Page 5 of Filthy Rich Ex's Brothers

Bianca ushers me to the minivan while the rest of them pack my things in the back. Maybe it should be embarrassing—the fact that allmy belongings fit in the suitcase-sized trunk of a Chrysler Pacifica. Or maybe Alex kept some of my stufffor himself. There’s no time for me to go through everything to make sure it’s all there.

And what about the things we bought together? Going half-and-half on the nice espresso machine? The cordless vacuum, towel warmer for the bathroom? So much pressure from Alex to make our lives a little nicer. And so much pressure from me to split the cost on everything. I never wanted him to feel like he had to support me.

Ten minutes later, Lillie is cursing and waving her hand out the window as we make our way through city traffic. We almost never drive, but all pitched in on a parking spot for Lillie’s minivan outside the house. It came in handy for trips to Ikea, huge grocery hauls, or thrift store finds.

Lillie and Sid were always dragging in some hefty piece of furniture—a mahogany desk or dresser—swearing they would sand it down and polish it up, maybe even flip it for a few hundred dollars, only for the thing to sit as it was, scuffed and dull, an additional lovable misfit in a house full of them.

Thinking about my friends, about the life I shared with them before moving in with Alex, makes my stomach twist.

“I don’t have anywhere to go,” I say from my spot in the second row of the minivan, burger and fries steaming in my lap. Bianca is texting furiously beside me. Knowing her, it could be anything—to our landlord about me moving back in, to her family lawyer about what kind of action I can take against Alex.

I’m already exhausted just thinking about getting home. They will want to discuss revenge. They’ll want to talk about it, to theorize about what the hell happened. Why he would flip like that. Sid will probably make a joke about Jekyll and Hyde.

But I’m not thinking about Alex. I’m thinking about what the hell I’m going to do next. What this means for me.

Sid—who always gets the passenger seat on account of his long legs—twists around and stares at me, his eyebrow piercing dipping with his dubious expression.

“Serena.” He says my name like an admonishment, then pops a fry in his mouth, chewing for a moment before swallowing and going on, “You’re coming back to live with us.”

“I won’t be able to afford the rent.” I close my eyes as I say it. The car goes quiet, and when I open them again, everyone but Lillie is staring at me.

“Why not?” Georgie asks from behind me. “You’ve been working so hard the past few months.”

There’s a twinge of regret in my chest. Yes, I’ve been working hard, and pouring most of that extra money into a shared savings account with Alex. One that I wouldn’t even know how to access if I could. Alex set the account up and I don’t know where the money is.

But I don’t want to admit that I’ve been stupid enough to trust him with my money. Instead, I say the thing that feels much bigger: “I’m going to lose my biggest client now.”

Once again, the car goes quiet, and I don’t even have to glance at my friends to know they all know what I’m talking about. They’re all thinking about Travis Oakley.

Chapter 4

Travis

Iwake up one minute before my alarm is set to go off. It’s an annoying problem—that one lost minute of sleep grates at me—but I haven’t found a solution for it. No matter what time I set it for, my body always wants to be one step ahead.

Instead of waiting for the alarm or ruminating on the problem, I force myself out from under the comforter and into my routine. The lights come on as I stand, the curtains automatically parting to reveal the awakening of the city.

The sky is all gentle pinks and blues. Beautiful against the towering, imposing figures of the skyscrapers around me.

Now that we’re solidly in May, Manhattan no longer feels like it’s emerging from the ice age. Instead, the mornings are only chilly enough for a light jacket, and the afternoons are warm enough to make commuters sweat and shed outer layers.

My morning routine is simple but effective, and my home gym comes to life the moment I walk through the doorway, the motion-activated sensor turning on the lights, opening the blinds, and starting my music. Years ago, I worked with a personal trainer, but one day it occurred to me that I didn’t need to. I know the sets and reps and prefer being on my own.

I’m halfway through the workout, under the bar and staring at the ceiling, when my wrist starts to buzz with an incoming call. There are very few communications that come straight to me instead of filtering through my assistant, so I rack the bar and glance at it.

Graham.

I consider answering him—Graham typically wouldn’t call unless it was something important—but decide that if itisimportant, he’ll text. Or keep calling until I answer. He’s never been known for his patience.

It’s rare that he has cell service, and when he does, he makes a point of touching base with me. He must be out of whatever wilderness he’s been exploring lately.

So, I go back to my workout, then to my shower, then to my green smoothie.

When I’m finally in the back of the car, on the way to the office, I call my brother back.

“About time,” Graham grumbles, his voice somehow an entire octave lower than mine. “Did you just wake up?”

“What can I do for you, Graham?”