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Seventy-eight million?
I don’t even know what I’d do with that kind of money.
I knew my father was loaded, but I never so much as attempted to assign a number to it. It was never going to be mine anyway.
Or so I thought.
Natalie slides away from the table, then places packets of paperwork in front of each of us along with a shiny pen that feels weightless in my hand the instant I pick it up.
Or maybe my hand is numb.
Either way, I feel nothing as I sign these forms.
A hush blankets the room in the minutes that follow, coming to a halt only when Burke slams his pen down and leans back like a kid who finished a timed test first. He sinks back, arms crossed, a sullen, sour expression on his face.
Briar’s gaze is fixed on the window.
Perhaps she’s wondering what she’s going to do with all that money now that she’s marrying a multimillionaire whose biggest passion in life is turning cash into even more cash.
As much as I want to believe she’s marrying him for superficial reasons, I can’t reconcile that with the person I met a year ago. I want to believe she lied to me—it’d make hating her a lot easier. But deep down, I can’t. No matter how hard I try.
“Your father has listed ten properties here,” Giannotti continues, “all of which are eligible to be sold except for one. His wish is for Driftway to remain a family property, co-owned by the three of you, and maintained as a Rothwell estate for each of you to enjoy with your family, friends, and loved ones. He also requested that the three of you spend two weeks there each summer . . . together . . . in his memory.”
Burke sighs.
Nicola pulls a clean tissue from her purse. “Of course he would want that. I just don’t know if that’s realistic.”
It’s the one thing I’m willing to agree on here—getting the three of us to spend fourteen days together by choice is going to be damn near impossible. Not to mention, I don’t want any part in watching Burke and Briar run off into the sunset, marry, have babies, and live happily ever after.
“We’ll make it happen.” Dash rubs circles on my sister’s lower back. “I think it’s a great way to honor the man who’s done so much for us. Two weeks a year is nothing.”
Oh, Dash . . . ever the optimist.
If Nicola has it her way, they’ll be in the midst of a messy divorce by next summer.
“We’ve made copies of everything for each of you,” Giannotti says as Natalie stamps and notarizes document after document. “And as soon as we finish up, Natalie will scan all of the signed forms and email them to you for your records. Should you have any questions throughout this process, we’re only a phone call away.”
“So that’s it?” Burke asks. “Just like that, we split everything three ways, and that’s it?”
“Feel free to contest it if you want to be that guy.” I shrug, fighting a tight smirk. I don’t want this money. I never did. Nicola was right about that. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bring me a bit of pleasure to take it away from Burke.
“I’m sensing some sarcasm from your end, Dorian, but Burke, you should know that contesting an ironclad will like your father’s will be lengthy, stressful, not to mention devastatingly expensive, and the outcome will likely not be in your favor. But you do have that right.” Giannotti closes his laptop, rises, and tucks it under his arm. “Anyway, we’re all done here. Like I said, any questions, give me a call. In the meantime, we’ll begin working on the disbursements.”
With that, Giannotti is out, with Natalie trailing after him with her armful of folders.
We all make a move to leave at the same time, though walking out together feels like the last thing any of us want to do.
Screw it.
I have to take a piss, and I’m not about to sit here like we’re a bunch of midwesterners at a four-way stop.
Slipping the thumb drive with my initials on it into my pocket, I get the hell out of that sorry conference room.
I’m halfway to the hall restroom when someone calls my name from behind.
Glancing over my shoulder, I find Briar trotting up to me. What she could possibly want now is beyond me, but for whatever reason, I’m curious enough to stop and find out.
“Yeah?” I ask, trying my hardest not to appreciate the way her subtle curves fill out her navy-blue dress or the way her shiny dark-blonde hair bounces with each step like she’s a model in a damn shampoo commercial.
A year ago, those curves were mine, and that hair was tangled around my fist as she called out my name, but I digress.
