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.”
7
Charlotte
I have no idea what I’ve said to Leo Morelli or his wife. None. I could have said anything. All I remember is his brow knitting and the careful way his jacket lay against his shirt. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’ll never go back there again, or see them again. I’ll go to people in different cities. I’ll find an investor who’s never heard of Mason Hill, even if I have to drive this town car all the way to California. I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care.