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She doesn’t even wear the known brands; the actual rich get to dress from obscure brands only people like us know about. Brands that sell you a shirt for twenty thousand pounds to make you feel more important than the mainstream brand people.
Her red lips part before she reaches a hand and pats her perfectly styled French twist. Her hair is a dark shade of blonde that she passed me a portion of.
But I always had my father’s eyes. A fact we both hated but never voiced out loud.
“Daniel.” It’s my brother who speaks, his voice toneless, and his stance is upright but not rigid.
Zach is two years older than me, has my father’s dark hair and my mother’s steel-gray eyes. He used to be broader than me, the type who slaved at the gym for a perfect body, but it doesn’t seem that he kept that dedication now. He’s leaner, which makes him appear taller even when he’s not standing.
“That’s my place.” I point at where he’s sitting, at the head of the table, as if this is his damn house.
“Nonsense.” He already has the napkin tucked neatly into his shirt which means he’s ready to eat. “You forfeited your leading position eleven years ago and you have no right to demand it now.”
I narrow my eyes, but despite the tension in my spine, there’s something off about the way he speaks, the way his stance is.
It’s almost…robotic.
Zach was more fun than me—if you can believe that. I let my father’s behavior get under my skin and ruin my perception about things, namely food and relationships. My brother, however, tucked it all in a neat box, threw it in the rubbish, and lived the life he wanted to.
So his tone and voice are grating me the wrong way.
A soft hand touches my arm before Nicole stares up at me with enough brightness to light a whole fucking room. “You can sit down anywhere.”
“You did this.” It’s not a question, because I’m sure it was all her idea.
The fact that she was stalling for time, made dinner for an army, and prepared the table for four.
“You can’t possibly ignore your family forever.”
“Watch me.” I glare at them. “Have the food and get the fuck out. Better yet, leave without eating.”
“Daniel.” Nicole gasps, watching me as if I grew a few more horns than what a devil is allowed.
Well, surprise, baby. I’m still the jerk who made your and everyone else’s life hell.
“Dan…please.” Mother’s voice is brittle, which means she’s probably about to cry. That’s what she used to do every day, every night.
It’s her side gig. Aside from giving us prophets’ names in a vain attempt to save our arses from hell.
“Too late for begging, don’t you think, Mother? Here’s a thought, how about you do us both a favor and leave?”
Zach interlinks his fingers on the table. “Since we’re all here and there’s food, we might as well eat.”
“No thanks,” I say.
I’m about to leave when Mother blurts, “Zach had an accident.”
“Nice try, Mother. Next time you’ll tell me his arm is artificial and he’s surviving on Viagra to shag. Can’t you hear how desperate you are?”
I expect Zach to spar with me, verbally or physically. He was always the number one defender and the founder of Nora Sterling’s fan club. Even when she neglected us both for her husband-related issues.
However, my brother is sipping from his soup, his expression unchanged. “I like the chef. I’m moving him to my estate.”
“Like fuck you will.” I wrap an arm around Nicole’s waist, a blinding sense of possessiveness gripping me by the throat.
“We’ll see about that.”
My urge to punch him snaps my shoulder blades together. And why the hell is he saying that with a perfectly straight face? Is this a joke?
