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But I do. I care, and it’s fucking killing me.
I know my shine would dim in Grace’s eyes if Doug made her as rich as I am. I dangle my pedigree, my prestige, my family’s billions in front of her to keep her. If that goes away, she might leave for good.
And if she leaves for good, I lose. Truly and finally lose our three-decade war.
Here goes nothing.
I skim over the boring parts and dive straight to business. I begin reading through the items.
The majority of the estates, save for the office building in Scarsdale that went to Dad’s business partner, now belongs to me.
The liquid money, bonds, and bank accounts go to me, in their entirety. His investment portfolio is mine now. His time-share private plane too. I even get the cars, antique furniture, and ugly heirlooms.
I get everything he’s ever possessed.
Miranda Langston gets nothing. Not even the canned goods in the pantry. Not even his best fucking regards. Grace doesn’t seem to be getting anything either. What the hell was the estate lawyer talking about? That he left her something of value?
I stare at the file in confusion. What am I missing?
And then I see it. At the very end of the will. Gracelynn Langston has received Calypso Hall. The small theater, a stone’s throw from Times Square, is neglected and in desperate need of refurbishing. If it is functioning at all, it must be a money pit. I suspect the only reason it hasn’t closed thus far is because too many tourists can’t get their hands on Broadway tickets in time and end up catching a show there.
The place isn’t worth the real estate it is occupying. And the best part is it’s a historical building, so whoever is gonna buy it would have to keep it a theater. It is therefore unsellable. Not for a good price, anyway.
Grace isn’t a penny richer than she was before this will.
Great news for me.
A bombshell for her.
I sit back, mulling this over—what was Douglas’s angle? What was he planning to achieve by depriving me of this glorified shithole?
Then it hits me.
Calypso Hall was originally purchased when my mother first moved to the US. I’d overheard the servants say that she was lonely and bored out of her mind during her pregnancy with me. To pacify her, my father decided to gift her something to keep her busy and out of his hair. Since Patrice was an aspiring actress, he bought her this failing theater. He appointed her as the managing director and, in true Corbin fashion, told her to spare no dime in making it a success.
She’d spent days and nights there, fussing over every detail, each stage prop, each show. Some said she actually turned it around and made it profitable for a few months. My father didn’t tell me a lot about her, but he did say that as soon as I was born, she tossed me into the arms of a wet nurse and continued working at the theater, and forgot all about my existence.
I was the only one who’d have you, Ars. It’s you and me, boy. Forever.
One of Douglas’s only saving graces was the fact that he took me on when my mother moved to Manhattan and lived a life without me.
I’m not sure why Dad thought giving Grace something my late, dysfunctional mother once loved would spite me, but he missed the mark by a thousand miles or so.
If anything, giving Grace something sentimental and of no fiscal value just shows how little he knew his stepdaughter.
Smirking, I spin my office chair to face the floor-to-ceiling window. If I got a copy, that means Grace got one too.
She is about to find out that I just became one of the richest men in the country. Minted beyond her wildest dreams. It is going to kill her—but it is going to lure her in too.
And thus begins another game between us. A game of chicken.
Who will cave in first, pick up the phone, and call? Admit defeat? Accept their destiny and finally bow to this sordid arrangement and all that it entails?
It is a good time to remind Grace of something she might’ve forgotten.
I always win.
CHAPTER SEVEN
