I pinch the bridge of my nose.
The high-falutin jargon always blurs when it’s my mother talking. Odette Astor hasn’t known a single day in her life without silk sheets and someone waiting to butter her toast. You’d think a pot of gold would appear if she just snapped her manicured fingers.
We’re not even that high society. Sure, multi-millionaires. But the way she carries herself, you’d think monarchies bowed and whisperedyour grace.
“Can we not talk about my fiancée’s hair, please?” I mutter. I really don’t want to.
“Son,” my father drawls, his shoulders stretching lazily over his seat. “You need to tell her to grow it out. If not for the clothes, I’d swear I was getting a son-in-law.”
And here we go.Again.
I quickly curb the anger that heats my blood at their careless words.
They’ve been obsessed with Celestine’s pixie cut since the moment the Wentworths introduced her a year ago. I’ve spent the last year dodging comments like landmines. But the way they act like her hair is a personal attack on their legacy?
It’s mind-altering.
She loves it. I love it. End of story.
Instead of responding—because I don’t think I can stop myself from snapping at them—I let my gaze drift toward the backyard. The glass walls of the sunroom glow with soft sunlight, surprisingly warm for this time of year.
My mind drifts off.
Cece—yes,Celestine—has been away for nearly a week now, for a work trip to Toronto. She’ll be landing soon, and I’ve been counting down the damn minutes. And yet, I can’t find a single acceptable excuse to leave this fake familial gathering early.
If I say I want to pick her up from the airport, they’ll lecture me about the Wentworths’ fleet of cars and howunbecomingit is for a man of my position toplay her chauffeur.
If I say I miss her—God forbid—I’ll get a deadpan reminder that my time would be better spent prepping for the Astor-Wentworth merger.
And if I’m stupid enough to say I want to spend time with my fiancée, they’ll spin it intosexual needsagain.
Last time I used that excuse, my father discreetly handed me a card. It was a sex club invitation, I realized belatedly. From a placehefrequents apparently.
I gagged the second I noticed what it was. Promptly wanting to vomit when it sank in that he expected me to use it. Fucking hell.
“I still think you’re underestimating the valuation of the Coquitlam complex,” my uncle, Gareth, drones, flipping through a printout of the portfolio like he’s deciphering ancient scrolls. “The zoning approvals came through last quarter. That ups our leverage.”
His wife sits quietly, sipping her afternoon drink like this whole conversation doesn’t even make her bottom three topics.
I can relate, Aunt Valencia.
“The Wentworths don’t give a damn about leverage,” my father pipes up, but I don’t care enough to look. “They’re targeting a net positive on their Q3 reports, and you can’t blame them. Optics matter. Especially after that Vancouver board seat shuffle.”
I blink. Once. Twice.
Zoning. Optics. Q3.
God, it’s like listening to wallpaper peel. How do I tell them that they don’t even knowhalfof what’s actually happening?I’mthe one who is leading this. And their chatter is practically gibberish.
Unfortunately for me, I need to be here. Of all the things the last ten months have shown me, the one that tops is how I can’t trust any of them. Not even my own father.
Their usual passivity morphing into eager interest about the merger, has both me and Cece on edge.
I absently trace the rim of my apple juice glass. If I tilt it just right, I can almost see her name pop up on my phone through the condensation. She’s probably landed by now. Or about to text me, ranting about the gate delays and overpriced coffee.
What millionaire even does that?
But I’m stuck here. Pretending to care about their ill-informed discussions about the real estate vertical of Astor Holdings merging with the Wentworths’ global development wing. Supposedly this is the “partnership of the decade.” One that will strengthen our grip on the Western market and push the Astors’ name further into sustainable luxury housing.
