by Lana Sky
“Get out,” he tells me. “I won’t have you waste my time—”
“What do you want?” My words are hoarse and whispered. I’m still holding the edge of one sleeve, exposing my midriff and my lace bra. He does his best to avoid the bared flesh, but his eyes dart down almost too quickly to catch, igniting my nerves with every stolen glance. “Tell me what you want from me.” Something dark crosses his features, and I find myself croaking out, “In exchange for our shares.”
He laughs, and there’s no mistaking it now. His hostility toward me is personal. Why? I don’t recall the name Lorenz among our family’s enemies. But it is a long list, and Hunter’s sure to have added to it since Papa died. Maybe he’s a scorned investor or a bitter ex-partner?
A part of me doesn’t buy it. I’d remember this face.
I can’t stop the words from forming in my throat. “D-did you know…” The full question refuses to leave my tongue, and seconds creep by without a response. “Just tell me what you want from me.”
He watches me, peeling me apart with those uncaring eyes. It’s only when he finally directs a pointed glance at my breasts that I realize what I’ve said. What I appear to be offering him. Am I? Anticipation consumes my every nerve, making it impossible to rationalize anything else. I need to hear the words come from his mouth. I need to hear him say it.
A proposition my Brandt would never make.
He sighs, drawing himself to his full height, and shakes his head. “You think you’re worth so much?”
“Some men would think so,” I softly admit.
Our family has other investors, and I know my brother. Hunter probably has them all lined up next if his plans for convincing Lorenz fall through. We’ll go over the same song and dance we did this morning, but in the end, I’ll cave. I’ll offer myself to another banker or tycoon. One of them will say yes…
“I suggest you go see one of them,” Blake Lorenz says as if reading my mind. “But first, tell me exactly what you’re offering. Say it.”
I have no choice. “M-myself.”
He flinches. Physically. Before I can even marvel at the reaction, his anger sets in, consuming his features like an inferno. “Say it again.”
“I’m offering myself.”
His upper lip curls back from his teeth. Finally disgust—but it’s nothing like Brandt’s would be. Blake Lorenz doesn’t believe I’m above debasing myself; he thinks I’m not worth the amount I seek.
I blink and the thread holding me captive snaps. I see the man for who he is: a stranger. Then I look down and register the fact that I’m half-naked before him, claiming that I intend to offer my body in exchange for my family’s fortune. Embarrassment washes over me, turning my skin pink. Slowly, I wrench the sleeves of my blouse up and fumble for the buttons.
“I should go—”
“And if I were to change my mind?”
I look up and find him leaning back against his desk, a hand propped under his chin. He observes me the same way I figure another man would a piece of real estate he’s considering to buy, tallying up all the flaws and weighing the potential windfall.
“Right here and now. If I were to offer you a single share in exchange?”
“Frankly, Mr. Lorenz—” I look him over and swallow down the knot in my throat. His gaze only conveys malice. “I’d refuse.”
“You would?” He watches as I clumsily button my blouse and rise to my feet.
“Yes,” I insist over my shoulder. “Goodnight, Mr. Lorenz.”
“You called me a name earlier,” he says, and I pause near the doorway, rigid and tense. “Why?”
I inhale raggedly, composing what little dignity I have left. “I thought you looked like someone, but I was mistaken.” I glance back, meeting his gaze for a split second, before turning away. “You’re nothing like him.”
Once I’m alone in the hall, I stagger toward the foyer only to find the butler already opening the door to darkness.
“Goodnight, miss,” he calls as I race down the steps and into my car.
It takes everything I have in me not to look back.
Six
Three days later, my world is no less fractured. At least it hasn’t completely shattered—until now.
Today is our time of reckoning, and even Hunter is forced to stop resenting me long enough to show solidarity.
“Are you ready?” he asks in the shadow near the door, still visible in the reflection in my mirror. With his chin jutting into the air, he makes a stark contrast to me.
