by Lynda Aicher
The doors opened, and he strode for the elevator without looking back. The lobby was busy, other players waiting for the private room to open for their lunchtime meal. The Glaciers did their best to make up for the fact that the guys couldn’t be home to celebrate the holiday with their families. It was just Henrik’s bad luck that they were playing Boston tonight and his family happened to live in town. He’d rather be eating with the team.
The town car was waiting on the curb when he stepped outside, a driver at its side. The man had been an employee for the last few years and he nodded to Henrik as he opened the back door. Henrik couldn’t remember the last time his mother had actually driven a car. Did she even know how to drive?
The driver pulled away from the hotel without saying a word, which was good. Conversation was not what Henrik wanted. It was bad enough he was expected to appear at his parents’ “dinner,” if that was what the stiff, formal gathering could be called. Just thirty of their closest friends and family packed around a table with mind-numbing conversation and fake interest. That was the first part of the long day that transitioned to an evening charity event, also hosted by his mother.
The only saving grace was he had to be at the rink by four for the game, getting him out of the evening gala. Thank God.
He handed his coat to the maid when he arrived at his parents’ Beacon Hill home. The stately structure had been in his father’s family for generations, purchased in the eighteen hundreds and passed down from first son to first son. Many remodels and upgrades later, it still held the grandeur that spoke of old money.
The mood of the party was the expected sophisticated refinement his mother cultured and thrived in. Henrik spotted his parents across the room, next to each other, but miles apart like usual. His older brother was at his mother’s side, talking easily with a couple in front of them. The perfect family unit—minus him.
Henrik cleared his throat and resisted the urge to haul ass right back out of there. He lifted his chin and made his way directly across the room. Take them head on and show no weakness. The same applied in hockey. Maybe that was why he’d taken to the game so well.
His mother was the first to notice him, her smile morphing to something close to genuine. “Henrik.” Her flowing voice held some of the warmth that’d come through in sparing bits over his life. “I’m so happy you could make it.”
“Mother.” He dipped to hug her slim shoulders. Her air-kiss landed near his cheek. His actually touched hers, their performance perfected. Her physical appearance had aged in the graceful way money and a good plastic surgeon allowed, helped along by weekly facials and a stylist that kept her honey-blond hair free of gray and in the latest cut. Currently swept up in an elegant bun and paired with a modest cocktail dress in a rich purple, she was the picture of class. “It’s good to see you.”
He turned to his father, who was still engaged in a conversation with another man, his hearty laugh rising over the low conversation. He couldn’t even stop to greet his youngest son who he hadn’t seen in five months. No surprise there.
“Glad you made it,” Soren said, hand extended. The handshake was precise and neutral, exactly like his clean-cut brother. No brotherly hug from him.
Soren’s wife was mingling nearby with a group of women Henrik recognized from the hundred differed social events he’d been dragged to. He assumed his niece and nephew were tucked away on the second floor with the other children and a group of nannies.
“Just luck with the schedule,” Henrik responded.
“All the better for us,” his mother said, brown eyes lingering on him. “It’s really been too long.”
“You’re always welcome to visit me in Minnesota.” An open invitation they’d never accepted.
Her little frown had the perfect hint of remorse. “It’s too bad we can’t get our schedules to work out. How is your season going?”
The smooth transition dumped the visiting topic while showing him exactly how little she cared about his answer. If she gave a damn, she’d know how his season was going.
“Good.” It was all she expected to hear.
“Henrik,” his father boomed, finally deeming it time to greet his son. One that didn’t even include the customary handshake. “This is a surprise.” He sipped his scotch—it was always scotch—gaze never leaving Henrik. He may have been a head shorter than his son, but he still managed to assert his superiority.
“I told Mother I’d be here.” He should’ve been used to the cold reception by now. He usually was. But after the warmth and openness of Jacqui’s family, the frosty reserve of his own was that much more chilling.
His father glanced at his wife, eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. Henrik caught it though, was used to watching every nuance on the man’s face. “She must’ve forgotten to mention it.”
“Didn’t I, dear?” she faked with dripping innocence. “I could’ve sworn I did.” His mother had “forgotten” to mention his visits too many times for it to be believable, yet they all let it pass. It was just one more facade they danced around, like the refusal to mention Emma’s absence or how she’d died.
“Kurt,” one of his father’s colleagues called, motioning him over. “We need your opinion.”
His dad went to the three men without another word to his family. Kurt Grenick held an aura of respect that had been both handed to him at birth and earned through his years managing the family’s investment company. His designer suit was a little wider around his waist, but only enough to account for the natural progression of his sixty-plus years. He still appeared in good health, if one didn’t count the almost constant glass of scotch in his hand.
“Oh,” his mother said, stepping forward. “There’s Nancy. I really need to speak to her.” She laid a hand on Henrik’s arm. “We’ll catch up later.” She too was gone before Henrik could respond.
He turned to watch her glide through the room, the perfect hostess smiling and greeting her guests with a casual familiarity that never quite reached genuine. It was all so staged, everyone playing their expected role. The same one they’d been practicing most their lives.
