After what Lando went through, he should know that fidelity is important to me.
“And the NDA?”
“It’s airtight.”
“All bases are covered?”
“They are.”
“Thanks, Arthur. I’ll call you back later.”
He hangs up before Arthur can say any more. Lando’s chair groans as he leans back. I almost hold my breath as he regards me, but I know better than to back down. I also know Lando’s not done, and I’m proved right when he suddenly springs forward, his palms banging down on his desk.
“Miles, what the fuck? Of all the stupid things you do, this has to be by far the stupidest. Do you have any idea how illegal this is?”
“It's only illegal if someone finds out.”
“No, it's fucking illegal regardless,” Lando fumes. “The scrutiny that you put our family under . . . it’s so fucking typical of you. So fucking selfish?—”
“Oh fuck off, Lando. Get down off your high, mighty perch before your nose bleeds. You don’t fucking get it, do you?”
“No, I fucking don’t.”
All the while we’re arguing, our siblings are watching as intently as they would the finals at Wimbledon, though they wisely stay silent.
“Yeah, and you don’t understand what it's like to have to rebuild your life after someone nearly kills you. Do you?” He glares at me, wordlessly, because no, he fucking doesn’t. “Are you even going to bother to ask why I’ve done this?”
His mouth opens, his retort sitting on the tip of his tongue. He blinks, his brows shoot up, and he realizes I’m right. At no point has he asked me why I’ve married a stranger. And that really pisses me off, because I always have a really good reason for anything I do, which he should know better than anybody.
As much as I might appear to be on occasion, I’m not, nor have I ever been, reckless.
“Okay,” he drawls, eventually, “please enlighten us.”
“It’s the England’s Cup this year?—”
“And?”
“I want to win,” I reply, though it should be obvious.
“Are you kidding? You’ve done this to win a polo match?”
My eyes close, and I take a deep breath. Lando has the explosive temper. I’ve always had a much more laissez-faire temperament. But right now, I’m closer to channeling him than any of our other siblings.
“Do you remember what happened at the last England’s Cup?”
His brow drops. “I can’t possibly remember. . .” He stops talking, and I know he knows what I’m talking about. That my reference to being killed wasn’t just a throwaway quip.
“I want to win, that’s why I’ve done it. I've got a summer to pull together the best team possible because something you're probably also not aware of is that Santiago Torres’s ban has been lifted.” I stop for a dramatic pause to give Lando time to grasp what an enormous dickhead he is. “He’ll spend the entire summer playing in England as number four onLos Tigres Luchadores. And I intend to beat him, every way possible.”
Behind me, Clementine gasps, and I turn. “What?”
“What?”
“Are you okay?” I ask, sounding facetious, but she does look a little pale.
“I’m fine,” she snaps, hard enough that Alex’s brows rise.
“Are you sure about Torres?” he asks.
