Net Worth by Amelia Wilde
12
Mason
I’m notlike my brother Gabriel in many ways, but one of the main ones is our approach to events like the gala at the botanical garden. By their nature, these events attract assholes. They’re catnip for wealthy people who have everything, and they select for people who crave recognition for how rich they are. The fact that it’s a charity benefit is a thin veneer thrown over a pissing contest. Who has the most money to throw at a problem that could be better solved if everyone in our society chipped in? It’s all bullshit.
Gabriel’s the opposite. He looks at every invitation as an opportunity. He uses his obnoxiously charming party personality to gather secrets, which he tucks into his pocket to use later. His business has benefited from more than one deal made over a cocktail at a standing table while one prick was honored for having more disposable income than all the other pricks.
Perhaps I’m being unfair. There’s money to be made at galas, if your name is Gabriel Hill. He has the advantage of an easy smile. People want to see it. They want him to smile at them.
Whatever.
He sticks his head into my office an hour early, dressed in his finest tux, adjusting one of his cufflinks. “I came to pick you up for the ball, and look at you. You’re not dressed.”
“Funny. I told security not to let you in.”
A half-smile. “If you’re going, you have to get up and get dressed.”
I don’t want to get up and get dressed because getting up is going to hurt. The ache from standing most of the day at the office hasn’t faded yet.
However.
I will be attending the benefit.
Charlotte will be there. The purple envelope on that table in her parents’ house is proof enough. A family in a situation like the Van Kempts’ won’t go to the trouble and expense of buying tickets they won’t use. Their attendance at the botanical gardens will be for the purpose of hiding the ruins of their lives.
Also, I want to see her. To surprise her. The flowers were meant to reassure, but this will be a test of whether they worked or not. I can’t take revenge on a woman who continually flees the scene.
“I have to read this first.”
The email came in a minute ago.
SUBJECT: Shipping delay
The lot with the necklace didn’t arrive with the rest of my purchases. I suspect it didn’t leave Italy. Poseidon’s decided to extend his visit.
–H
Well, fuck. This is one of the pieces I’m more concerned with getting back. A family heirloom, and my mother’s favorite. A blue sapphire surrounded by diamonds. Its distinguishing feature is the engraving on the back of the pendant. A tiny slope with an even tinier castle on the top of the hill.
This message means Hades’ brother will be on the ground in Italy, tracking down the pieces that mysteriously didn’t make it into the shipment. Or else he’ll be confirming that they never existed. I’m not sure which will be worse for the seller. Knowing Hades, neither will result in a pleasant outcome. Poseidon is rumored to be more bloodthirsty than Hades, though I’m not sure anyone could be more ruthless.
SUBJECT: RE: Shipping delay
You owe me a visit when this is said and done, asshole. It’s not polite to keep people waiting.
Mason Hill
CEO, Phoenix Enterprises
I send my reply and get up. It used to be harder to keep everything in check. My expression. The knee itself. Early on, it gave out at inconvenient times. Caused more pain than I expected when I stood. Now, covering it is a matter of habit more than anything else. It might hurt like hell, but it won’t show on my face.
Not if I can help it.
Gabriel steps out of my way and ambles into the living room, taking out his phone as he goes. “I’ll be waiting for you, big brother,” he sings.
I roll my eyes hard enough to send them tumbling out of my head. Twenty-five minutes later we’re in the SUV, both of us peaceably on our phones.
SUBJECT: RE: RE: Shipping delay
Oh, you’ll get a visit. Don’t fret, motherfucker. I want to see your face when you tell me how much you missed me.
–H
There’s traffic—there’s always traffic—but none of it seems to bother Gabriel. He’s ready as soon as the driver pulls up next to the curb. “Jameson have other plans?” I ask him as we move past the check-in table. No one asks us to show an invitation. They all know Gabriel.
“He always has other plans.”