A shiver raced down Henrik’s spine, the suddenness startling. He’d always had a sense of being out of place in his natural habitat, but it had never felt so foreign. Had Jacqui and her unassuming, welcoming family really changed him that much?
“Here,” Soren said, holding a drink out to Henrik. “This always helps.”
Henrik accepted the glass, sniffed before he took a sip of the amber liquid. Of course Soren would choose the same drink their father favored. The scotch burned a path down his throat to land like a lead ball before it spread its fake warmth through his system.
“I see nothing’s changed,” he said, eyeing his brother. Standing at almost the same height as their father, Soren was a younger version of the man. His blond hair, angled chin and blue eyes held the clear Scandinavian influence their father loved to brag about.
“What did you think would change?” Soren emptied his own glass and motioned at an unobtrusive server for another. The thought of Britta Hedberg Grenick’s guest digging through a cooler for a beer was absolutely laughable.
Henrik chuckled beneath his breath, smiling for the first time since he’d awoken that morning. God, he needed to find a water before he slammed the drink in his hand. “Nothing,” he answered Soren, apathy tainting his voice. “Absolutely nothing.”
Soren grabbed his new drink, a swift glare hitting Henrik before his false smile was back. “You might be a little more grateful for all you have.”
Henrik cocked a brow. “And what’s that exactly?”
His brother motioned to the room. “All of this. The name. Legacy. Prestige. Money. You’ve never appreciated any of it.”
“And you assume that why?” It wasn’t like he was the bad boy, wild black sheep of the family, pissing away Daddy’s money and breaking the law without worry of real punishment.
Soren managed a haughty shrug, nodding to a pass
ing guest. “Your attitude says it all.”
Henrik didn’t care if his bark of laughter caused a few heads to turn their way. “Is it my lack of arrogance or my career that you’re objecting to? Oh, that’s right. It’s both those things. Has something else been added since I last checked?”
Two steps, and Soren was standing in front of Henrik, his glare seen by Henrik alone. “Are you really that clueless?” He took another drink, emptying half the glass, scowl deepening. “What am I asking? Of course you are. You chose to play hockey as a career, for God’s sake.”
The almost constant knot that took up space in Henrik’s stomach whenever he was home tightened another notch. He studied his brother. “Maybe you should slow down a bit.” He nodded at Soren’s glass and glanced at the people behind them. When had his brother’s drinking gotten so bad?
Soren rolled his eyes, an exaggerated act better suited on his wife than him. “I’m fine.” The sharp response snapped Henrik back a step, one Soren followed. “I can’t believe you’ve never figured it out.”
“What out?”
The predatory gleam in his brother’s eyes had the hairs on the back of Henrik’s neck rising in warning. He resisted the urge to scratch at his nape, instead opting to scan over Soren’s head for an escape.
His brother finished the contents of his glass without flinching at the burn that had to be searing the lining of his esophagus. “You’ve never wondered why you don’t look like anyone in our family?”
Henrik forced a casual shrug he didn’t feel. “I take after the Hedberg side.”
“No. You don’t.”
His unease increased, each word out of his brother’s mouth making him wish he’d blown off this family event.
“Come on, Henrik.” Soren patted his arm in a brotherly-but-not way. “You’re too old to still be in denial.”
“About what?” He really didn’t want to ask, but it was impossible not to. Despite the distance that’d always existed between him and his brother, Henrik still respected him.
Soren’s stare drilled into Henrik until all those tiny hairs on his nape started waving frantic SOS flags. “You’re not a Grenick.”
The flat, almost toneless statement had Henrik backing up a step as the words unwound in his mind. You’re not a Grenick.
“I’m not a…” Grenick? Was he saying…
“Father has always known,” Soren filled in. “But divorce was too low-brow back then, and Mother swore to never say a word.”
“Then how would you know?” Henrik wasn’t so stunned he couldn’t put that logic together.
“I was almost ten. I heard them arguing.”
Or he could be making up a very big lie to suit his own purpose—whatever that was. “And you’re telling me this now because…”
“I don’t know.” Soren lifted his glass only to stop when he saw it was empty. “Could be an act of kindness or the mere fact I’m drunk off my ass and tired of you looking down on everything that shouldn’t be yours to begin with.”
The low hum of chatter blended and blurred into a buzzing ring in Henrik’s ears, the world darkening around the edges. Hold it together. He clenched the glass in his hand, the liquid surprisingly steady given the trembling state of his nervous system.
“An act of kindness?” How the fuck did his brother define this as kindness? If what he was saying was true, then Henrik was a…bastard. One claimed in name by a man but was never truly accepted by him.
Fucking A. The gigantic puzzle piece fell into place, filling the gaping hole he’d lived with his entire life. His derisive snort cut through his nostrils in a harsh gust. “It explains so much.”
Soren’s grim smile was too pleased for Henrik to believe his motives were altruistic. “He gave you the benefit of his name. You should at least appreciate that.”
Did it even matter now? He was almost thirty years old and far past ever expecting his father’s approval, let alone acceptance. He’d made his own name and money his way, without the help of his father or his precious lineage. And it still wasn’t good enough for anyone in his damn “family.”
