“Oh, Jaxon,” Charley says, placidly sipping his tea.
Most people hang around me for the proximity to wealth or the notoriety of being linked to Villain Number One, as pronounced by the Eurozone tabloids not to mention each and every fan of the Formula One racing world. As the good-natured son of a branch of the family easily as wealthy as mine, though, god knows why Charley hangs around. Obligation, I suppose. An unhealthy fixation on family togetherness. Tradition. We were sent on a lot of countryside errands as boys.
“Well then,” Charley says, setting aside his teacup. “I suppose I’ll get back to the guest wing.” He’s looking at me expectantly. That’s Charley, always expecting more.
“You won’t stay for late lunch?” I say. “A bit of sushi, maybe?”
Charley straightens, examining my face for signs of how to take this. “Really?”
“I’m thinking we could eat it off the backs of softly weeping virgins,” I add.
“Oh, Jaxon,” he says. “You keep pushing me away, but you’re family. And I happen to know that it’s hard to deal with this sort of thing alone. I had my sisters when my parents died.”
“Is this where I cry on your shoulder?” I ask him. “You do recall the part about them being monsters.”
“No man is an island, Jaxon. Or at least, he shouldn’t be,” he adds.
“What’s wrong with being an island? Islands are great. Especially the ones that are rich in resources with nice weather and little places you can have a drink in, and you never have to deal with people’s bullshit.”
“I’ll come back for moral support on the company-wide address,” he says.
“Please don’t.” I sink into an incredibly uncomfortable couch.
“Someday you’re going to be sorry for playing the villain all the time, Jaxon. Someday reporters will get sick of hearing you say scathing things about royals and socialites and even your frenemies won’t come to your parties anymore.”
I sigh. “Don’t be ridiculous; frenemies have to come to my parties. It’s practically in the job description.”
“You got unlucky in the family department, Jaxon, but I’m here,” Charley says.
“Oh, I don’t know about unlucky,” I say. “Having the family I did saved me a great deal of delusion about human nature.”
Charley presses his lips together, a sign that he has something more to say. It’ll be something about Jenny, my old nanny. He’s dying to bring her up. Kind, sweet, loving Jenny who ran off in the middle of the night.
He won’t dare—not with the way I’m glowering at him now.
Two
Jaxon
Two hours later we’re in the third-floor great room, the storied post from which my father commanded his business empire. There’s a desk set up with state-of-the-art broadcasting equipment.
I eye his very kingly chair. It’s bad enough that I’m reading a speech his PR guy wrote in order to calm the empire he built. No way will I sit in his chair. Too on the nose. “That chair. No. Get one from the dining room.”
Servants scramble.
Charley has taken the easy chair by the roaring fireplace. “Did nobody tell Uncle Cliff about the newfangled invention known as Zoom?” Charley asks.
“He would have no use for Zoom,” I say. “That would require showing his face and seeing and hearing others.”
“Ouch,” Charley says, wearing his usual good-natured grin.
A PR guy hands me a sheet of paper. “The address, Mr. Henningsly.”
I skim it. Frown. “We must not despair but rather soldier on toward a brighter future?” I read. “Who am I, Churchill?”
“This is the style your father preferred. People admired him deeply,” the PR man assures me, a subtle dig.
I stare down at the words, remembering self-important, high-handed proclamations like this addressed at me. Part of his fake image of goodness everybody fell for. It made me feel crazy growing up, everybody admiring my father when I knew the truth. Even Charley didn’t get it.
“This is bullshit,” I say.
“This is the style they are used to,” Barclay says. “It’s what the circumstance requires.”
“If you’re not going to do it right, why bother?” Charley says.
“Five minutes of your time,” Barclay says. “You keep the stock price nice and high for when you choose to sell.”
“Yes, I understand the concept,” I say.
“It’s good you’re doing this,” Charley says. “Reaching out a helping hand.”
“Don’t pretend I’m something I’m not,” I growl, adjusting the microphone, hating myself for doing this.
Three
Jada
“Twenty minutes!” somebody calls out.
“We got this,” I say.
Rockabilly seamstress extraordinaire, Renata, pushes a pin into her wrist-held pincushion before pinning a quick dart into the fabric, careful not to poke Size Ten Tina. Tina is every Manhattan design house’s most beloved fit model thanks to her awesome proportions, standing-still abilities, and gossip skills. You never want to stick her.
We’ve been here since five in the morning, racing to adjust our two-piece women’s run wear sample. Things have to get out to the factory for quoting ASAP or we’ll blow our chance with Target.
Renata calls out some numbers and I get on the tablet, adjusting the pattern.
We would’ve had this done days ago if it weren’t for Bert Johnston, our horrible new CEO, who forgot to pass along some key information we were waiting on.
Bert was installed by the giant faceless corporation that bought our company last winter. He knows nothing about the garment industry, and he fired a lot of our best people.
Rising to the post of senior designer here has long been a dream of mine, but I wanted to earn it from hard work, not from my beloved mentors getting fired.
Dave from accounts comes out with a selection of energy bars from the vending machine. Dave has a talismanic belief in the power of energy bars, and he so wants to help. Everybody in the design department knows how important this thing is.
“I’ll eat when I’m dead,” I whisper, fingers flying over the screen.
“You two are killing it!” Dave says. “Savage.”
Renata snorts. Dave is so sweet. Everybody here is. We’re a family, and nothing Bert does will take that away from us.
Unless he succeeds in destroying the company. Sometimes it seems like that’s his goal. But why would you deliberately sabotage the place you were hired to oversee?
Renata ties a quick knot. “Good?”
I take a look. “Good.”
“On it.” Lacey changes the material allocations.
Furious murmurs and texts suddenly ripple through the office.
“No way,” Renata says.
“No, no, no, no!” I whisper.
“Bert alert,” Dave says in a low voice, beelining back to his desk. Bert alert means Bert’s been spotted heading down the hall. People scramble to look busy like birds fluttering frantically in front of an oncoming tidal wave. If Bert thinks you’re not working, you’ll get a demerit. If you get three demerits, you’re fired—no unemployment, no insurance, no nothing.