Shattered Dynasty by Ava Harrison
20
Trent
This should be fun.
Her eyes are wide.
There’s something lurking within them. Suspicion, excitement, and something more foreign. Something I can’t identify. I expected her to be nervous, to have her guard up, but this recent development throws me off. Especially the pinkish excitement lighting up her cheeks. Now that I think about it, she’s been flushed since she showed up in front of my room.
“Ready?” I ask, taking inventory of her.
At my attention, her head turns away from me, fixed outside the window.
Now that’s more like it.
“As I’ll ever be,” she mutters and latches on to the door handle harder than necessary.
“Come on.”
Together, we walk into the building. She doesn’t know I own it. That it’s one of my many investments. Well, technically, since it brings in less profit than a fucking lemonade stand, it’s a passion project. A piece of property I bought, renovated, and transformed for the sake of my mother. When the time came, I wanted to be ready. I didn’t expect it to come so fast.
I built Cresthill to help older people who didn’t have anyone to take care of them and who deserved to live a good life. Mom has Ivy and me, but back when she and Dad were still married, this would’ve been a good place for her, for them if he hadn’t abandoned her.
It’s like her dream retreat. Bouquet arranging, vast gardens, cooking classes, and more. Which is why she lives here now. Not because she needs to, but because she wants to. Cresthill gives her life a purpose. As a volunteer, as a worker, as a resident.
Payton pauses at the sign above the looming double doors. They’re made of glass to look like water with crystals embedded in the shape of letters. Cresthill Home. Big, bold, and proud. Her mouth hangs open.
She can’t take her eyes off it.
Can’t even speak.
Honestly, I might be offended at this point.
Where did she think I’d take her?
Finally, eyes still glued to the sign, she speaks. “A senior living home.”
“Yep,” I respond, voice purposely flat.
But something about the way she said it spikes my adrenaline. The last thing I want or need is the approval of the woman at fault for my sister being fucking sold. Yet I can’t help but feel instant gratification.
You’ve lost your goddamn mind, Trent.
She studies my face, probably gauging whether I’m serious. The disbelief is still etched across her face. Clear as day. “I wasn’t expecting that.”
I’m not exactly a peach to her, by design, but I’ve also been nothing but civil to everyone else—in front of her, too. She’s seen me with Chef, Gail, Brandon, his team. Even Ivy and Mom at the reading. This shouldn’t surprise her.
And now I’m completely offended.
“Really?” I deadpan, laying the sarcasm on thick. “From the dislodged jaw and Bambi eyes, it seemed like you were totally expecting it.”
“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit,” she points out, finally removing her eyes from the sign long enough for me to open the door.
I enter after her. “That would be stupidity, signs of which include glassy eyes and an inability to process information quickly. Remind me . . . How long did you stare at the sign for?”
“It’s called surprise.”
I drop the issue, leading the way to Margret’s office. “This path will lead you to Margret. If you have any questions while you’re here, she’s your best bet at answering them.”
Payton trails behind me, unable to keep up with my long strides. I slow a bit and peek at her from the corner of my eyes. She tracks every inch of the place with obvious fascination written all over her. I can’t blame her.
Cresthill isn’t like most retirement homes. It offers assisted living, independent living, and a custom mix of the two. It lacks for nothing as well. Anything you can imagine is here. Card rooms, shuffleboard, spa services.
I once caught Ivy in the movie theater, watching an unreleased film through our subscription deal with the biggest Hollywood distributors. (They agreed seniors should have early access to films given their age and the possibility they won’t live to see the release. Well, after Cyrus showed up and made them agree.)
“Who’s Margret?” Payton finally asks, glancing up at the chandeliers fixed to the high ceilings.
Cresthill was designed to resemble a luxury resort. Large, airy, and bright. A glass pivoting wall system stretches across the entire waterfront side of the building. It offers unfettered views of the Hudson. At any given time, you can watch the boats drift by.
Payton catches sight of one, pausing to watch it pass. It’s peaceful and calming. Better than a vacation.
“The director of Cresthill,” I answer, leading us through the common room.
In the corner, Nancy is playing the piano like always. A rowdy group plays cards in the center. Emily flops on triple aces. Henry wins a pot of fake chips on a wild bluff. I shake my head, a smile forming.
Always savage, Henry.
I turn to Payton to see what she’s gawking at now.
