Page 14 of Filthy Rich Ex's Brothers

“Yes, I can do it.” Before I can really think it through, I thrust my hand out in Travis’s direction.

Travis raises his brow again, and my flush deepens. Just when I think he’ll turn without shaking it, he steps forward and slides his cool palm against mine.

The touch is electric, immediately jolting right down to that spot between my legs once more. I suck in a shaky breath, pray to god he didn’t hear me do it, and thank him quickly before turning to leave, swallowing down great gulps of air the moment I’m on the other side of his office door.

“It’s a recipe from TikTok,” Lillie hums as she spoons out ladles of dumplings and a coconut curry onto our plates. “Like, half the stuff here is just from Trader Joe’s.”

“So, you’re not a real chef,” Georgia deadpans. Lillie pauses, pulling the pan back and raising her eyebrows at Georgie. The med student laughs, realizes Lillie isn’t joking, then rescinds her teasing. Instead of apologizing, Georgia jokingly dips her head, holding her bowl up like a peasant begging for porridge.

“You’d all do well to remember what they say about the hand that feeds!” Lillie cackles in a Russian accent before taking the pan back into the kitchen.

We’re sitting around in the living room—where we normally gather for meals—digging into our food while Sid and Graysonargue over what to watch. Sid has nominated Bridgerton. Grayson wants to watch compilations of figure skating from the Olympics.

Georgia mediates the fight, but I’m hardly paying attention. I can’t stop looking at the place at the edge of the settee where Bianca usually curls up. I guess I’d thought that when I moved in again, things would go right back to the way they were. And they have with everyone else. It’s just my best friend who is suddenly missing.

Every time I try to text her about it, try to dig into what might be going on with her, she manages to brush me off or redirect the conversation toward what’s going on in my life. Last time we messaged, she left off saying she might be able to find someone to fix the record player.

Even if she could, I probably wouldn’t be able to afford it.

Of course, Bianca will offer to cover it if I admit that. She still doesn’t understand why I won’t let her buy me things or pay for my stuff.

“I’m just saying,” Grayson says, standing now beside the TV, pointing at the YouTube icon, “that it’s ourpatrioticduty?—”

His speech is cut short by a knock on the door.

“Is it Bianca?” Lillie asks, emerging from the kitchen with her lavender hair down, her apron off. Sitting on the couch, she folds her legs beneath her and calls out, “Come in, bitch.”

There’s a pause, then Sid says, “It’s… not Bianca.”

He’s looking down at his phone, which reminds me that he installed cameras around the outside of the house. At the time, he claimed it was so he could catch the raccoons on video, but none of us really bought that explanation.

“Who is it?” I’m already standing, setting my food down on a scuffed side table.

“I’ll get it.” Sid is already standing, moving toward the door. The rest of us look at one another for a moment. Sid has been here the longest. He handles the rent and utility payments.

And none of us is entirely sure what he does for a living. For a while, Grayson was convinced he was one of those guys driving around in a truck, locating copper and selling it by the pound.

“People do that in Manhattan?” I’d asked, skeptical.

“Well… probably?” Grayson shrugged. “What else could it be?”

Now, I’m scrambling after Sid, desperate for more information about his mysterious job, when he calls out from the front door.

“Serena! It’s for you.”

I’m moving too fast to stop or process; then I’m at the front door, standing next to Sid, taking in his suspicious expression. On the crumbling front step of our old Victorian house stands a man in an impeccable midnight black suit, holding out a crisp, dark envelope.

“Direct from Onyx,” he says simply. “Serena MacKenzie?”

I swallow. “That’s me.”

“I’m supposed to deliver this straight into your hands. Can I see some ID?”

Lillie, Grayson, and Georgie crowd in the hallway behind us, and I hear one of them whisper something about this being a scam. But the man said Onyx, so I’m already producing my I.D. from my wallet and holding it up for him.

Apparently satisfied, he hands me the envelope and turns, walking back down the path and toward a black SUV idling at the curb.

“What the fuck was that?” Grayson hiss-whispers, the moment the door shuts and Sid has locked the deadbolt. Sid’s phone is in his hand, and he watches the grainy image of the SUV pull away on the screen.