The botanical gardens are filled with lights and conversation, the glow increasing as the sunset dies out. At first I have the impression of butterflies. Jewel-toned gowns next to black tuxedos, all of them fluttering through leaves and blooms. Then the faces resolve. It’s a gala like many others we’ve attended, and it plays host to the same performers. Rich assholes who pretend to be generous, to be kind, but turn out to be frigid underneath.
I recognize two or three of them immediately. Friends of my father’s, until they all turned their backs on us. Cyrus Van Kempt was the worst of them all, but they all had a hand in freezing us out.
No idea how Gabriel wears that big, open smile on his face. I feel like a knife’s edge in here. I feel like everyone’s looking at me for proof. Well, look, assholes. I did it. I rebuilt the family fortune and I have the money and the time to be here with you sons of bitches. My brother puts his hand on my shoulder and heads off toward the sound of his name. I don’t look to see who it is.
It’s a slow stroll into the gardens, past standing tables and waiters with trays of champagne and a thousand glittering fairy lights strung through the plants. Lanterns on gold wire. They’ve spent money on every possible thing. Remy’s first birthday after our parents died could have used a lantern on sparkling gold wire, but I didn’t have the money yet. I never wanted to be the kind of man who bristled at the sight of all these things. They’re meant to be beautiful. I get it. A pleasure to look at.
A pleasure that hides a dark underbelly. I’m partially to blame. The only way to get here was to become a fortress, too. A cold motherfucker.
Speaking of sons of bitches, there’s Cyrus with Victoria, standing in a clutch of people in the spill of light from one of those lanterns.
It’s just like the night at their house. Hate propels me forward, my own face arranging itself into a threatening smile. Soften it, just a little, Mason. Don’t let them see how badly you want to see them toppled and broken.
They are broken. They’re barely making it. It’s up to me to deal the final blow, no matter how well they’re hiding it tonight. Cyrus and Victoria Van Kempt are only doing a serviceable job. His tux is starting to wear at the cuffs, and her gown isn’t new. Victoria has hidden her too-pale skin beneath layers of makeup. Her smile looks nearly genuine. She’s not as much of a mouse, out here where it counts.
Their circle opens for me as I get closer. They’re all old, but they know money when they see it. I shake hands all around. A neat little checklist of first names and closed deals and I heard, I heard, the market’s a beast.
Cyrus keeps himself turned away, his grip too tight on his drink.
“Cyrus,” I boom, and shove my hand across the table on him.
He looks at me too slow. The man’s drunk, and I don’t have to be a genius to know he was drunk well before they arrived here. His gaze slides to the right, and to the left. It’s an eternity too late when he reaches out to shake my hand. It’s quick. Glancing. Pathetic. And as soon as he lets go, he turns away. There’s nobody there, but he turns away and searches drunkenly for someone to talk to.
“Hello, Mason.” Victoria has the same eyes as her daughter, but she doesn’t look as hopeful, or fiery. Relief and a certain embarrassment take turns in her expression. Could be about anything. Relief to be here at all, or relief that her husband has turned away? Embarrassment that he snubbed me, or embarrassed that they’ll never measure up to me again? “Please excuse Cyrus. He hasn’t been sleeping well lately.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Victoria has mastered the art of the sad smile with the sad sigh, as if I actually meant what I said. The circle of friends she’d been standing with has closed a few steps away. Charlotte’s mother drifts back toward the nearest standing table. We’re several feet off from Cyrus now. She checks to make sure, then uses her champagne glass to gesture at the arrangement in the center of the table.
“These remind me of Natalie. She used to love orchids.” Victoria pats at my elbow with her free hand and steps away.
Cyrus and Victoria’s friends float back into place around me and the table like a plume of smoke. More handshakes. More comments on the rising real estate values. The rest of the benefit rolls around us. A sea of fancy people in fancy clothes, and me in the middle of it.
Why did I come?
