“Look, Cillian, we’ve been facing a lot of backlash because of the refinery explosion and exploratory Arctic drills,” Athair groused.
Cillian. Not mo òrga.
“The refinery explosion happened under your watch, and my Arctic exploration rigs will likely up our revenue by five billion dollars by 2030,” I pointed out, thumbing the rim of my brandy glass. “In the eight months I’ve been doing this job, our stock has gone up fourteen percent. Not too shabby for a rookie CEO.”
“Not all tyrants make bad kings.” He narrowed his eyes. “Your achievements mean nothing if the people want you dethroned.”
“No one wants me dethroned.” I gave him a pitying look. “The board has my back.”
“Everyone else in the company wants to stab it,” he roared, crashing his fist over the dining table. “The board only cares about the profits, and they’d vote however I wanted them to vote if it came down to it. Don’t get too comfortable.”
Utensils clattered, plates flew, and wine splattered over the tablecloth like blood drops. My pulse was still calm. My face tranquil.
Keep it together.
“You scare your employees, the media loathes you, and to the rest of the public, you’re a mystery. No family of your own. No partner. No kids. No anchor. Don’t think I haven’t spoken to Devon. I happen to be of the same mindset as your lawyer. You need someone to dilute your darkness, and you need her fast. Sort this out, Cillian, and do it fast. The press calls you The Villain. Make them stop.”
Feeling the tic in my jaw, I pursed my lips.
“Are you done being hysterical, Athair?”
My father pushed off the table, rising to his feet with a finger pointed at me.
“I called you mo òrga because I never had to worry about you. You always delivered whatever I needed before I’d even asked for it. The first perfect eldest Fitzpatrick child in generations since your great-great-great-grandfather made his way from Kilkenny to Boston on a rickety boat. But that has changed. You’re pushing forty, and it’s time you settle down. Especially if you want to continue being the face of this company. In case your job is not a strong enough incentive, let me spell it out for you.” He leaned toward me, his eyes leveling mine. “The next in line for the throne is Hunter, and right now, the person after him is your future niece or nephew. Everything you’ve worked for will be handed down to them. Everything. And if you fuck this up, I will make sure to dethrone you, too.”
He stalked out of the dining hall, ripping a portrait of all three of us Fitzpatrick siblings from the wall.
Mother darted up from her seat, running around to her estate manager to no doubt order them to get the portrait reframed and redone.
I smiled serenely, addressing everyone at the table.
“More food for us.”
I spent the rest of the weekend in Monaco.
Just like my loveable idiot of a brother, I, too, had a taste for unconventional sex.
Unlike my loveable idiot of a brother, I knew better than to have it with random women.
I’d made bi-monthly trips to Europe, spending time with carefully selected, discreet women who’d agreed to ironclad arrangements. Sleeping with a woman required more paperwork than buying a spaceship. I’d always been careful, and dealing with a sex scandal on top of the farce that was my public image wasn’t in my plans.
I paid them a mouthwatering rate, tipped them well, was always clean, gracious, and polite, and contributed to the European economy. These escorts weren’t down-on-their luck single mothers or poor girls who came from broken families. They were top-tier university students, aspiring actresses, and aging models of middle- to upper-class families.
They traveled first class, lived in lavish apartments, and were picky about their decamillionaire clientele.
I hadn’t used my family’s private jet for my trips to Europe since being appointed CEO. Leaving a carbon footprint of Kuwait to get laid was too wicked, even for my conscience.
Fine. I had no conscience.
But if the media ever found out, my career would be as good as dead, and death was a specialty I’d left for Hunter’s brain cells.
Which was why I was slumming it in first class on a commercial flight, quietly enduring the presence of other humans on my way back to Boston from Monaco.
There weren’t many things I hated more than people. But being trapped with a large number of them on a winged bus and recycled air was one of them.
After settling into my seat on the plane, I leafed through a contract with a new contractor for my Arctic oiling rig, pushing away all thoughts of Hunter’s approaching fatherhood and the Penrose sister who barged into my office last week begging for a loan.
I told her I didn’t recognize her, which drove her mad and drove me into a state of a constant hard-on.
But I remembered Persephone.
Well and clear.
On the surface, Persephone Penrose ticked all the boxes for me: hair like spun gold, cobalt blue eyes, rosebud lips, and a petite frame wrapped in romantic dresses. A declawed, defanged preschool teacher, easier to tame than a kitten.
Wholesome, idealistic, and angelic to the bone.
She wore handmade frocks, watermelon lipstick, her heart on her sleeve, and that lamb-like expression of a Jane Austen character who thought dick was nothing more than a nickname for men named Richard.
Persephone wasn’t wrong with her assumption to come to me. With any other acquaintance of mine, I’d give them the money just to watch them sweat while paying me back.
Only in her case, I didn’t want my life tied with hers.
Didn’t want to see her, hear from her, and endure her presence.
Didn’t want her to owe me.
She’d been infatuated with me before. Feelings did not interest me unless I found a way to exploit them.
“Ouch.” A squishy toy squeaked behind my seat. “Cut it out. Swear t-to God, Tree, I-I will—”
“You will what? Tell Mommy on me. Snitch.”
Tree? The people sitting behind me named their child Tree? And decided to travel first class with two kids under the age of six?
These parents were the reason serial killers existed. I popped two ibuprofen, washing them down with bourbon. Technically, I wasn’t supposed to drink with the medicine I was taking daily for my condition.
Oh, well. You only live once.
“Quit fussing, Tinder,” the mother snapped behind me.
Tinder.
I officially found parents worse than my brother would be. I was ninety-one percent sure Sailor wouldn’t let Hunter name their child Pinecone or Daylight Savings. The missing nine percent was due to the fact they were nauseatingly blinded by love, so you could never know for sure.
“H-e he always does this!” little Tinder bellowed, managing to kick the back of my seat even though it was about four feet away. “Tree is a s-stinky face.”
“Well, you’re ugly and weird,” Tree retorted.
“I’m not weird. I’m special.”
Both hellions were insufferable, and I was about to break the news to their equally diabolical parents before remembering I couldn’t afford another headline of the Cillian-Fitzpatrick-eats-babies-for-breakfast variety.
CEO of Royal Pipelines shouts at innocent children on flight back from his escorts.
No, thank you.