Shattered Dynasty

“Are you sure it’s not Phoebe?” he quips.

I shrug. “Might be Penelope.”

It’s a striking image to see Cyrus Reed here in all his glory. It’s striking that this building—my building—exists at all.

It’s been a long road coming.

My father left me with nothing but the clothes on my back and the desire to be successful. Yes, maybe I didn’t set out to be the owner of the most ruthless hedge fund in New York City, but I fully enjoy the position I hold.

“I don’t know why you keep this thing,” he says, tossing it in the air and catching it just before it slips past him.

If his desired effect is to have me on edge, it’s working. I’m not afraid of him. He’s my brother-in-law. He wouldn’t hurt me. But nothing about the man would make anyone relax. I don’t know how Ivy does it.

“It’s a reminder.”

I don’t elaborate.

He toys with the cube. It occurs to me that revenge is technically his right as well. Payton will be taking money that, in fact, should be his by proxy. He is married to my sister. Ivy’s third of the multimillion-dollar estate is half his, entitling him to a little under four mil.

To us, that kind of money is pocket change. Him more so than me.

Sure, I’m worth a lot.

But Cyrus is in a whole other league.

I’m no billionaire. Pretty damn close, but not there yet . . .

After my next investment, I could be, though.

Which reminds me . . . I have more pressing matters than spending my time thinking about the money Payton is soon to inherit.

I need to talk with Cyrus about an investment I want to make. Using funds he and a few other clients are part of.

“Of?” he asks, tossing the cube back into the bowl, bored with it.

“Of life.”

“The cube is unbeatable.” He lifts his brow.

“It’s supposed to be.”

“Didn’t take you for a loser, Aldridge.”

“I am the cube in this situation, Reed.” I mimic his flippant tone. “Life is the player.”

A satisfied grin spreads across his face. He looks like a wolf, only more deadly. “Or, in this case, Priscilla.”

His wanting to talk about Payton right now and asking these types of questions is grating on my nerves. We need to talk about work.

Not girls.

Sure. That’s the reason you’re annoyed.

It’s not because thinking of Payton right now is a bad idea. Nor the fact that I’m fighting a very strong desire to see her naked again. The memory of those perfect tits popping up in my head every few minutes isn’t doing me any favors.

Neither is the prospect of hate-fucking her all over the house.

The idea holds great promise.

I shouldn’t take it off the table just yet. Seduce her. Dump her. Leave her wanting. It’s more appealing than it should be.

However, with her spine, I doubt she would be game for that.

More like she will one hundred percent be against it. I’d have a better shot at convincing her that Santa Claus is real, and I play golf with him every Sunday.

Not happening.

I finish the online poker game, exiting out of the tab without enjoying the victory. “You’re not here to talk about her.”

“Maybe I am,” he says, shrugging. “Ever think about that? Ivy wants answers.”

“Then tell my sister to call me herself.”

“She’s been busy.” Lame excuse.

“I’m busy, too, yet I would find time for her if I had questions.”

“Give her a break. This is hard for her, too. Maybe harder.” The rough edge to his tone offers no leeway. It’s an argument I won’t be winning, nor do I want to.

I exhale. “You’re right.”

We are both quiet in thought for a minute before Cyrus speaks.

“I hear you moved that girl in. Petunia.”

“Petunia? Couldn’t come up with something better?”

“Your mother would like it.”

It comes off as a “yo mama” joke, but it’s not. He’s absolutely serious and so fucking right. Mom’s thing is gardening. So is Ivy’s, for that matter. Fitting, considering Mom named her after a flower and me, the Latin word for gushing waters.

Growing up, Mom would cement into us the fact that, like a flower and water, I need Ivy to see beauty in life, and Ivy needs me to grow. She failed to mention that we needed to depend on one another because our dad was destined to utterly and spectacularly fail us.

“My mother also thought it’d be a good thing to name Ivy after her favorite flower. Morning Glory. Could you imagine what that’d be like in school?” I shake my head, snorting. “Dad convinced her to go with Ivy, and that’s about his only useful contribution to our lives.”

“Saved you a bunch of fistfights while Ivy went through grade school,” Cyrus points out.

“Yup.”

“Then again, you could’ve used them. You fight like shit.”

I hurl a pad of sticky notes at him, which he dodges easily. “Fuck off, Reed.”