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Family legacy is both a blessing and a curse.
Nothing can lock a chain around your neck faster than living life under the shadow of—not only your father, but your father’s father and the fathers who came before him.
I know what it’s like to walk into a room and realize the eyes on me are seeing someone else. The last name. The empire. The person I should be.
I’ve always rebelled against that.
In little ways.
Going by ‘Dare’ instead of ‘Mr. Sullivan’.
Choosing investments I truly believe in rather than the expected Silicone Valley cash grabs.
Staying away from the tabloids, dating rumors, and scandals that so often come with the territory of being an heir.
Every word, every action, every choice since I was eighteen years old was carefully selected to send one message: ‘I speak for me. Not for the dead’.
But the man standing in the center of my office doesn’t share that struggle.
I can see it. The rigid lines of his shoulders, the hand draped casually in his coat pocket. The way he turns, just barely, as if this is his office and I’m the one who needs to knock before I enter.
Ryotaro Sazuki did not spend the majority of his existence trying to throw off the weight of his family’s legacy. He wears it like armor. Like royal clothes, draped over his skin. Like a sword.
It’s sad that he came here to fight.
I would love to learn how he does it.
“Mr. Sazuki.” My voice is welcoming, but there’s no smile on my face. “What a nice surprise.”
“You don’t seem surprised.”
“No, I suppose not.” I walk over to the coffee bar. Mosely makes a terrible brew so I do it myself. “There are only two reasons a recluse like you would show up in my office.” I snap in the coffee packet and push the tab. The mechanic whirr of the expresso machine fills the room. “And something tells me this has nothing to do with my offer to invest in the Sazuki Foundation.”
“No, we do not need your investment,” he says. His voice is crisp. The accent hovering just beneath makes him ten times scarier. His all-black get-up helps in the intimidation factor.
Not that he needed much help to look like a mercenary.
Sazuki’s tall and sharp-looking with skin so pale I want to share my sunscreen routine. I doubt he’d accept my help, but I know a little something about sunburn.
“You don’t needanyinvestments? Or justmyinvestment in particular?” I’d take the time to make a little foam art, but I don’t think Sazuki would allow me the concentration. Calmly, I lift the cup and take a sip.
One corner of his lips hikes up. It’s a barely-there smirk. And something tells me it’s not really a smile of approval either.
He walks over to the desk and picks up a picture of Talia.
I stiffen immediately.
“If you were anyone else,” Sazuki says crisply, “I would offer you money to go away quietly and quickly.” He sets the photo down and faces me, his jacket whipping behind him. “But unfortunately, people who have more money than they need make discussions like this quite difficult.”
I set my coffee down, most of it untouched. “And what kind of discussion is this exactly?”
“Perhaps ‘discussion’ was the wrong word choice. Think of it more,” he waves a hand casually, “as a warning.”
My smile turns dark. “I’m honored that you would come all the way here to warn me, but you’re wasting your breath.”
“I waste nothing, Mr. Sullivan. It’s not how I was raised.”
If this were another conversation, I’d tell him to at least drop the ‘Mr.’, but I doubt he’d oblige. “Then let me answer the question before you ask. I don’t plan on leaving Yaya’s side.”
