The Proposition by Amelia Wilde

6

Leo is almost finished cursing me out when I toss my keys at my building’s valet and punch the button for the elevator.

“Next time you ask me for a bullshit favor like this, I’m making you sit in on the meeting.”

“There won’t be a next time.”

“There sure as hell won’t. Just ask her on a date, Mason. Don’t have your friends do it.”

I snort a laugh into the phone. “This has nothing to do with romance.”

“Of course it does. Women love fucked-up games like that from bastards like you.” I don’t know whether his tone is best described as sarcastic or venomous or both. “I want an explanation. A real one. I just turned down a real goddamn deal for you. And almost made her cry.”

Did Charlotte Van Kempt almost cry? It would be good if she did. My revenge plot has been twisted inside out by her arrival in it, and it makes me feel feral. She has added a certain dimension to all this. Charlotte isn’t revenge in the abstract—she’s a blushing, pissed-off woman who has run around the city trying to find other deals. She won’t win, but I’ve had to leverage my connections.

Leo did me a favor when I showed up at his office five minutes prior to the meeting. I had to trade on our friendship to get it done. I was acquaintances with him years ago because we both ran on our respective prep school track teams. He dropped out abruptly just when things were getting interesting in high school. Never did find out why.

Anyway, we move in the same circles now that I’ve built the family business back up.

“I’ll tell you at the next card game. Or at the benefit.” Some bullshit happening at the botanical gardens. I almost never show up to those things.

“Liar.” He hangs up before I can say anything else, which is fine, because the elevator is letting me out into my penthouse. I shrug off my suit jacket in the foyer and hang it on one of the hooks there, then go to the other end of the open-plan great room, where there is a large dining table. Sit down in the nearest chair. Stretch.

My knee burns today, in addition to its usual ache. Like the tendons might snap.

It’ll let up with a few minutes of peace, looking out through the oversized windows at the skyline.

Forget that—one minute of peace. I can hear the elevator going down already. Gabriel will be coming up with it. He’s always slightly early, like he’s afraid he’ll miss something crucial if he’s even one minute late. It’s a life philosophy I find simultaneously irritating and accurate. Lives can be ruined in the space of minutes. Seconds. In the time it takes for a building to catch fire and for that fire to burn out the floor. The ceiling. Everything.

The elevator arrives some forty-five seconds later. “Mason?”

Gabriel practically sings my name. I don’t know if he remembers that our mother used to sound like that. Like our names were a melody. She’s been dead a long time. There’s no telling which intangibles have been lost to the years.

I could ask him if he remembers. But I won’t.

“In here.”

I get up before Gabriel enters, one of my kitchen staff coming from the opposite direction. Pots clang together in the kitchen, muted by the doors. I’m hoping having extra staff will keep tension to a minimum and keep everyone on their best behavior for this first brunch. Namely Jameson, who is never on his best behavior. Hasn’t been for years.

Neither of my brothers are going to ruin this. Not today.

Gabriel approaches the dining table still on his phone. He has the same dark hair and green eyes as me, but we look nothing alike. I’m dark where he’s light. I’m serious where he’s playful. I’m a hardass where he’s the consummate charmer. He taps out the rest of his message.

“Rude as fuck, Gabriel. Get off your phone before you enter a room.”

He gives me a delighted grin. It’s a smile that’s closed million dollar deals. “You could do the right thing and cancel this brunch. Reschedule it for...never.”

“Why would I do that? You love to visit home.”

“Sure. It’s your sunny personality I came for.” Another grin. He’s a favorite at every party he walks into, God knows why. A favorite at every event he puts on.

I make an expansive gesture at the table, set with my finest china. “I set the table just for you.”

“You don’t set the table yourself. You have staff for that. It’s Saturday. Why are you dressed for the office?”

“None of your business.”

“You’re not going to tell me?”

“No.”

“Oh. Then I guess I don’t give a fuck about being rude.” Everything he says is light and measured. Playful and cutting. People want to be around Gabriel.

