“Yes, it looks like it went very well. Now it’s time for you to talk toyourfamily.”
My spine snaps straight. “You don’t get to use that line on me. That man isnotmy family.”
“No, but he is in the top twenty richest people in the world.” Hunter looks like he’s hiding an eye roll. “Go secure your trust fund and inheritance.”
“I don’t need it!” I snap. Several people in our vicinity turn to look at us, and I recover with a wobbly smile.
I love my brother—truly. But, times like this I want to smash his head against a wall. He could’ve given me a heads up that he’d planned an aside for me and Reynard in the middle of the man’s engagement party, for fuck’s sake.
“Maybe not, but it couldn’t hurt.” Hunter gives me a long look. “If not for the money, then go get some closure, or whatever the fuck it’s called.”
“I don’t need closure!”
“Then why are you yelling?”
“I’m not fucking yelling!”I whisper-shout.
Hunter rolls his eyes. “Go or don’t. I’m bored with this conversation.”
Despite his boredom, he doesn’t move. Merely stares at me until my posture slumps. “Fine,” I say. “Just a few minutes.”
“I knew you’d see it my way.” After a stop by the bar for a glass of wine, which I clutch with a death grip, Hunter leads me through the crowd, up a set of marble stairs, andinto the quiet of the second floor. The noise of the party drops away, replaced by the soft creak of hardwood floors and the muted hum of conversation drifting up from below. Up here, the hallway is wide and dimly lit—dark wood paneling, a runner rug that my heels sink into, and a curated row of abstract paintings spaced along the walls. It’s quieter, more private, and unmistakably personal. Two glass doors lead to a spacious balcony, where Reynard stands, head tilted to gaze at the moon.
“Break a leg. Or don’t.” Hunter walks away, leaving me alone with the turmoil swirling in my belly and confusion swarming my thoughts.
I vacillate over whether to step onto the balcony or turn around and go back downstairs for a full minute before gathering my courage and opening the glass door. The cool evening air drifts over my skin, and I tighten the shawl covering my chest and shoulders.
The balcony is wide, more of a private terrace. It’s stone-floored, with wrought-iron railings wrapped in string lights that give off a soft, warm glow. Beyond the railing, the estate’s grounds stretch out into the dark; manicured hedges, a lit pathway winding through the vibrant gardens, a distant shimmer of a pool or fountain catching the moonlight, and the faint scent of freshly cut grass wafting through the air.
Reynard stands at the railing overlooking the estate, but he turns around at my entrance. His hair is silver threaded through with black, his eyes are that unique grey that he passed on to both me and Hunter, and he has the build of an athlete, even late in his fifties.
He regards me with vague curiosity and a flicker of warmth in his eyes, along with an air of… if I didn’t know better, I’d call it uncertainty.
I regard him with open distrust and barely-masked disdain. If he notices, he doesn’t comment on it.
“Thank you for taking the time to see me,” he says amiably. “I understand Hunter might’ve… strong-armed you a bit.”
“My brother has tried to strongarm me many times. His success rate would not impress anyone.” Even though hedidsucceed tonight, I don’t want to give the impression of being weak.
Reynard smiles vaguely. There are wrinkles around his forehead, eyes, and mouth that the tabloids fail to capture. He looks… weary, for lack of a better word. Slightly tired. But his eyes still shine with a brightness, a thirst to experience life, that many people lose early on.
“I’m unsurprised.” He sips his bourbon, and I do my best not to chug my muscat. It’s a challenge. Standing on a balcony with the man who led to my conception, though that’s the first and last thing he did for me, is surreal.
“You bargained a great deal to get an audience with me,” I point out, fighting to keep my voice calm. “We haven’t seen or spoken to each other in years. Why go through the effort?”
“About that.” Reynard taps his glass against the balcony railing. If I didn’t know better, I would think that the tech mogul was nervous. “Would you humor me as I tell you a story? It’s quite near to my heart, and I hope it helps shed light on the circumstances of our estrangement.”
“I think I’ll need more wine than this to get through it.”
“I’ll send for a bottle.” Reynard smiles, and gestures to the two cozy armchairs surrounding an electric fireplace. “Please.”
I seat myself, drawing a cashmere throw blanket over my legs. Spring is approaching, but it’s a chilly evening. Reynard calls a waiter out, sending for more alcohol; the young man returns with a selection of bottles before I can fully settle in.
Reynard dismisses him, and takes his time popping the cork of a vintage, sparkling moscato that probably costs more than my rent. He pours it into a fresh wineglass and sets it in front of me before he takes a seat.
It probably doesn’t look good to havetwofilled wineglasses in front of him, especially considering how many of his kids are known for their alcohol and drug addictions. “I’m not an alcoholic,” I blurt.
“I’m well aware.” He seems amused. “On the contrary, everything about you suggests you’re aworkaholic. Not unlike me.”
