Hunter takes me to an upscale steakhouse smack dab in the center of the city. I know his taste in cuisine runs snobbish, so I dressed appropriately in a sensible skirt and faux-silk blouse, but Istillfeel underdressed. The people surrounding me look like they belong on a runway—it’s expensive suits and cocktail dresses all around.
The restaurant itself doesn’t help my comfort levels. It’s bathed with dim amber lighting from low-hanging pendants, dark walnut paneling on the walls, and leather booths the color of old wine. White tablecloths cover circular tabletops, held down by ornate silverware and candles that flicker in their smoked glass holders. The tables are spaced far enough apart to guarantee privacy, which speaks to the high-end clientele.
The air’s perfumed with the scents of wine and decadence, and somewhere beneath the low hum of patrons conversing with each other, there’s jazz playing just loudly enough to notice.
My brother gets stopped no less than twice on our way to the table. He’s a recognizable public figure as one of the most successful entrepreneurs in the finance industry; he had a profile in Forbes last year, and occasionally appears in magazines under lists of most eligible bachelors.
I know quite well that Hunter has absolutely no interest in marriage. Neither of us had any good examples of healthy romantic relationships growing up, so I can’tblame him. I’m not overly fond of the thought of tying my fate to another person’s, either.
My ass barely hits my chair before he lays into me. “What are they doing to you at that job of yours?” he demands. “You’re pale, thin, and I’ve seen black holes smaller than the bags under your eyes.”
I roll said eyes. “I work for a high-intensity sports team, Hunt. One that utilizes an unusual amount of data-driven strategy. Data is kind of my thing, and I’m working on my forecasting algorithm.”
He considers this, then gives a curt nod, as if he’ll allow it. Hunter took on more of a father role than a brother one when we were growing up. Our mom is a wonderful person and was a great Mom in her heyday, but she still had her problems, and our father didn’t acknowledge me. Hunter picked up the slack our parents left in ways few others would have, and for that, I’ll forever adore him—even if he is the stereotype for overprotective. And has his picture next to the wordtyrantin the dictionary.
“Is it a boy that’s making you look like this?” he questions, trying and failing to be smooth. “I’ve seen you tired before. This isn’t tired, it’s fuckingexhausted.”
Asher briefly flashes through my mind, and my mood sours. The asshole is actually fuckingbenchingme because he’s incapable of understanding simple directions.
“No,” I say, managing to sound sincere. “No boys, no girls, just lots of data work and model-building.”
“How is your program going?” he queries.
I let out a long breath. “It’s a work in progress. I built the theoretical framework during my masters, but there areso many variablesto account for in F1. The ones giving me the most grief are thehumanones—like emotions. And, as always, turning a theoretical model into a practical system is… complicated.”
“You know I’d buy the framework from you, right? It’d change the game in my world.”
“You already developed your own proprietary trading models,” I point out. I might be smart, but Hunter is an actualgenius. He alreadyhaschanged the game in his world.
“Yes, but it’s nothing like yours—”
“I’m not selling mine,” I say flatly. “It’s not even done. If I were to reformulate it to fit your industry, that’d set me back by months, if not years.” I shake my head. “I want to see if it works in F1 first.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to apply your framework to finance? In the corporate world, I don’t have to account for whether someone’s having a bad day.” He makes a face, as if the very thought repulses him. “Individual emotions are irrelevant because people are just ants in a colony. What matters is what the colony does, and colony behavior is just math. You’re trying to model the individual ant. That’s an exponentially harder problem.”
“Probably, but that’s not what I want to do with it,” I say bluntly.
Hunter’s eyes narrow. “I’ll match your yearly salary for every month you work on it for me.”
One of my brother’s fatal flaws is he believes in the value of a dollar over anything else. Hethinks money will take him everywhere. So far, that theory has yet to be disproven. Nevertheless, “No.”
“Double?”
“Nope.”
“Fine, triple. But that’s my last offer.”
“No!” I snap. “I don’t want a nepo job, and I’m not interested in your money or your offer.”
“Youneedthe money. My smallest properties are three times the size and quality of your entire shitty apartmentbuilding.”
“You’re also a fuckingmulti-millionaire, Hunter. Of course my living situation isn’t remotely going to stand up to yours. They’re not comparable, and they probably never will be, andI’m okay with that.I don’t need insane wealth.” Icould’vebeen born to it—if I was valued similarly to the rest of my siblings, Ishould’vebeen born to it—but I got the short end of the stick in every way.
I don’t resent that. It built character and taught me how to fight for myself rather than expecting my trust fund to do the fighting for me. I might resent the sheer lack ofacknowledgementa little, but not the wealth disparity.
“Fine. We’ll revisit this conversation at a later date.”
We won’t, but I don’t feel any need to say that.