Me, apparently.
I catch her watching me with a peculiar look on her face. Her pupils are wider than normal, and she looks confused. As if she’s trying to reconcile the idea of why she’s here with me. More accurately, of why I brought her here. Like, for the first time, she’s considering the possibility of there being more to me than meets the eye.
I feel seen all of a sudden.
It’s like a gut punch.
This was not what I had in mind when I rated this a calculated, controlled risk and decided to run with it.
My survival instincts kick in. I paste a scowl on my face and straighten my shoulders. I make myself larger, more consuming. It feels cowardly using my size like this, but the alternative is dangerous. Physical intimidation, it is.
But Henry catches sight of me and springs out of his chair with an unmatched agility that has me rethinking my decision to lowering Cresthill’s age requirement from sixty-two plus to fifty-five plus.
He pinches my arms, then nudges me with his elbow. “Bringing out the big guns for your girl here, boy?”
Dammit, Henry.
Never in the history of humankind has anyone been taken seriously after being called “boy.”
Payton knows it because she snorts and mouths “boy” behind Henry, a smirk gracing her lips. I should be thankful she didn’t latch on to the “your girl” part.
“I read a study once that poker is bad for mental acuity in seniors. Maybe it’s time to rethink Cresthill’s policy.”
It’s bullshit. Well, maybe it isn’t, but if it’s not, I wouldn’t know. I don’t spend my time reading poker studies. I’d rather play it.
Henry guffaws, knowing I wouldn’t. “Sure thing, kid. I interrupted your date. I can take a hint.” He nudges me again with his elbow, despite the nearly foot-high difference between us. “Remember the hydro surfboard I requested next time you use us to impress your girl.”
And then he’s gone, moving on to his next victim.
“Whatever your intentions are, I think they’re backfiring,” Payton says, following me out of the common room.
No shit.
Thankfully, it’s only a few more steps before we arrive at Margret’s office. She spots me before we pass through the open doorway and stands to make her way to us, attention fixed on the thorn in my side, aka Payton.
At seventy-eight, Margret could be a resident here, and she is, but she also refuses to stop working. She’s a triple threat. Sharp as a tack. Well-experienced. Well-liked. I put Cresthill in her care as soon as it opened a few years ago and haven’t regretted it once.
“Trent,” she greets, sizing up Payton. “Is this Ms. Hart?”
Payton reaches out a hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
As they shake hands, I send Margret a meaningful stare behind Payton’s head, reminding her not to tell Payton I own this place. Margret rolls her eyes.
She releases Payton’s hand. “Trent told me all about you.”
“He did?” Payton asks skeptically.
“Only good things.”
“Seriously?”
“Of course. He mentioned you need volunteer hours to pad your résumé once you graduate.”
I said no such thing, but leave it to Margret to take it upon herself to create a cover story that makes things comfortable for everyone around here. Like I said. Sharp as a tack.
“I’ll be sure to write you a nice letter of rec, should you need one,” Margret promises.
Payton is taken aback. Frankly, so am I. This is not supposed to twist in her favor. Cresthill needs the help. I need Payton in an environment I can control. One where I can spoon-feed what she learns about me and how much she sees. It’s as simple as that.
“Thank you,” Payton says, and it’s the most genuine I’ve ever seen her.
“No problem. Anything for Trent.” Margret nods in my direction. “He’s my favorite volunteer here, even if I think he’s just doing it for the good PR,” she jokes, returning to the cover story we agreed upon. The one she promised to have the rest of the staff on board with. Since the residents don’t know I own the place, it works.
The last thing I need is for Payton to find out I have a heart.
“Margret,” I greet, reminding her I exist. Not a position I’m often in. “Back to Ms. Hart. The one I told you all about on the phone.”
I throw in the “all” for good measure.
Let Payton wonder what that means.
“As I said before, it’s very nice to meet you. I’m Margret. As Trent, I’m sure, has told you, I run Cresthill House. Follow me, and I’ll show you where you will be today.” Margret turns to me. “Trent?”
“Yes?”
“You wait here. I have something I want to discuss with you.”
The look she gives me tells me not to argue, which normally I would find comical considering our roles in this place. It occurs to me how often the women in my life order me around, from Payton to Mom to Margret.
Cyrus, the asshole, is right.
Women are my soft spot, and I need to harden it the fuck up where Payton Hart is concerned.
