Shattered Dynasty

The sink must contain over ten pots and pans, and that doesn’t even count spatulas, utensils, plates, and bowls.

Gail opens and closes cabinets, showing me where the cleaning gear is. “Let me preface your tenure by saying, Chef doesn’t want anything in the dishwasher.”

Of course, he doesn’t. I’m sure this lady already must think I’m trash that Trent picked up on the street.

She certainly would balk at the fact that I’m doing this all for money.

Not just any money . . .

A twenty-two-million-dollar inheritance.

The truth is, I probably could fight him.

Over the past few days, unbeknownst to Trent, I did my research. I had no intention of taking this man’s threats.

But it didn’t take me long to find out his threats were not lies.

He was connected. Very connected.

Not only did he rub elbows with Manhattan’s elite, as evidenced by paparazzi photos, but he also ran in dangerous circles. With Cyrus Reed, the man who accompanied Trent’s sister at the will reading.

That’s the part that freaks me out.

The rumors of who his clients are.

Arms dealers.

Mafia.

Drug dealers.

Who is Trent Aldridge? The better question is, if he thinks his dad was the devil despite his association with men who legitimately are, then Ronald must have really been awful.

That’s if I can take Trent’s word on it. I never saw that side of Ronald, but what I have learned throughout my life is that everyone has a devil in them. Even my sister. So regardless of my feelings on Trent, I’ll take his word for it.

Gail moves to leave, stopping just short of where the kitchen feeds into the open plan living room. “There’s a schedule in the drawer to your left, which includes when you’ll need to descale the appliances, instructions on how to care for specific items like the cast-iron skillet, and a list of Chef’s things you are never to touch, the most important of which are his knives.”

It sinks in that I’m in over my head. I’ve never descaled an appliance, I thought cast-iron skillets just get washed normally like everything else, and I don’t even want to know what will happen if I touch Chef’s knives.

With that parting warning, Gail leaves. I roll up my sleeves and start to wash each dish, aware I don’t have long to finish this and prepare to leave for class. The man must have had a banquet.

It looks like fresh berries, yogurt, a homemade citrus sauce, granola, and something else that couldn’t have required this many dirty dishes. Maybe fresh-pressed juices, too.

This man is so high maintenance he probably only dates supermodels with a Ph.D. in dealing with bullshit.

What would he have thought if he saw my sister and me before his father pulled us out of the hovel and set us up in the lap of luxury?

When we were moving from place to place.

Squatting at Erin’s numerous boyfriends’ houses.

Or better yet, those weeks we lived in her car, which wouldn’t run even if we had the money for gas.

If he thinks I can’t handle a few dishes, he has another thing coming.

Trent Aldridge has no idea the life I have lived.

In comparison to the hell I have been through, his Michelin-star chef’s dirty dishes are a slice of pie from heaven.

Whatever he throws at me, I’m ready.

15

Trent

* * *

“What are you doing?” Cyrus asks as he strolls into my office.

I’m surprised to see him here. Usually, he doesn’t grace me with his presence. Normally, in typical Cyrus fashion, he orders me to his compound in Connecticut.

But not today.

Nope, here he is, striding into my space like he owns the place.

As per usual, a scowl has settled on his face.

The man never smiles. He always looks like he’s plotting someone’s murder.

As long as it’s not mine, I’m cool.

“Making you money,” I reply, not looking up at him from my computer. In reality, there’s a game of online poker in front of me. I’m up several thousand.

“No, idiot.” He lounges on the luxe leather chair on the opposite side of my desk, legs kicked up beside my nameplate like he owns the joint. “I know you’re making money. A shit ton, by my calculations, and I’m thankful for that. What I mean is, what are you doing with that girl?” He snaps his fingers. “Paula.”

The way he says “that girl” rubs me the wrong way. She’s mine to play with.

Fuck.

I’m territorial.

I can’t even stand her.

But if you asked me at gunpoint, maybe I’d admit that her in a towel is now my new favorite memory. That’s neither here nor there. The truth is, I need to get over my weird obsession with her.

“It’s Payton,” I correct casually.

He snorts, picking up a metal Rubik’s cube off my desk. None of the fifty-four squares share the same shade. There is no way of winning. But knowing Cyrus, he’d find a way.