I have nothing to prove to these pricks. The glances they throw in my direction are proof they think I don’t belong. They’re right. I don’t. No matter what my net worth is, I don’t belong here. I’m not one of them. Maybe I would have been, if things had gone another way, but they didn’t. My parents died on the same day. Together. And what remained of our family lost everything. The house. The business. Everything gutted and sold. My mother’s jewelry, scattered across the planet. All the money gone.
Two of the older men at the table are drunk. More conspicuous about it than Cyrus, but he’s a seasoned alcoholic. These two are drinking for the occasion. “Hill,” says one of them. We were introduced five minutes ago. “You’re James’s boy.”
Christ. They’re all going to drive their knives in, aren’t they? The orchid. James’s boy. I wish my father were here to laugh at him. You’re my boys. He’d say that all the time. A teasing joke that we thought we were too old for. We thought we were too old, too grown up. We thought a lot of ridiculous shit that hurts in retrospect.
Regardless. I’m not going to deny it.
“His oldest.” I don’t bother with a smile.
The second old man purses his lips. He’s drunker than the first. His drink sloshes from side to side in its tumbler. “Tell us, Mason, is it considered new money or old money if you lost it and then regained it?”
A nervous laugh goes up around the table. Then the man who asked the question blinks. Grinning like a fool. Proud of his joke. My knee is already sore. Maybe I’ll punch this motherfucker in the face and make it worth it.
Or maybe I’ll walk out of here. Turn my back on all these people and their laughter and the flowers. Walking out means gathering myself. My chest aches. Tight throat. I swallow against it and will it away. Fuck this asshole for making a joke out of this. Everything’s a joke to these people. Everything.
“Oh, darling, there you are.”
Her sweet voice. Her delicate hand, slipping around my elbow.
Charlotte.
It’s a show for the men at the table. Living this life these past fourteen years has meant learning to play along, and it’s easy. It’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done—patting her hand and looking down into her eyes.
And Charlotte.
That sweet little thing.
She smiles up into my face with an honest-to-God grin, blue eyes sparkling in the fairy lights. Her nose scrunches. “Everyone changed places while I was in the ladies’ room. It took a while to find you,” she says. “Hi, Mr. Kloster. Hi, Mr. Peters.”
My god, she’s committed. There’s no rush to haul me away from the table. No excuse to end the conversation and get the hell out of here. None of the men nearby can take their eyes off her. I want to step in front of her to shield her from view. It’s absurd for two reasons. First, because standing in front of her would shield her from these men, but not the rest of the party. Second, because I shouldn’t be feeling jealousy. It squeezes at both my lungs.
But this show is going to involve me playing my part, too. When the two drunk men are finished greeting her, I look them in the eye one by one. “How do you know Charlotte?”
“Friends of the family,” one says quickly. It’s dawning on him. It’s dawning that I hate him, and that if it weren’t for Charlotte at my side, I would have punched him.
One hit would have taken him out at the standing table. It would have been a kind of relief. To let out some of the pain and emptiness, use it to do something real, like break a man’s nose.
“Have you been out to your summer house yet, Mr. Peters?” Charlotte tilts her head at what I can only call a high-society angle to communicate that she’s interested in whether this fool has gone to his place in the Hamptons.
“You’ll have to find out another time, sweetheart. We’re being summoned.”
Charlotte waves at the chorus of goodbyes from the table and doesn’t resist when I steer her away. Too crowded here—too oppressive. Too many people I don’t care about in too small a space. Too many prying eyes for the way I want to look at her, and speak to her, and a thousand other filthy things I won’t do in front of people unless she begs me.
I can’t explain the sensation I’m having with her on my arm. Charlotte Van Kempt is the daughter of my enemies. She’s my enemy. The object of my revenge. The body I’ll use and mark to make things right. No—fuck that. To make things even.
And.
And.
Her presence bolsters me. Of the two of us, I’m the only one with the money and power to be standing in this room, but her hand on my arm grounds me. It makes me feel less like a house on fire.
I steer her underneath an archway of white flowers. Another archway. We need to be further out from the light, from these assholes. I need the dark. And I need her.