I worry about the easy way he moves through the world.

It’s too normal for the lives we’ve led.

On the surface, everything is fine. He’s busy. He’s social. Always in meetings. Always at parties. He was the first to move out of the penthouse and carry on with his life like our parents’ deaths were a minor hiccup. Always on his way somewhere. Always leaning close to talk to someone at a party. But for all he lets people know about him, I still have no idea what he’s thinking most of the time. What he’s really doing. No idea, and I can’t make myself ask him. He’d brush me off. I wouldn’t get an answer.

“You’ll give more of a fuck while you’re in my house, asshole.”

Gabriel laughs, then saunters around the table and drops into one of the chairs. One of the staff comes in with a covered tray. He gives her a megawatt grin as she puts the tray in the middle of the table. “Thank you,” he says with a wink, making her blush. “Where’s Remy?”

“She had a project for her Greek Classics seminar.”

“That’s bullshit.” Jameson delivers this pronouncement five minutes late, like always. A T-shirt and jeans look like they might have been on him since last night. He sidesteps the server on the way through the great room, narrowly avoiding a collision. He gets all his thrills from brushing shoulders with death. I have no idea how to explain to him that he doesn’t have to go chasing it. It will find him whenever it wants. He throws himself into the seat next to me. “Why does Remy get to skip the family brunch but I don’t?”

“Because she’s doing something important.”

The server reappears with a pitcher of water and steps around us, filling our glasses. I’ve arranged to pay her several times the normal salary to ignore it if tensions reach a rolling boil. That, along with an ironclad nondisclosure agreement, will allow us some privacy to try and be a family and not the splintered thing we’ve been lately.

“I was doing something important, too.” Gabriel makes a show of putting his phone facedown on the table, light in his eyes, his posture relaxed. “And I still had to come.”

“Fucking a random person every night is not important.”

“It is if you do it right.” Gabriel grins devilishly. “But for the record, I don’t always fuck. Some people just like to talk.”

“God knows you can’t shut your mouth.”

Jameson groans. “Should I let you two have some privacy?” The way he’s slumped in his chair is an invitation for me to slap him across the back of his head, so I do. He punches back. It’s a practiced movement, habit more than anything, and he straightens up to the table. “You can just say you want me here, big brother.”

“Not for the pleasure of your company,” Gabriel points out. “This is about keeping us where he wants us. Close to his heart, so we can’t get into trouble.”

“Yes, Gabriel, omelets are what keep the two of you from destroying the family. If only they’d convince you to join Phoenix Enterprises.”

“This way is better,” Gabriel says, the response coming easy because we’ve had this talk a million times before.

I have no idea why he’s being so obstinate. Gabriel is a natural dealmaker. He’s convincing and charming and people want to please him. It’s why his small real estate brokerage is successful. But his lack of interest in business management is holding him back.

If he’d just join Phoenix, we’d both be better off. We would make his business an international player, and his skill would make us the best in acquiring new properties.

“If it’s the money you’re worried about—”

“I thought one of the rules of this little family brunch is that no one gets to talk about work.” Jameson takes the cover off the tray in the middle of the table. Three stacks of pancakes. He stares at them for several moments. Blinks once. “What’s this?”

“Pancakes, Jameson. Are you high?” I’m joking, but not entirely.

He cuts a glance at me. “The pancakes?”

“If you mean is it Dad’s recipe, the answer is yes.”

“Wow.” He looks like he might be genuinely pissed, in which case...

“What the fuck is your problem?”

“There’s no problem.” He picks up the serving fork, sticks it through three pancakes, and tips them onto his plate. He doesn’t meet my eyes.

Gabriel watches this with a smirk, then glances at me. “You really don’t know?”

“Who the hell has a problem with pancakes?”

Jameson says nothing. He butters the top pancake with the kind of concentration I wish he’d give the business. His hair is long, almost brushing his shoulders. Unprofessional. I’d never allow that in someone who works for me—except for him. He gets away with it because he’s, unfortunately, brilliant. My brother can tell the cost and the ROI of a piece of property at a single glance. He’s made a fortune on the kind of community revival projects that usually bleed money.

