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Lucian
Two years ago
“You can’t go in there!”
The frantic tone of my personal assistant causes me to look up from the contract I’m revising. The door to my office swings open and my brother charges in.
Malachi is Calloway royalty in my father’s eyes, and it’s for this reason I sit up in my chair. I’m half-expecting to see a full brass band, a red carpet or at the very least for him to have a courtier in tow, but instead he’s accompanied solely by my PA, Christine. Platinum strands of hair whip across her face as she stumbles in her rush to get ahead. She clasps the wall-mounted bookshelf to steady herself.
“I’m so sorry, Mr Calloway,” she pants. Her eyes—those tiny browns hidden behind ginormous red-framed glasses—are wide. “I had no idea that…”
I lift my hand, cutting her off mid-sentence. Christine knows better than to let anyone enter my home office unannounced, especially when I’m sifting through million-pound contracts. But it doesn’t appear as though my brother gave her much say in the matter.
“As you were,” I say simply, nodding my head in the direction of the door.
Regaining her composure, Christine smooths down her maroon pencil skirt. Her heels click against the polished wooden floorboards as she leaves.
I glance at Malachi, who at over six foot tall towers over me as I sit. Whatever the hour, my brother’s beard is always neatly trimmed and his jet-black hair perfectly styled. His dark grey suit jacket hugs his lean frame, and I know he spares no expense when it comes to tailored suits.
“Good evening, brother. How’s Scotland treating you nowadays?” I ask, noticing that he has traded his kilt and sporran in for a pair of black Armani trousers. As tempted as I am to make a snarky comment, I don’t. I have a full night ahead of me with documents to read and contracts to sign. Still, I haven’t seen my brother since our poker night almost a month ago. It would be rude if I didn’t at least offer him a drink. I’m about to ask if he’ll join me for a Scotch, but his glare tells me this isn’t a social call.
This ought to be good.
The corner of my eye twitches in irritation, and with nothing but silence passing between us I contemplate a warmer greeting. I should at least try to look as though he isn’t inconveniencing me. I place the paperwork I’m holding on the mahogany desk in front of me. Then, nonchalant as ever, I lean back in my chair. “Mal, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Save it,” Malachi spits out. He retrieves a folded-up magazine from under his arm and slings it across my desk.
I open the pages and regard the bright pink cover with fading interest. “Thanks, butCornwall Gossipis not on the top of my list of reading material.” I place my index finger in the cleavage of the busty blonde cover model and slide the magazine in my brother’s direction. I figure this is a joke, that is until Malachi slams his fist down on the magazine, stopping it in place.
“Page nine.” His tone is sharp, though his tight expression gives nothing away.
I make a point of sighing heavily before pulling the magazine from his hold. As requested, I turn to page nine. The heading is bright and in a bold font.
Samantha Matthews tells all about her sordid affair with Cornwall’s most eligible bachelor, Lucian Calloway.
My hand shakes and I fight the need to tear the page from the glossy spread. But instead of letting needless emotions get the better of me I keep my expression neutral. I glance up at my brother and shrug. “I wouldn’t exactly say it was a sordid affair.”
Malachi grunts, throwing his arms up in the air. “She was engaged!”
I yawn, using the back of my hand to cover my mouth. “Of which fact I was ignorant. Thank God for our cousin finding out when he did and bringing the matter to my attention. Upon finding out, I broke things off.”
Malachi runs his fingers over his sleek black beard, not once but several times. It’s a little trait he’s grown up with, and something he often does when stressed. “Don’t you think it’s about time you ran background checks on future conquests?”
“None of the ladies I have dated have been ‘conquests’, and the very idea of running background checks is not only unethical, it’s downright immoral.”
Malachi’s brows knit together. “Ethics and morals don’t come into this. You’re a Calloway, damn it. Start acting like one and stop wasting your time with penniless airheads.”
Anger courses through me, but without an outlet I have no choice than to keep it bottled up. I allow my gaze to rove over the article; it’s mostly gossip, though I home in on one paragraph, the one Malachi has conveniently highlighted yellow.
A close source has expressed concerns about Mr Calloway’s blatant inability to juggle his personal life along with running Calloway Housebuilders.
Beneath the quote the writer concludes with several condescending questions.Will Lucian fall at the first hurdle? Or will he put his love life on hold? With the spotlight shining on him and his reputation hanging by a thread, will he be forced to choose between love or money?
I let the words float over my head, for anyone who truly knows me knows that I work my fingers to the bone for the property business. Money and work will always come first. Always.
The article was written by an old friend of mine, Darren Moore, a person I now intend to get reacquainted with in the near future. I bypass the text and my gaze lands on the photograph spread over the top of the page. It looks as though Samantha and I are deep in conversation as we walk hand in hand along the moonlit shoreline. I run my index finger over the image, and over Sam.
I’m snapped out of my reverie when Malachi snatches the magazine away. His knuckles turn white as he squeezes the pages tightly together. My attention shifts to the gold ring he wears. But it’s not just any ring—it’s a band with the Calloway crest that he and our brother, Gage, were each gifted from our parents on their eighteenth birthdays. A family heirloom I was not fortunate enough to receive when my time came.
