The rest of the ride to the House of Cross building downtown is passed in silence from me and Asad and quiet conversation between Michelle and Kareem. The car turns onto Olympic Boulevard and the steel-and-glass monolith also known as House of Cross headquarters broods against the cloud-heavy sky. The Castle, HoC employees call it. And with its peaked, regal roof, itdoes resemble that fairy-tale architecture. My great-grandfather had the building constructed in the seventies, moving the offices from the original location on Santee Alley in the fashion district.
As if of its own volition, my gaze traces the imposing figure with the gilded HoC cresting the roof. And as always, the vestiges of awe and pride whisper and brush over my sternum. This is my birthright. This—the building, the business, the empire—was germinated, built, and expanded by my family’s dreams, hands, blood. Michelle and her sons might have infiltrated my family and plotted, planned, and played the sycophants to claim it and its legacy as their own, but they’re not Cross born. In this they’re imposters, and I’m the only true heir.
They’ve stripped me of so much, butthatthey can’t touch. No matter how much they hunger to. No matter how much Marcus resented me for it.
Stubbornness, a misguided sense of loyalty, and ill-placed love have kept me here all this time. In truth, I should’ve been walked, taken my work with me. But try as I might—try ashefucking might—I couldn’t eradicate that little girl who remembered her mother whispering that despite the neglect, her father loved her and was a good man. Couldn’t completely squelch the dregs of love and hope that one day, one day he would finally see me, appreciate me.
The thing I learned about hope? It, too, is for losers.
Yet… I stayed.
That hope and the man centered around it are gone forever, and so is my tenure here with House of Cross. I’m done.
They just don’t know it yet.
I hold the warmth of that knowledge close as the driver steers the Hummer into the underground parking deck reserved for executives and officers of the company. Goes without saying, I have to park with everyone else in the public deck a block down the street.
In minutes, we’ve exited the vehicle and entered the elevatorthat will carry us to the main level. Asad stands in the front, his tall frame and broad shoulders nearly blocking out my view of the steel doors. Michelle posts up next to him, and Kareem is a step behind his mother and older sibling. That leaves me in the rear. It doesn’t escape me that our positions in the elevator are a direct reflection of the hierarchy in our “family.”
What does the Good Book say though?
The last will be first and the first, last.
If Jesus said it, then I’m not arguing.
Soon enough, we exit the lift and head down the long, empty back hallway with its decorative sconces and thick, oatmeal carpet. We tread past the strip of ornately framed floor plans mounted on the walls, each displaying the timeline and growth of the Castle. They pay silent witness to our hypocritical march toward the ballroom on the other side of the building. Yes, a ballroom, because a conference room just won’t do.
As we approach the open, large double doors, Asad stops just short of the entrance. And like good little soldiers, we stop behind him. Noise from the cavernous room beyond trickles out to greet us, tempting us to enter. Or in my case, warning me away. The melodious, nearly quiet music provides a bassline to the low laughter and chatter pouring out of the open doors. Floors above us, HoC staff work away. And beneath them, in the ballroom just feet in front of me, the rarefied elite already drink and feast in honor of a man who would slit their throats as easily as blink if it meant fattening his bottom line.
Maybe I do belong here, then.
I find myself staring at the short, soft whorls of hair almost brushing Asad’s collar. They defy the sleek bun he’s gathered his hair into, and I’m torn between congratulating them for their rebellion and scrubbing my fingers down my side to stifle the tingle urging me in a suicidal mission to touch those strands.
I blink. God, I need a drink or a blunt. Maybe both.
Asad doesn’t pivot to face us, but he does turn his head untilhis thick beard nearly glances his shoulder. His sharp, unforgiving, and perfect profile is in stark view.
“No fuckups in here.”
And with that dire warning, he strides forward, entering the ballroom. Inhaling a deep breath, I follow him.
And enter into hell.
CHAPTER TWOAsad Prince
“Do you know the woman that walked in behind them?”
I stiffen slightly at the attempted whisper from a woman behind me. Making an appropriate but noncommittal response to the congressman currently trying to low-key beg for a campaign donation, I tune in to the not-so-quiet conversation. Out of the corners of my eyes, I glimpse two women, a tall brunette and a petite blond, both barely covered in dresses that wouldn’t have been out of place at 4Play instead of a funeral for a world-renowned fashion house.
Neither the instrumental music pouring into the ballroom through the discreet surround sound nor the rising flow of chatter and laughter can conceal the women’s voices. Not that they’re trying to be unobtrusive. Foolish bitches. This is my playground, my territory. This room might be the size of two fucking football fields, but nothing happens here that I’m not aware of. Including this inappropriate, rude-as-fuck conversation about something that’s not their gotdamn business. I shift, angling my body so I have a clearer view of the two women while still giving the congressman the impression that I give a damn about the words steadily tumbling out of his mouth without any semblance of a break.
“I don’t know. I saw her at the funeral, but she wasn’t sitting with the family on the first pew. Maybe she’s their assistant.” The brunette lifts a glass, taking a sip. “There’s one thing I’m certain of though. She definitely doesn’t belong to Prince or Kareem for that matter. Truth be told, I’m not sure if she’s a man or woman.”
Not-so-quiet snickers follow that petty bullshit. I briefly survey the immediate area. Michelle, in her element as a social hostess, holds court across the room near one of the ridiculous dove-shaped ice sculptures. And Kareem… I grind my teeth, a flare of pain blooming along my jaw. Kareem hovers near Ember, two glasses of wine in hand. As he extends one toward her and Ember gifts him a smile, I battle to smother the searing burst of anger sliding through my chest. Always solicitous, my brother. Always the good son, the kind sibling.
Nothing like me, who would use her neck as the stem of my glass and feed her the alcohol directly from my mouth.
Nah, I’m not the solicitous or good one.
