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“Like a dream,” she says with a breathless smile. Stealing a glance her way, I can’t help but notice how bright eyed and bushy tailed she’s looking this morning. Before I can fight it, an image of my brother railing her from behind floods my thoughts, her lush lips forming an O shape, his fist tangled in her sandy-blonde hair.
Bile rises up the back of my throat.
“And where’s my son? He sent you down here all by yourself?” my father asks.
Briar presses her full pink lips flat before saying “He isn’t feeling well.”
Dad’s brows knit. “What’s the matter?”
“I . . . I’m not sure. I think he ate something last night that didn’t agree with him,” she answers, choosing her words carefully. “He was up all night, poor thing. I told him I’d bring him some food.”
For someone who supposedly doesn’t believe in marriage, she’s stepping into the dutiful-wife role like it’s a second skin, which invites the question: Was she acting last year? Or is she acting now?
Which version is the real Briar?
And why the hell do I care so damn much?
“Here you are, Dorian.” One of the kitchen staff places before me a generous platter of scrambled eggs, buttered toast, crispy bacon, and an assortment of local jams. I wish I knew her name since she knows mine, but she appears to be new since last summer. “Enjoy.”
The intrusive mental image of Briar and Burke from a second ago combines with the savory breakfast smells wafting off my plate, nauseating me, but I swallow it down with a mouthful of orange juice.
I don’t usually eat breakfast. Most of the time, I’m on the road with the band, and I’m lucky to be up before noon, but given that my father’s days are numbered, I set my alarm for this morning and made sure I was the first one down—ensuring I’d beat Burke the Kiss Ass and Nicola the Darling Daughter.
I’ve never been the favorite child, and I don’t need to be.
But this isn’t about that.
It’s about proving a point to my siblings—that I’m here because I want to be and not because I’m worried he’s going to write me out of his will.
That’s already been done.
My father made it crystal clear years ago that none of us would inherit a single red cent if we weren’t married or engaged to be married at the time of his passing. His ridiculous decree was the same one his father inflicted on him and the same one his grandfather inflicted on his son as well.
I’m positive he’d have broken that chain if it weren’t for the loss of my mother.
It changed him and not for the better.
He’s adamant that no one should go through life alone, that “all the money in the world can’t buy you a true companion with whom to weather life’s hardships.”
His dying wish is to ensure that each of his children is loved and that they have someone to comfort them as they transition into their next phase of life as adult orphans. At least that’s what he says. I suspect there’s another angle to it—in his old-fashioned mind, all married couples should have children, and he wants as many grandchildren as possible to carry on the Rothwell legacy.
Dangling dollar bills might work for Burke, who has made an entire career of investing other people’s money and who’d do just about anything to grow his own coffers.
It also might work on Nicola, who married into money and spends her time helicopter parenting her twins because she has no genuine identity or real hobbies in life. While I don’t believe she married Dashiell because of my father’s stipulation, I’m certain the stipulation is what’s keeping them together.
Mark my words: the day Nicola receives her cut of the Rothwell estate is the day she files for divorce from Dash’s fake-marathon-training, Proust-quoting, pretentious ass.
“Ugh, sorry we’re late,” Nicola says when she and her brood shuffle into the breakfast room. “I’ll spare you the details of Dashiell’s iPhone-alarm debacle. I thought those things were supposed to improve with each new model, not get glitchier.”
“Human error.” Dash lifts his palms, forever the apologist when she’s around. I doubt he’ll miss this someday. “Forgive me. It’ll never happen again.”
The kids settle into their spots at the end of the table. Why my sister insists that they eat separately from us is beyond me, but I don’t have the energy to give a damn about her weird parenting rules because I slept like shit last night, and it’s taking every ounce of strength I have just to keep my eyelids open at this point.
I’d only been in my room for a few minutes when I realized I was staying next to Burke and Briar. Their muffled voices coming through the wall were enough to make me spring out of my bed like the mattress was on fire. I relocated to the last guest room at the end of the hall, though despite the change in proximity, I couldn’t stop thinking about what those two were doing behind their closed door.
