Chapter One
~ Rawley ~
The first thing I noticed in the attorney’s office was the smell—cologne, leather, the faint tang of dust from air vents probably installed during the Eisenhower administration.
The place was big enough to seat my entire family on one side of a mahogany conference table and still leave room for the attorney’s diplomas, which glared down at us from every wall in neat, accusing rows.
No one else seemed to notice the scent, or the dust, or how the ceiling tiles were off-white instead of actual white. My father had always said I was too focused on the wrong details.
My siblings and I sat in a row like Russian nesting dolls, oldest to youngest, bookended by our father at the head of the table and the attorney at the foot.
Nobody wanted to sit next to me.
I’d have preferred it that way if the armrests didn’t keep digging into my lats. SEALs weren’t made for these velvet coffins; you could see the panic in the springs every time I shifted.
On my left, Barrett Steele, the second born son, gleamed in a three-piece suit that cost more than a used pickup. He kepttwiddling a platinum pen between his fingers like he was waiting for someone to challenge him to a duel.
Next to him, Vivian was already bored, flipping through notifications on her phone with the same disinterested pout she’d worn since high school.
On the far end, baby brother Carter—a recent addition to the “man bun” trend and walking proof that some trust fund kids never grow out of their prep school phase—kept fiddling with his cufflinks and sneaking glances at the attorney’s assistant. I’d have bet the price of my battered F-250 that he couldn’t name the state capital.
I caught my reflection in a wall sconce and tried not to smirk. Compared to my family, I looked like the hired muscle. The tattoo on my left hand—old trident and anchor—showed beneath my sleeve every time I shifted, which was often. I’d chosen my best shirt, but it was still a shade too tight in the shoulders and a decade too old to pass for “smart casual.”
I saw my father clock the tattoo with that same old disgust, and it made me want to prop my arm up where everyone could see it.
“Let’s get this over with, Milton.” Harrison Steele’s voice had the force of a boardroom order, even here. “I have a flight at one.”
“Of course, Mr. Steele,” said the attorney, voice as smooth as the glass paperweight he kept shifting on the table for no reason. He shuffled the papers, then adjusted his glasses—he was the type who liked to drag out suspense, but he knew better than to antagonize my father. “First, the matter of the primary business interests.”
Barrett’s back straightened. I heard the soft click of his molars as he tried not to smile.
“Steele Holdings and its subsidiaries shall be administered by Barrett James Steele, in accordance with the founder’s wishes.”
Vivian let out an exaggerated sigh, but it sounded more like relief than disappointment. She didn’t want the business, and everyone knew it. The attorney continued, “Vivian Annabelle Steele receives the entirety of the Dallas property portfolio, including the properties currently in development. Additionally, a financial trust of—” he paused to check the number, as if the zeroes might have multiplied overnight, “—twenty million dollars.”
Vivian’s mouth twitched. She didn’t look up from her phone. My father didn’t blink.
“For Carter Maxwell Steele, a trust of ten million dollars and the vacation properties in Maui and Palm Springs.”
Carter coughed, pretending not to notice the sidelong glare from his older brother. If there’d been a scoreboard, Barrett would have started crowing.
“And for Harrison Thomas Steele,” the attorney said, voice hitching slightly, “full rights to all non-corporate Steele family assets, including the residence at Willow Creek and all heirloom items not otherwise specified.”
This part was theater. My father already owned everything that mattered, but he had a need for public affirmation. Every so often he glanced down the table, daring any of us to contest his primacy. No one did.
I counted the number of times he checked his Rolex. Three in the last sixty seconds. I wondered if his blood pressure medication was still working.
The attorney shuffled the pages, then cleared his throat. “Lastly, the matter of Rawley Michael Steele.”
There was a pause. In another family, maybe that pause would have been meaningful—a respectful moment for theprodigal son, the black sheep, whatever the cliché was supposed to be. Here, it was more like the attorney was double-checking that my name really belonged on the list.
My siblings turned, waiting for the punchline.
“Rawley Michael Steele is to receive all rights, title, and interest to Black Butte Ranch, in Madison County, Montana.”
Barrett made a sound halfway between a cough and a laugh. Cassandra finally looked up from her phone, eyebrows quirked. Even Carter managed a little snicker. Harrison’s mouth barely moved, but I saw the contempt in the way his lips went thin.
The attorney kept reading, but it was all legal boilerplate—the phrase “full possession and responsibility” popped up, along with “as is, with all encumbrances.”