He raised his glass to his brother in a mocking toast. “Congratulations.” Soren’s brows winged up, confusion cracking the superiority he clung to. “Dad’s all yours. In fact—” Henrik gestured at the room. “It’s all yours.” He gave a nod, the truth unfurling in his chest. “You’re right. I’ve never wanted any of it.” And now, thanks to his darling brother, he had no guilt acknowledging it.
His chest clenched with a mix of anger and relief. His entire life had been built on a lie. The deceit had been set before he’d been born, and he’d carried the unknown weight of it ever since. The injustice rolled in at that point, digging at the hurt that already clung to his battered heart.
It was a wonder the damn thing could still function.
“Well, that’s a good thing.” Soren chuckled, his arrogance charging back along with another glass of scotch that he snagged from a passing server. He stepped to Henrik’s side, gaze scanning the room. “Because dear old Dad shared his will with me last month, and you aren’t in it.” He paused for effect no doubt. “Apparently, Dad believes Mother’s side of the family should be responsible for your financial health, and we all know how Grandma Hedberg favored you in her will.”
The majority of the Hedberg family trust had been left to him with his mother getting a large portion of the rest. Soren had received a token amount, which he apparently resented even though it’d had seven figures attached to it.
Henrik’s stomach heaved, acid flooding his throat. He quickly swallowed then did it again. Fuck if he’d let his smug brother see how close he was to hurling all over his mother’s precious wool carpeting.
It all came down to money. For Soren. His dad. Even his mother. And that had always been the least important thing to Henrik.
He gritted his teeth against angry retorts clamoring for voice on his tongue, the tight hold aggravating the throbbing pain building in his temple. “Did you dump this on me to warn me about my lack of inheritance or to gloat?” he managed to ask with a relatively cool tone.
Soren’s off-handed shrug said it all. The asshole probably didn’t know or care. It’d served whatever agenda he had, and that was all that mattered. Like father, like son.
Henrik forced a slow inhalation through his nose. His tie was slowly constricting around his neck, choking out the very breath he’d just taken. Once again, he didn’t belong.
He wasn’t a Grenick—had never really been one. Not by blood.
Had his grandmother known? Was that why she’d left so much of her trust to him? It wasn’t the music connection, but a way to make up for his mother’s mistake?
He found his mother on the far side of the room, his laser stare drilling her with the bevy of questions spinning wild in his mind. Why? Who was his father? Did she hate Henrik? Resent him? Had Emma been another mistake?
Fuck. “What about Emma?” he asked, hating the question but needing to know. “Is she…” He swallowed the sour disgust from his mouth. “Dad’s?”
“Of course.” Soren shot him a look that said exactly what he thought of Henrik’s intelligence. “She was the cover-the-oops baby. The one Mother had to have to cover her mistake.”
Had to have. Mistake. Him.
His mind spun, the room tilting before he shook his head to straighten it. Hold it together.
Without another word, he turned away and started the long trek across the room. Sweat clung to his temples and nape, soaked his underarms. He counted his steps, ignoring everyone and everything except his escape.
He cleared the wide doorway, sucked in a gulp of needed air and kept moving toward the front door. Every movement was made on autopilot. Requesting his coat and the driver. Waiting for the car to be brought around. Breathing when he wanted to scream.
He calmly slipped his coat on and turned to the maid who’d brought it. “Can you please tell my mother I had to leave?” The courtesy was too ingraine
d to ignore. And maybe he wanted to see if she’d contact him to find out why.
“Henrik?” His eyes squeezed closed at the sound of his mother’s voice echoing up the hallway. “Are you leaving?”
He opened his eyes, gave a tight smile to the maid who hurried away then turned to face his mother. Words evaded him though. Not one sound would come out.
Her frown tugged her brows down but the accompanying wrinkles were missing from her forehead. “Is everything okay?”
For once, he believed the concern he heard. Or was it his wishful thinking? Hearing what he wanted instead of the truth?
The truth. He needed that from her.
He glanced around the empty foyer, still conscious of prying ears and the Grenick image. “Is—” His voice cracked and he stopped to clear his throat. “Is it true? I’m not really a Grenick?”
The blood rushed from her face in a visual crash of truth that sank through his chest and balled around the aching rejection. He wet his lips, spine painfully straight. He still needed to hear her admit it. Was it even possible for her to explain?
Her hand snaked out to clutch his arm, but she didn’t sway or pretend a weakness. She met his gaze, those damn brown eyes he’d never suspected or scrutinized, holding his with a strength that shouldn’t have surprised him yet did. “Soren is spreading stories that aren’t his to tell.”
“This isn’t about him.”
“No,” she agreed, glancing over her shoulder. “And this isn’t the time or place to discuss it.”
“Just tell me if it’s true.”
“It’s not that simple.”
His laugh was so dry it had to claw its way out. “Yes or no. That’s all I need.”
“And that’s not all I want to give you.”
“So, yes then.” He inclined his head, lips compressed around the bitterness that threatened to spill out.
“Yes. Okay,” she snapped, eyes blazing. “Yes. It’s true.” Her grip became a steel clamp when he tried to turn away. “No. You don’t get to walk away after you made me say that. You want the truth, then you get to hear all of it.”