He can make miracles out of train wrecks when he applies himself.

And then he’ll disappear for several days. He’ll ignore properties I’ve assigned to him. He’s one delayed reaction away from a deadly car accident, but he doesn’t seem to care.

It’s maddening. “Jameson.”

“Gabriel texted me on his way in,” he says, pushing the syrup carafe into my hands, though I don’t have anything on my plate. “He said you’re taking secret meetings.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. I wasn’t even in the goddamn thing. I just waited in another room.”

“You’re spying on other people’s meetings?” Gabriel reaches for the bowl of fruit and tips assorted berries and melon onto his plate. “That’s not very professional of you. How can I merge my company with yours when you’re involved in corporate espionage?”

I unroll my napkin, letting the silverware tumble to the tablecloth. My knee throbs. The fork is convenient enough to stab in Gabriel’s direction. “I don’t need to resort to that bullshit, so shut the fuck up. And you.” A stab at Jameson misses his arm by a fraction of an inch and gets his attention. “Tell me what’s wrong with the pancakes.”

He scoffs. “Nothing’s wrong. They’re great.”

“Then why are you being such a dick about it?”

Jameson’s jaw tightens. “One of the rules of brunch is having polite conversation, fuckface.”

“One of the rules of brunch is not being an obnoxious jackass, you piece of—”

“This is good watermelon.” Gabriel’s everything’s-fine, nothing-is-wrong tone isn’t enough to smother the rising argument. “Ripe. Juicy. Like a certain blonde I spent last night with.”

I don’t bother to look at him. Jameson locks eyes with me and shoves an enormous bite of pancake into his mouth. “Absolutely nothing wrong with the food,” he says around it. “But you’re in a terrible mood. If your knee is bothering you, you can just tell us. Excuse yourself and take a rest.”

It’s not my knee that’s bothering me.

I didn’t expect to feel anything but satisfaction when I saw Charlotte Van Kempt again. But when those office doors opened and she watched Leo and his wife have a conversation—

Things became more complicated.

As complicated as the longing in her face. As complicated as the jealousy that shot down my spine. Jealousy that she was looking at him and not me, even though he’s married and there’s no way he has any interest in any woman other than his wife.

I saw them, just like Charlotte did.

And then she saw me.

It was a priceless moment. The moment she’d know who had come after her. The moment she’d know I was the one pulling strings all the way across the city, and that I wouldn’t stop until I got what I wanted.

Well. I want to destroy Charlotte Van Kempt.

I want to break her in every way there is under the sun.

I want to put her back together afterward and break her again.

That’s the part I’ll never admit out loud. If she’s a smart woman, she’ll run the other way. She must be fairly intelligent, since she’s been single handedly keeping her father’s company just above water for at least a year now. No business degree. No help from her father.

Not a single note of complaint in her sapphire blue eyes.

She could have gone straight to Leo and told him what an unholy prick I was being, but she didn’t. Charlotte shook his hand, allowed herself to be introduced to his wife, and left with her head held high. Then Leo disappeared with his wife, and I left for brunch. Fine. I owe him an explanation. He’ll have it later.

“My knee is fine. You’re the one with the vendetta against brunch. What do you want from me?”

He takes another bite of pancake. “Are you going to have any?”

“I don’t know. If I have to watch you eat them, maybe I’ll never order these fucking things for brunch again. I thought you liked Dad’s pancakes. You make them with Remy.”

“But she isn’t here,” Jameson says back. “Is she?”

“Is that what you’re pissed about? That Remy didn’t show up?”

“You’re the one making a big deal about having brunch with the family.”

Keeping this family together has been my sole focus since our parents died. We were left orphans. Practically penniless. I fought to get custody of my siblings. We lived in a shitty apartment while I worked shitty jobs. Remy was pulled out of private school and sent to a place with metal detectors and shooting drills.

Yes, the brunch is important. Because family is important.

