Page 5 of Branded

But I didn’t. I wanted to leave and this was the only way I could. It would be a nuisance in my life, but at least I could leave Texas behind.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll do it. But I’m relocating the operation to California. Keeping it in Texas is too risky; too many people know our family.”

My father and grandfather exchanged looks. Then nodded.

“California makes sense,” Grandfather agreed. “More privacy. More distance from the Drake name. You’ll run it through your resort businesses, perfect cover.”

And just like that, I sold whatever was left of my soul for eight figures and freedom from Texas.

My older brother Nathaniel had taken over the ranch when my father stepped back from day-to-day operations. My sister Caroline managed the oil leases, and my youngest brother James ran the whiskey distillery my grandfather won in a poker game years ago. That left me without a place in the family business, so I built something of my own with the money: an empire of luxury properties stretching from San Diego to San Francisco, and I did it without cattle or crude.

But it was never enough for my father. He thought a Drake belonged on the ranch, breaking horses and checking fence lines, not serving champagne to tech billionaires and Hollywood actors.

Another text. This one from James.

James

Hey asshole, Mom’s losing her mind. She’s complaining only Nathaniel has given her grandbabies. How about you settle down, give her a grandkid to fuss over and get her off my back? Happy to take your place fucking anything with a pussy on the Cali coast.

I almost smile. My mother has opinions about everything, especially my personal life. The parade of women through my bed, the twins I had in my suite last weekend, the actress who called me seventeen times after one night together; none of it meets Eleanor Drake’s standards for appropriate behavior from one of her children.

Me

Tell her I’m working on it.

The lie comes easily. I have no intention of settling down. Marriage is a cage, and I’ve spent my entire adult life refusing to be trapped by anyone or anything. Not everyone wants to buy a wife, which is what my father did. Women are entertainment, temporary diversions, nothing more. The second they want more from me, they’re gone.

I like my life exactly as it is. Control without complications. Power without promises.

The girl on stage finally stops crying long enough for the auctioneer to start the bidding. I tune it out. I financed this auction; I finance all of them up and down the California coast, but I never participate. The whole enterprise disgusts me on some level, even as I profit from it.

So many of these women give up before they walk onto the stage. They all resign themselves to the fact that even though they knew what they were doing, they wish there was another option. Where was the fire? The fight? The steel that made someone actually worth the effort?

I grew up on a ranch where we breed cattle for resilience. You don’t want an animal that gives up the first time things get hard. You want one that fights, that survives, that passes strength down to the next generation. The same principle applies to women, as far as I’m concerned.

Not that I’ve ever found one worth the investment.

“Sold!” The auctioneer’s gavel comes down. “Lot number six goes to Mr. Chen for eight hundred thousand.”

The crying girl is led off stage by one of the handlers. Chen looks pleased with himself, already texting someone, probably bragging about his purchase. Idiot.

“Gentlemen, we have one final lot this evening.” The auctioneer’s voice takes on a different quality. Anticipation, or excitement. “And I promise you, she’s worth the wait.”

I glance up from my phone. The stage is empty; spotlights focus on the curtain at stage left. The men around me shift forward in their seats. Even the servers stop moving to watch.

Something is different.

“Lot number seven,” the auctioneer continues. “Twenty-nine years old, five-foot-nine, natural blonde. College-educated, from Montana. She’s been working in guest relations at The Drake–Monterey for the last six months, so she knows how to handle demanding clients with grace and professionalism. Kathryn Briggs.”

The curtain parts, and there she is. I sit forward without meaning to.

She walks onto the stage as if she owns it, chin up, shoulders back, every movement controlled and deliberate. The casualwear they’ve dressed her in is simple: designer jeans that hug long legs, a white silk blouse that suggests curves without revealing them. Her blonde hair frames her face, falling in waves past her shoulders.

Christ, her face. High cheekbones, full lips, blue eyes that stare straight ahead without flinching from the lights or the men. Not beautiful in a delicate, fragile way like the other girls have been. Beautiful in the way a wild horse is beautiful. All power and barely contained energy.

I know her.

No, her name isn’t Kathryn, it’s Lennox. Guest relations, flagship property. I noticed her months ago, the way she handled the drunk assholes at the pool bar without losing her smile, the way she organized chaos during high-season weekends, the way she never, ever looks intimidated, no matter how demanding the client.