Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
“You’re late,” she calls out. “And what on earth are you wearing? The garden club is here for breakfast. What will they think?”
I glance down at my deliberately chosen outfit—ripped jeans, vintage band tee, and the leather jacket that made her cry when she first saw it. “Sunday best, Mother. Just for you. Gotta uphold the Sterling name and all that bullshit.”
Her sigh could wither the prize-winning roses she’s so proud of. I grin and bounce up the steps, ignoring the churning in my stomach that has nothing to do with my hangover. Time to face the firing squad. Wonder what brilliant plan they’ve cooked up this time to save the Sterling family reputation from their disappointment of a son.
Walking into the house always feels like stepping into a museum. Everything gleams—the marble floors, the crystal chandelier, the gilt-framed portraits of dead relatives judging me from every wall. The sound of my combat boots on the pristine floor makes Mother wince. Good.
“Your grandfather is waiting in the study,” she says, already fussing with my collar. I dodge her hands, my attention scattered between the ticking of the grandfather clock (two minutes fast, always has been), the murmur of voices from the breakfast room (garden club vultures, no doubt taking notes on the family scandal), and the way dust motes dance in the morning light streaming through the windows (when was the last time I slept a full night?).
“Wonderful. Nothing says good morning like disappointing three generations at once.” The words tumble out before I can stop them, my filter apparently still drunk from last night.
Mother’s lips thin to nearly nothing. “Just … try to behave, Lee. This is important.”
I’m already moving, unable to stand still under her scrutiny. My fingers trail along the wainscotting as I walk—one, two, three panels until the doorway. An old habit from childhood, when counting things made this place feel less suffocating.
The study door looms at the end of the hall, solid oak and heavy with purpose. I can practically smell the brandy and privilege leaking out from under it. Through the wood, I hear my father’s voice, then Grandfather’s deeper tone. They’re undoubtedly discussing stock portfolios or which country club member’s daughter would make the best broodmare for their wayward heir.
My hand hesitates on the doorknob. The metal is cool against my palm, and I let it ground me for a moment. Behind me, Mother makes a small sound of impatience.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, too low for her to hear, and push open the door.
The study hits all my senses at once—leather and tobacco and old books, late morning sun casting shadows over the window seats, the steady tick-tick-tick of Father’s pretentious desk clock. Grandfather Sterling occupies his usual throne by the fireplace, looking like he just stepped out of a Rich White Men Monthly photo shoot. Father stands behind his massive desk, probably for maximum authoritative effect.
I drop into the leather chair across from the desk, deliberately sprawling. “Good morning, family. Lovely day for an intervention, isn’t it?”
Father’s jaw twitches. One point to me.
“Your sister’s engagement will be announced at the Autumn Sterling Foundation Charity Gala.” Grandfather’s voice fills the study like smoke, heavy and suffocating. My leg bounces, fingers drumming against my thigh as I try to focus on his words and not the way the clock keeps tick-tick-ticking or how Father’s pen scratches against paper.
“Fascinating. Good for Emma. Is that why you dragged me here at the ass crack of dawn? To tell me my sister’s finally making an honest man out of James? Not going to lie, I personally think this meeting could have been an email.”
Father clears his throat, and I grab a crystal paperweight off his desk, needing something to occupy my hands. “The charity gala is our most important social event, Lee.”
The paperweight catches the light, sending little rainbows dancing across the walls. Pretty. Wonder if that girl from the pantry likes rainbows. Focus. They’re still talking.
“Which is why,” Grandfather continues, “you will also be presenting your future partner that evening.”
The paperweight slips from my suddenly numb fingers. I catch it before it hits the floor, but just barely. “I’m sorry, what?”
“It’s time, Son.” Father’s voice has that practiced patience that makes me want to scream. “You’re twenty-four. This is important, for you, our family. You need to prove you’re capable of making responsible choices. That you’re stable.”
My laugh comes out sharp and decidedly not stable. “Responsible choices? Is that what we’re calling it now? Not ‘fixing the family disappointment’?”
“Lee Sterling.” Mother’s voice cracks like a whip. When did she move to stand behind my chair? “This isn’t about fixing anything. This is about your future.”
“My future?” The words taste bitter. “Or the future of Sterling Banking and Trust? Wouldn’t want anyone thinking the heir might be”—I wave my hand vaguely—“different.”