Gabriel attempts to change the subject. “Jameson, do you—”

“Tell me.” I cut into whatever polite, skin-deep question Gabriel has for Jameson because I can’t stand it. Not after I saw her in that office. Not after she looked back at me without flinching. If I have my way with Charlotte Van Kempt, I hope there’s more of a struggle than the nonexistent fight she put up this morning. “Now. I don’t want to spend this entire hour arguing with you about—”

Jameson drops his fork onto his plate with a loud clang of silver hitting china. “A pleasure as always. I’m so glad we had this little brunch. The table is yours.”

“Sit down, fucker.”

“No.”

I’m out of my seat before he can get around the table, my glass going over in the process, a plate hitting the floor. I catch Jameson with one fist in his shirt, my knee aching, and use all my body weight to put him up against one of the windows. “I can’t fix it if you won’t tell me what the hell is wrong.”

Jameson glowers at me.

Then he throws a punch.

I deflect it in time to stop him from hitting my temple and return both hands to the task in front of me. Another punch. This one is harder to stop. I throw one on instinct and get Jameson across the cheek.

“I can’t believe you outsourced the pancakes.” The hint of a crooked grin, but I don’t buy it. “Dad’s special pancakes that he made for us. His own recipe. And you just hand it off to a chef, like what? Like it’s a goddamn task on your to-do list?”

“I thought you liked them,” I say, but there’s a sick feeling in my stomach. Somewhere in between building Phoenix Enterprises and seeking revenge, I’ve lost my hold on the family. The brunch was supposed to fix that. Instead it’s made it worse.

“What’s next? You have your secretary buy us Christmas presents? You pay actors to sit around at Thanksgiving pretending to be Mom and Dad? Jesus Christ, Mason.” Jameson punches me toward the back of my jaw, and now I’m going to kill him. Now’s the day I stop being Jameson’s older brother and safety net, I stop worrying about him, I stop noticing the hurt in his eyes. “Remy’s not even here. If we can’t all be here, just cancel it.”

“That’s the entire point. We’re here because we can’t all be together. We can never be together again. This is all there is.”

This is all we have. And I know, I fucking know, that it would be better if our parents were alive. But they’re not, because of me. This bullshit fight is just another piece of evidence that I wasn’t enough to stand in for them. Another vivid reminder of just how much we’ve all lost.

Jameson swings his body hard enough to loosen my grip. I know by his stance he’s planning to tackle me. That’s how he is—all or nothing. He doesn’t know the meaning of moderation.

I draw my fist back to hit him, to end this, but I catch Gabriel out of the corner of my eye.

He’s up out of his seat, close enough to reach out and stop me if he wanted to try. His expression is open. Easy as it always is. He puts a hand out.

“Maybe we should make them together,” Gabriel offers.

Fuck. What am I doing?

The fight dissipates. I let Jameson go.

The three of us sit down in our spots. I put pancakes onto my plate. Butter. Syrup. “How do you want to do this, if it’s illegal to let my chef cook them?”

“Make waffles,” Jameson says, voice struggling between flat and his normal jackassery. “Don’t hand out the recipe like it’s another one of your projects at work.”

Christ. Of course he would be pissed about this. When our dad would make pancakes on the chef’s day off—and whenever else we wanted them. He was a billionaire and a businessman, but he always took time for his family. He was always there for us… until he wasn’t.

“This isn’t about the pancakes,” I say, my voice hard.

“At least your chef got them right,” Gabriel picks up his fork, because clearly the worst is over. Even though a couple dishes were casualties in the fight. A server appears from the kitchen with towels in her arms and a calm expression on her face. I’m glad, now, for the outrageous salary.

“It’s about the family,” I say. It’s always about family.

Jameson narrows his eyes at me. “Go fuck yourself.”

“I’ll make sure Remy works on her school projects on other days. Next time she’ll come to brunch. And we’ll figure out something else to eat. We’re a fucked-up family, but we’re going to meet once a week. That’s the way it is.”

A heavy silence. Then: “Good.”