Page 10 of Filthy Rich Ex's Brothers

Serena

“Serena, nice of you to finally join us.”

Henry, the creative director for Onyx’s property listings, is a short, balding man with a husband and three corgis, and he’s waiting for me when I come flying out the front door of the building. He ushers me with raised eyebrows into the company van behind the other shooting techs.

Inside, there’s the lighting guy, a videographer, and a pretty young woman who leads the Onyx property tours. Today, she’s wearing a tight black dress and impossibly high heels, texting rapidly so her nailsclick, click, clickagainst the phone screen.

“Sorry,” I breathe as I plop down into one of the Sprinter’s soft leather seats. Henry climbs in beside me and motions for the driver to go. “I had a meeting with Mr. Oakley.”

Not quite the truth. It wasn’t so much a meeting as an ambush. Still, that statement catches everyone's attention in the van as we pull away from the curb. Even the tour guide lowers her phone, mouth dropping open.

“Mr.Oakley,” Henry says, dubious. “What did he want?”

A shiver runs up my arms, skirting over my elbows. Almost like the path his gaze took over my body once we were alone.

Pushing those ridiculous thoughts away, I settle back into my seat and regale my temporary co-workers with the simplest story of my break-up, barging into Oakley’s office, and the miracle of keeping my job.

“He must really hate his brother,” the videographer says. “Not surprising. I’ve heard things about that guy. No offense.”

“None taken,” I say, just as the tour guide speaks up, “Or, he just doesn’t care. Wouldn’t it be a pain to have to hire another photographer? That’s probably it.”

Henry sends a look my way. He knows as well as I do that this city is crawling with photographers, and plenty of starving artists who would be more than eager to take a paycheck from Onyx while working on their personal creative projects.

The conversation devolves into a discussion of the Oakley brothers—Travis, Alex, and the elusive Graham—and I tune most of it out, staring out the window, glad to have survived both the impromptu meeting and the interrogation afterward. Unlike Bianca, I’m not an Oakley fangirl, but I know the basics.

I Googled Alex’s family after our third date. Our therapist might have called that aviolation of privacy, but I did it long before we were getting professional help.

Three brothers, three different mothers, but the same dad.

Travis is the oldest, nearly a full decade older than me. Their father, Stephen, left his mom, Min-ji, when he was just four years old. Min-ji outlived Stephen, but is fiercely private about her life.

Graham is the second son, and a bastard, technically. The articles I found alleged that Stephen was having an affair with Bonnie long before divorcing Min-ji. Stephen never got to marry Bonnie, because she got sick and passed away, leaving Graham with Stephen as his sole parent.

And, finally, there’s Alex. The youngest of the brothers. His mother, Priscilla, inherited the Oakley fortune and is a well-known Manhattan socialite flouncing around, starting charities, and spending ungodly amounts of money. Just like with his brothers, Alex never introduced me to his mother, either.

My thoughts about the Oakleys are interrupted when we arrive at the property. It’s just like all of Onyx’s others. Sleek and modern in a way that screamsCEOortech mogul.

I’m thinking about all this while moving throughout the house shooting, catching the perfect angle to show off the geometric chandelier in the guest bathroom. I’m considering the condo’s character and the best way to demonstrate it in a photograph.

I’mnotthinking about Travis’s dark, mysterious eyes. Not thinking about how his jaw ticked slightly when I stood up from my seat earlier. Not thinking about his luscious lips.

Christ. I haven’t been this turned on in… my entire life? It has to be the stress, the adrenaline.

He’s old, I remind myself, squeezing my thighs together and taking a deep breath in the elevator to another unit.He’s old, and my ex’s brother, and my boss. If that’s not an off-limits trifecta, I don’t know what is.

But the feeling between my legs doesn’t subside at that thought. Instead, it just grows steadier, more insistent.

Travis Oakley.

What a stupid idea.

Not even an idea. Just some reckless urge that I’m totally going to ignore. It’s not like I haven’t had bad ideas like this before.

As a kid, spit out by yet another foster home, I’d feel the need to dosomething. To take back some control. Sometimes, it was something small, like stealing a pencil from the cup on the teacher’s desk. And once, it was something really big, like catching a dumpster on fire.

It was an accident. And I put it out myself. But to my foster parents, that didn’t matter.

“Serena?”