Dressed in white again, I’m the demure bit of light to the imposing darkness cast by his stern suit and his gray tie.
Today, my role is to adorn. Hunter will be the one to respond to the rapid-fire questions and have microphones shoved in his face. He’ll be the one to pretend he has all the answers and project an air of confidence to our investors. Like always, he’ll have the hardest job of all.
“Where’s Ronan?” I ask as I smooth my hair back into a tight coil at the base of my neck. There’s no need for diamonds or makeup for this occasion. Within four hours, the Hollingses will be all but destitute, and every vulture within our midst will start tallying up every trinket worth selling. “Hunter?”
I look back and find him scowling out of my window at the gray, rainy morning.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I’m going to fucking find out.” Then he storms from my doorway.
I scramble after him, still pinning my hair. “Hunter?”
In the three days since my unfortunate visit to Blake Lorenz, neither my older brother nor I have seen Ronan. Any other time, I’d be alarmed—but Ronan is Ronan. He probably saw the collapse coming a month ago. Rather than do something about it, he did what he does best: drown his sorrows in booze without confiding in his siblings.
But today isn’t exactly the best day for him to wind up with Hunter’s fist in his mouth.
“Hunter!” I chase him down the hallway and toward one of the back stairs the servants use.
“Where is he?” he growls. Craning my neck, I see one of the maids, Sarah, trapped between him and the wall. “Don’t lie. Just tell me where he is!”
Sarah points a trembling finger downstairs, and Hunter takes off again. Damn. I have a sinking suspicion as to Ronan’s whereabouts even before Hunter peels down the servants’ wing and throws one of the doors open. Sure enough, all six-feet-two-inches of Ronan are lying across a slender brunette.
“Hey!” He yawns and rubs at his eyes before spotting Hunter towering over the foot of the bed. “Wus going on?”
“I’ll tell you what’s going on.” Frowning, Hunter snatches what I assume are Ronan’s jeans from the floor and tosses them at him. “We’re hours from having our total ruin announced to the public and you’ve been scurrying around fucking all week.”
Ronan chuckles, wrinkling his mouth. He glances at the sleeping girl beside him and shrugs. “We haven’t been fucking all week. Daisy and I haven’t been, anyway—”
“You think this is funny?” Hunter grabs the end of the sheet and wrenches it from the two occupants of the bed, drawing a shriek from the maid, who finally startles awake. “Our entire family is in danger of losing everything and you think this is fucking funny?”
“Right now, I think it’s fucking cold, Hunt,” Ronan says dryly, his legs unabashedly splayed while the woman beside him scrambles to cover her vital areas.
Hunter clenches a fist, and I know how the next scene will play out. Normally, I’d stand aside and let it happen, but now, seeing Ronan like this…
He once was the bravest of us three, the smartest and the most willing to tackle any challenge head-on. He should have taken over the business when Papa died—and if he gave a damn, he would know what to do now. All of that changed ten years ago.
And it’s my fault.
A sob breaks loose before I can smother it. Tears slide down my cheeks no matter how hard I swipe at them with the back of my hand.
Ronan and Hunter fin
ally turn from each other and notice me, shuddering against the doorway.
Hunter, ever the opportunist, gathers me in his arms first. “Do you have any idea what this has done to her?” he asks, angling himself to glare at Ronan over my shoulder. “Apparently not, considering you still can’t drag yourself away from your self-destructive diversion long enough even to give a damn.”
“Look, I’m sorry.”
I hear a grunt and the thud of footsteps hitting the floor. The next second, a familiar hand is running through my hair and my nostrils flood with Ronan’s faded cologne.
“Don’t cry, Snowy,” he pleads. “Just…just tell me what exactly I should be sorry for.”
With a hiss of disgust, Hunter steers me away from him and out into the hall. “Go grab a goddamn newspaper,” he snarls at our brother. “Then meet us at the courthouse when you decide whether or not to remain a part of this family.”
“The courthouse?”
