Page 110 of Break My Heart

He spots me and his eyes narrow. Then his voice cuts through the crowd calling me forward, “Son. Leo.”

The command hidden in it hasn’t changed in ten years. I walk in the opposite direction, ready to find Christin, Dario, and Lewis and leave. I’ve done my duty.

Unfortunately, he follows. He finally gets close enough to grab my arm. “Viscount Raleigh.”

That stops me not because I respect it but because I despise its association with me. I shrug off his hand and demand, “What?”

His expression hardens instantly. I’m not surprised by my father’s lack of grief or softness. “There are responsibilities requiring your attention.”

I actually stare past him at Albert’s coffin still resting beside the open grave. My brother hasn’t even been lowered into the ground yet. I hiss, “You’re doing this now?”

“The timing is unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate,” I repeat quietly.

His jaw tightens. “The family requires stability.”

The family. Nothing personal. No, How are you holding up?

Nothing.

He goes on as if nothing is amiss. “You’ve had years to prepare yourself for assuming responsibility.”

My hands curl at my sides. “Albert’s burial—his family’s burial—is happening ten feet away.”

“I’m aware.”

Something sharp and furious twists inside my chest. It’s clarity about why I never looked back. And it makes me feel secure in what I’m going to do to his precious legacy, because nothing has changed. Not even today, when we’re supposed to be mourning my brother.

“I’m not discussing titles today.”

I turn and storm away. Then I hear my name called in a way that stops my motion on a dime. “Lord Raleigh.”

Slowly, I turn. An older man approaches from the edge of the crowd. It’s Harrison, the Hawthorne estate solicitor. I vaguely remember him standing beside my father in rooms children weren’t meant to enter.

He looks older now. Affected. More human. He dips his head as appropriate for the title I currently hold. “May I have a word? It’s about your brother.”

I nod.

He leads me several yards away beneath an enormous oak overlooking the burial grounds. For a moment, he says nothing. Then, he reaches into his coat and pulls out an envelope.

My name is written across the front in handwriting that immediately makes something in my chest ache.

I know that writing—perfectly slanted. Suddenly, I’m four years old watching Albert practice his letters. I’m twelve, borrowing school notes.

He holds the envelope out to me. I take it and my fingers tighten around it. “How did you get this?”

Harrison’s expression shifts. “Your brother left instructions. He wanted you to read it privately.”

I stare at the envelope. At my name.

Leo.

Not Viscount. Not Raleigh.

Leo.

“He was very specific.”