, I’m aware that I’m a disappointment, Father. Unfortunately, not everyone was born to be a doctor or a lawyer. Some of us were born tospendmoney, notearnit.”
Father snorts, clicking his tongue. “I suppose that’s a skill in itself, isn’t it? Plus,” he flashes me a sly grin, “if William wasn’t a complete freeloader, who’d we ridicule during the holidays?”
William chuckles. “As long as the cash keeps flowing, I will gladly be your punching bag, Father.” He opens his arms, bashing his fist against his chest. “Go on now, hit me with your best shot!”
Father playfully winds up his arm, ready to bop William in the stomach when my phone vibrates. Reaching into my breast pocket, my eyes widen at the news notification on the screen.
It can’t be. With a flick of my thumb, I open the article titled:“Prominent Hedge Fund Manager Found Dead in East River.”
New York City—Wall Street was rocked today as the body of Vincent Wentz, a prominent NYC hedge fund manager, was discovered in the East River. The circumstances surrounding his death have left many baffledas investigators work tirelessly to uncover what led to his untimely demise.
Wentz, forty-two, was widely known for his shrewd investments, with his firm, Wentz Management, managing billions of dollars in assets across various industries. However, in recent years, his name is more commonly tied to the controversy surrounding his involvement with the dramatic price increase of the diabetes drug, Diazenix.
Two years ago, Wentz's firm secured, then resold for a major profit, the manufacturing license for Diazenix, the patent originally owned by NovaTech Pharmaceuticals. The staggering sale was met with widespread criticism?—
I put my phone away, nausea creeping up my esophagus.
“What is it, Quinton?” my father asks, frowning. “What happened?”
I swallow. “Vincent Wentz’s body was found in the East River today.”
William perks a brow. “Isn’t that the guy who…?”
“Yes,” I confirm solemnly. “It is.”
“Good,” William chirps with a shrug. “Bastard got what he deserved.” I stay silent, wishing I could turn back time and stop it from happening. “Hey…” William tilts his head, gaze emphatic. “Stop that, Q. It’s not your fault. You didn’t know he’d?—”
“William is correct,” Father says, standing up. He rounds the lounger, approaching me. He places a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t go back there, Quinton. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
Before I can sink into a place of deep regret, the melodic voice of my sister, followed by the melting scent of Emery’s perfume, floats into the study.
“Oh, Daddy!” Sophie sings. “Where art thou?”
“In here!” Father hollers as Soph and Emery appear at the threshold. Soph grins at my father, wiggling a tiny bag in the air. He purses his lips. “I don’t want whatever is in there.”
