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Chapter1
Cameron
“Not only is the concept preposterous, it’s downright insulting.”
My corporate attorney and close friend, Jackson Carmichael, merely stares at me.
“Don’t look at me like that. It’s not happening. There’s no way in hell I’m having my personal life dictated to me as though I’m a naughty four-year-old.”
“Calm down. I don’t disagree with you, but he’s got you over a barrel.”
Jackson, sprawled casually on my office sofa, is fighting a grin. He’s enjoying this entirely too much.
“It’s the twenty-first century for fuck’s sake.” I slam my palm down on my mahogany desk. “If a person chooses a same-sex relationship, it’s their choice. If a person chooses a polygamous relationship, it’s their choice. And, if a person chooses to remain single, it’s their goddamn choice!”
Jackson, giving up his fight to maintain a straight face, throws his head back and laughs. The fucker. “I didn’t know you were a polygamous homosexual.”
“I’m not,” I growl, “and I’m not the marrying type either. Not by a long shot.”
I’ve never had the slightest urge to settle down and take a wife. I’ve been too focused on the company. It’s consumed every aspect of my life thus far.
When my grandfather retired and left the company to me so he could work on his golf game, there was a specific clause in the transfer-of-leadership documents that stated I was to be married by my thirty-fifth birthday.
Stupid. Archaic. Ludicrous.
At the time, I hadn’t thought it a big deal. I was young, dumb, and eager to prove myself.
And prove myself I did. In the decade I’ve been at the helm, RJ Conglomerates has grown from a respectable container shipping company to the third-largest transport conglomerate in the world.
Yes, folks. In. The. World.
I’ve sacrificed for the achievement—long days, sleepless nights, constant traveling, no personal life. Yet here I am, only a few months shy of having everything I’ve worked so hard for stripped from me and—to add insult to injury—handed to my cousin Geoffrey.
Geoffrey, who when he was seven picked his butt and ate crayons, and who hasn’t changed a whole lot.
Running a hand through my hair, I let out a harsh breath as I struggle to regain my zen. “How can the old man actually uphold something like this? I mean, is it even legal?”
“Did you sign the agreement?”
“You know I did. You were there,” I snap.
He shrugs. “The way it’s written, your grandfather still retains ownership rights. It’s not yours until you turn thirty-five and only under the condition that you are legally wed at that time.”
Jaw clenched, I stare out my twentieth-floor office window at the Manhattan skyline.
My grandfather was almost as ruthless a businessman as I am, and I can’t believe he’d want to see the company he started pass into the hands of my incompetent cousin. Certainly not after I have quadrupled its size.
“You’re attending his holiday festivities this year?” I question as I watch a flurry of pristine, white snowflakes dance their descent only to end up as gray slush on the bustling streets below.
Every year, my grandfather plans a ten-day holiday extravaganza of epic proportions, and the guest list reads like a veritable who’s who of famous people from around the world. There are cookie baking and decorating activities, reindeer-pulled sleigh rides, and breakfast with Santa. Everything from sporting activities to cozy gatherings to black-tie soirees. It runs from just before Christmas, through Grandfather’s birthday on December twenty-ninth, and ends on New Year’s Day.
“Wouldn’t miss an opportunity to rub elbows with the movers and shakers. Plus, Gina loves that he’s holding it in Aspen this year. An excuse to hit the slopes during the day and network in the evening.”
Jackson’s wife, Gina, is a publicist and as dedicated to her job as he is to his. I nod, not at all looking forward to seeing the old man this year, even if he is turning eighty-eight. I’ve already attempted to dissuade him from upholding the clause—a clause he won’t even explain—to no avail. I love the old man, but he’s as stubborn as a jackass.
I roll my head back on my neck and I stare up at the ceiling.
“You’re my attorney. Can’t you do something?”
