Page 7

“It seems like a slam-dunk for the detectives, though. Since it’s Jim, they’re probably going to be looking into every possible piece of evidence.”

Of course, a billionaire can’t just die.

Since he did, though, I expect the next year of my life will be filled with so much paperwork that I’ll want to move to a remote island.

Speaking of . . .

Baron’s voice lowers considerably, and he even leans in closer, so I know what’s coming.

“The trust is very clear here. The moment a judge sees the death certificate you’ll be the trustee and in control of all the assets in the trust, but as of right now, you’re legally the beneficiary.”

“The fuck does that mean?” I shouldn’t snap at him, but I’d like him to speak plain fucking English.

“This penthouse, the teams, Barclay Field, Barclay Arena, and every other asset is yours.” I don’t know if he pauses for dramatic fucking effect, but since this is a big deal, I have to appreciate the single moment he gifts me to assimilate all of that.

I didn’t know it happened that fast. That it could happen that fast.

Plans—the ones I’ve been thinking about since Jim first told me how his twisted mind worked—fill my mind.

And the worst thought I’ve ever had.

At least he died during the Demons and Knights’ off-season.

That’s fucked up, even for me, even for . . . this.

Maybe I’m more like him than I’d like.

I shake my head and open my mouth to tell Baron that I’ll deal with that—all that fucking insanity—later, that I need to go see my brothers, but then he finishes it up with a bang.

“The trust states that the custody of any underage children of the deceased trustee will go to the new beneficiary.” My brain stalls. “With their mother being . . . in her current situation, I think any judge in the state will be more than happy with that outcome.”

So this motherfucker really was the most sexist pig in the fucking world.

He has three grown daughters, all of them amazing mothers, but instead he decides that a twenty-three-year-old fuckhead is the best person to have custody of his two toddler sons.

That tracks.

I want to laugh, cry, or scream—I can’t decide which—at Baron in rage for allowing Jim to do this, but instead I bite down hard on my lip and turn away. I see Lex and Eli are still there, and remember the rest of the world, the Turris, all the things I should now care about.

I nod to myself, and decide that I better get a fucking grip.

There’s no fucking way a judge will actually think I’m better suited to be the boys’ guardian than my sisters, but that’s a problem for another day.

Immediate things.

“Eli, can you please call your father and help contain the story? I need to talk to my sisters about how we’re going to handle this before the news gets out.”

He straightens and nods, looking more like the heir to a media conglomerate empire than my quirky friend, but that’s the unfortunate side effect of the Turris.

It turns us all into pillars of stone with no feelings.

And speaking of no feelings, I turn to Harrison.

He’s here because I need an Heir.

It’s not like I have many options. There’s Avery, Liv, and Luna, and no one else in the world I’d trust enough for this.

Avery is very happily a stay-at-home mom and she’d hate me forever if I made her my Heir.