We leave Ronan there without explanation. Near the back staircase, I glance at Hunter from the corner of my eye. He’s frowning, his jaw clenched. Not all of this anger belongs to our brother.
“Think you might have been too harsh?” I ask as I mount the stairs, leaning on him for support. It’s been a long time since we’ve teamed up against Ronan like this—usually, I’m the one at the receiving end of their ire.
Hunter scoffs and gently thumbs my nose. “I’m not the one who hit below the belt,” he says, referring to my tears, “but don’t wipe them away just yet. We need all the pity we can get.”
I flinch at the imagery. But he’s right. So I leave the tears drying on my face and allow Hunter to lead me out onto the front stoop. A car is already waiting for us. Beyond the gates of the estate, the acreage of Hollings property stretches on, devoid of a news van or a reporter.
For now. In just a few hours, all of that will change. Our lives will be under a spotlight much harsher than that of grim admiration. We’ll be a spectacle, there for the mocking and exploitation.
“Are you ready?” Hunter questions before he descends the topmost step himself, leaving me atop the stoop alone.
I shake my head. “No.”
But it’s not like I have a choice. Silently, Hunter affirms as much by taking my hand and guiding me down the remaining steps and into the waiting car despite my apprehension.
Standing tall, with his back to the gallery, and wearing a divine gray suit, Daniel Ellingston III pleads guilty to money laundering and fraud—a fact that sends a rumble through the few people gathered to witness and draws a curse from Hunter. He stiffens, his expression tight.
As the judge recites the terms of Daniel’s bail, I can’t stop myself from asking in a whisper, “What’s wrong? Is it Ronan?”
He hasn’t shown, as per usual. I’m not surprised. Perhaps Hunter is?
“Nothing,” he mutters. “Just… Forget it.”
But I know my brother. He’s wearing the mask of our father again: that cold, calculating look. The same one Papa was wearing the night he asked me to do the unthinkable.
Suddenly, the courtroom begins to empty, and Daniel is whisked away by his lawyers before I can approach, marshaled toward the horde of cameras outside to give his statement. With fewer people around to overhear, I place my hand on Hunter’s shoulder, preventing him from rising.
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
He grits his teeth. Like a hawk, he watches Daniel’s swift exit, and an awful sensation begins to build in the pit of my stomach.
“Tell me, Hunter.”
“He pled guilty.”
Confusion wrinkles my mouth. “Is…isn’t that a good thing?”
Apparently not, judging from Hunter’s scowl. “It means the bastard cut a deal.” He grabs my wrist and lurches to his feet, all but dragging me from the courtroom after him.
Stunned, I say nothing as we hustle into an elevator and enter the garage of the courthouse, where our driver already has the car within easy access.
Hunter shoves me into the back seat and then climbs in beside me. Once the car starts moving, the reality of his haste sets in. My hair is falling from its neat coil. I’m panting. Sweat beads on Hunter’s brow, and he huffs out orders to the driver.
“Take…us…hotel.”
A hotel. Not home to Hollings Manor.
“Hunter, what’s going on?”
He doesn’t even look at me. “Nothing—”
My fist makes little noise as it slams onto the seat beside us, but Hunter flinches nonetheless. “Tell me what’s going on!”
But I don’t need him to tell me after all. The moment I see the guilt written on his face, it all clicks. The worst possible scenario. Daniel cut a plea deal, meaning he must have implicated someone else. Someone much more enticing than a corporate magnate with a real estate empire at his beck and call.
Someone like a Hollings.
Unease unfurls like a punch in my gut. “You lied to me.”
Hunter shakes his head. “Snowy, you don’t understand—”
“You were in on it.”
No wonder he kept everything a secret until he needed my help to spy on this newfound investor. It wasn’t because Daniel was implicated. Hunter was afraid he could no longer trust him.
Because whatever illegal activities Daniel performed, my brother also participated in the scheme.