“No problem,” I respond, walking farther into the room and taking a seat.
I fish out my phone after they leave and check my email to kill time.
Who knows how long I’ll be here waiting. Could be five minutes. Could be an hour. You never know with Margret. She’s a hard-core talker. Knowing her, she’s probably shooting twenty million invasive questions at Payton faster than she can process them.
No new emails on the work front.
I made a shit ton on shorting the stock, and now I must figure out what to do with the earnings.
My money will go to Cyrus. But as for my clients, I need to come up with less risky investments to hold the funds until the right opportunity pops up.
I employ the best people in the business. They keep their ears to the pavement on upcoming product launches. I have no doubt the opportunity will arise soon.
There’s a careful ecosystem in money laundering. Believability is key. With the meteoric rise of tech and crypto, they’re safe investment bets. Realistic ones to clean dirty money through. Nothing too obvious to the SEC.
Most people find what I do risky, but it’s the opposite. My clients are influential, their political friends equally so. They mitigate the risks. I had a higher chance of investigation before I went the dirty money route than after.
We have enough crooked politicians on payroll to make sure we’re never the target of an investigation. That doesn’t mean the companies we go after won’t come after us, but at least the government is on our side.
As I fire off an email to Tobias requesting a meeting later this week, I hear footsteps approaching through the door. Margret is back.
“That was fast,” I note as soon as the door swings open.
She settles in her little lounging couch, sans Payton. “I set her up in the rec room. She’s helping paint pottery.”
“Does she know anything about pottery?” I ask.
“I didn’t say she was making pottery. I said she was helping paint pottery.”
“Got it,” I say, pocketing my phone.
“Now that we have that settled, why don’t you tell me what this is really about?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I smile. It’s a crooked smile. One that tells Margret, who has known me for a long time, that I know exactly what she’s talking about. I just don’t want to tell her. I know she won’t take the hint. Seventy-eight is long enough to learn to take no bullshit, especially when you have a spine like Margret’s.
“Really, Trent?” She shakes her head. “You’re going to play this game with me of all people?”
I pull out the itinerary she drafted for next month, skimming it without really paying attention to the words written. “All you need to know is that Payton will be coming three days a week to help you.”
“How come I feel this is a lot deeper than that?”
“It is. But you don’t need to worry your pretty little head about that.” I straighten from her seat, setting the pamphlet down. “Just, from now on, give her the harder work. Serving food. Cleaning up the toilets.” I beam at her, and she shakes her head at me.
“Trent?”
“What?”
“We have a large staff you pay to do that,” she responds, and I shrug, staring at the floor long enough to make Margret shift in her seat.
Hear that, Dad? Your little princess will be cleaning up shit.
I return my attention to Margret. “So. Now you have a free hand, too,” I add with a grin. “You’ve been begging me to reach out for volunteers for ages. Consider Payton ten volunteers in one. Treat her like it, too.”
Margret studies me, her eyes narrowing before she speaks. “I’m not going to make her do hard labor precisely because I’ve been begging for more volunteers to entertain the residents. What will others think if I make our volunteers work like that? No one will want to come to sit and read with our clients.”
“Not my problem.”
“Actually, as the person who owns this place, it is exactly your problem.”
“Cut that out, Mar,” I say lightly. “No mentioning of my involvement here.”
This fact is nonnegotiable. Everyone who works here already knows this. I held a meeting solely for this purpose. Lots of ironclad NDAs went around.
“Why?” Her voice softens. She meets me at the center of the room, forcing me to look at her. “You do a great service to everyone. We should be singing your praises, not hiding the fact you are a good man.”
“I have a reputation to uphold.”
Margret’s hand reaches out, and she pats my shoulder, reminding me of my mother before Dad fucked her over hard.
“Fine,” she says. “But I can’t be held responsible for some of the people here. They love you. Eventually, this girl will find out the truth.”
“Until then, keep a lid on it.”
“Why are you doing this again?” she tries again.
I incline my head, giving her a look that tells her she’s better off not knowing. “I told you not to ask.”
“Just tell me,” she presses.
“To drive her insane.”
“Why?”
“The less you know, the better.” I step aside and move to leave. “Trust me, she deserves it.”
She lets out a sigh. “Very well. Toilets it is. But only when we are short-staffed.”
With that, I leave the room.
Time to play cards.