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Chapter1
Knight
Iloathe Mondays.
The only thing worse than that dreaded first day of the week is a Monday morning meeting summoned by my grandfather—head honcho here at Grayson Inc.
But it’s not him who concerns me. My grandfather is undoubtedly one of the few people I can stand in this world and the reason I choose to still work here. I’d even go as far as calling him my idol.
My problem is theothers—my father and Bastian, my half-brother. AKA the sharks.
I’m early, the first one here. Not because I’m eager. It’s more the case of knowing how to position myself for the upcoming battle I expect from today’s meeting.
For me, that position is sitting here in the last chair at the end of the long, walnut-top table in the executive boardroom. A room that has hosted countless disputes amongst the Grayson men.
While waiting for the others to arrive, I’ve contemplated what changes today might bring. We’ve all been dying to hear the latest update about my grandfather’s retirement.
He made the announcement of his departure a few weeks ago. It came as a shock as most people believed the infamous Bradford Grayson would never part with his beloved multi-billion empire.
I never saw it coming, and he gave me no clues. But maybe there was a reason for that—he knowsI’llleave when he does.
And I will. That’s the plan. Although I’ve worked my ass off for years to earn my stripes and become the senior development and investment manager, leaving hasalwaysbeen the plan. I will never lower myself to work for my father.
My brother Jericho, and I are planning to branch out and set up our own property development company. We only work here out of respect for our grandfather.
As if the weather has sensed my sullen mood, the rain starts pouring down. It turns the scene through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows into a mass of gray.
Footsteps sound on the marble floors outside the boardroom door, then it opens, and in walks my father, tall and proud with his graying head lifted like a king who’s about to address his subjects.
His sharp blue eyes, which mirror my own, rivet to me with distaste, and just like always, he looks at me as if I don’t exist. I’ve had years to perfect the subtle art of not giving a fuck, so I look at him the same way.
Whilst eyeing him up, I note there’s something off with him. It’s in his eyes. There’s something about his usual confidence that’s waning.
Grandfather enters next with Bastian at his side, who looks like a younger, blond replica of our father. The only difference is that he has grandfather’s lean build and medium height, so while Jericho and I are six feet four, he’s five-nine.
Grandfather tucks a lock of his white hair behind his ear and addresses me with his habitual nod, but Bastian gives me the same I-wish-you-weren’t-here stare I got from our father.
Bastian sits next to Father, and Grandfather moves to the head of the table to assume his post. In his hands is a large manila envelope, which he places on the table before him.
“Good, nearly everyone is here.” Grandfather speaks in a stern voice and glances toward the door.
As if on cue, Jericho walks in. At least he showed up.
He’s the rebel and the more outspoken between us. At twenty-nine, he’s a year younger than me, but we look like twins and have a similar temperament.
Unlike the rest of us, who are suited and booted, Jericho is wearing a black button-down shirt and slacks. Knowing how much our father hates his tattoos, he’s also made a point of rolling up the sleeves so we see the inky black dragons crawling up his forearms.
That’s my art on his arms. In another life, before we hit our twenties and joined the host of America’s richest men on Wall Street, Jericho and I owned a tattoo parlor in the Bronx.
Our lives are so different now that those years feel like they happened to people we used to know.
Jericho walks over to sit next to me, solidifying the us-against-them tension filling the room like a cloud of thick black smoke.
When we look at each other, I can almost hear his disparaging thoughts. He doesn’t want to be in this meeting any more than I do, but we’re here.
Grandfather straightens and stares at each of us in turn.
It’s strange, he seems younger than his sixty-nine years and more at ease than I’ve ever seen him in all the seven years I’ve worked here. Perhaps it’s because he’s leaving.