“And you had the nerve to act like this was all my fault!” I slap him. Hard. The sharp noise echoes throughout the car, but I feel no satisfaction as I pull my hand away. Just a burning, bitter sting. “Our home. Our lives. My relationship. You gambled it all away—”
“It wasn’t like that,” he insists. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was one little investment.”
“You’ve ruined everything!” Those pitiful tears start up again, but not because of my brother.
How disgusting does this make me? I offered myself up to Blake Lorenz on a sick, twisted whim, but now…the bastard would have every indication to believe I meant it. That I needed his pity. His help.
The first man to remind me of Brandt, and I spit on his memory.
“Snowy, what are you doing?”
Hunter paws at the back of my dress, but he can’t get enough leverage to prevent me from shouldering the car door open as the driver slows before a speed bump. I brace one foot against the pavement and scramble out, running blindly toward the garage’s exit.
“Snowy!”
Footsteps gain on me from behind. I can’t outrun him.
But I don’t have to.
Another car turns the corner from a different end of the garage. I recognize the sleek sports car, and the moment I wave, the driver slams on the brakes. Panting, I round the car and climb into the passenger’s seat just as Hunter comes to a stop paces away. Through the tinted glass, I see him mouth, “Let me explain.”
But he had his chance.
“Are you all right?” Daniel Ellingston gives me a wary once-over and smooths his fingers along my messy hair.
I didn’t even stop to hear what the terms of his bail were. House arrest? Was his passport taken? Considering he’s driving alone, I can’t tell, and he doesn’t seem willing to tell me. A wary crook of his lips is all I deserve, apparently.
“Snowy,” he says throatily, “this…this isn’t how I wanted you to—”
“I’m done hearing explanations.” Closing my eyes, I lean back against the headrest. “Just take me home.”
Seven
Daniel doesn’t waste his breath on explanations. For once, he doesn’t ply me with compliments or beautiful, little lies. He lets the silence linger between us, and the hum of his engine reveals more than words ever could.
So much for the powerful union of Hollings-Ellingston. He doesn’t even walk me to my door. It’s as if guilt and shame keep him rooted in the driver’s seat of his shiny sports car, the only object he lusted after more than Sloane.
“I’m sorry, Snowy,” I think I hear him whisper, but the squealing of tires d
rowns him out as I race up the driveway of the manor.
Alone, I enter my house, surprised when no one answers the door for me. The halls sound suspiciously quiet. Perhaps everyone’s huddled in the breakroom downstairs, avidly watching the fallout of our ruin play out across the television.
I’m exhausted by it all. The need for sleep draws me upstairs and into my bedroom, where I fall across the mattress wearing only my underwear. It’s here that Brandt continues to haunt me, luring me into the past.
“Your mother’s lost, Snow,” he said while pensively staring out my window.
It was one of those lazy, boring winter days when I’d pestered him into playing board games with me. Our brief sessions never lasted, and we always wound up sprawled in various positions, talking for hours about anything and everything. I had been in the middle of sorting Monopoly money, confused by his sudden seriousness.
“What?”
“Lost people do strange things,” he said as a lock of black hair fell across his brooding expression.
I frowned, unable to decide if the assessment was a compliment or an insult. My mother was one of the rare people Brandt never mentioned.
“Is your mom ‘lost’?” I snottily countered.
He sighed. “She’s blind.”
Considering that Roseanna Lloyd was an accomplished pianist who’d played a symphony only the week prior, I doubted he meant in the literal sense.
“Mommy not pay you enough attention?” I snickered.
“She pays me too much attention,” he muttered before devolving into a brooding silence.
Poor little rich boy, his mother loved him too much. But the fact just brought up another topic I didn’t dare mention. We never spoke of his father.
And I never spoke of mine.
Forrest Hollings demanded silence and obedience over love. He ruled this home with an iron fist, and even now, no one ever enters his study. No one.
I could always hear every footfall echo in that room from here. Every sigh and rustle of papers. Every illicit deal Papa made or enforced under the cover of moonlight.
