They’re your competition now.
Words my grandfather said to me at my father’s funeral echoed back in my head as I watched the triplets sit alone at their mother’s funeral.
Every interaction I’d had with them was tainted by my grandfather—a man I hated, a man I loathed. He had influenced my decisions on an unconscious level for years.
I rubbed my forehead.
Maybe they did know something. Maybe I should talk to them. Where the fuck do I start?
I didn’t know the first thing about them.
“Have you ever talked to them?” I asked.
Gemma arched a dark blonde brow. “Have you?”
Not once. Ever. Not even an “excuse me” or a more likely “get the fuck out of my way.”
“Do you think they’re gonna get revenge?” Gemma asked lightly.
“On who?”
“Does it matter?” Gemma laughed. “I think Abigail put Nair in my shampoo bottle once. Maybe they’ll do that.”
“Yeah. That’ll make up for the death of their mother.”
My father left only orphaned and fucked-up children as his legacy. I can’t let that be mine.
But everywhere I looked, there was someone I’m letting down.
Lottie—her and her child, our child…
Snitch. Always Snitch.
My sister standing beside me. Would I really abandon her into a marriage with West? A fucking monster?
I couldn’t let her marry West.
A hero, a good man, a father—an impossible dream. Did my father have this exact moment, staring out at a room filled with choices, wondering what the right one was? What would hurt the least amount of people?
My lungs were starting to close. I snatched a frothy white cocktail from a passing server so fast their silver tray wobbled.
My sister eyed me as I swallowed my drink in one gulp. “If you need help…If there’s anything you need help with…”
I looked back to the main problem I couldn’t solve, currently on West’s arm. Story looked like my little nun again. How fucked was that? That at a funeral she finally looked like herself.
I exhaled. “There’s nothing you can help with, Gemma.”
I placed my empty drink on the tray of another passing server, and turned to leave. I wasn’t sure where I was going, but I needed some fucking air.
“Grayson!” Gemma grabbed me, stopping me.
Bemused, I looked at the black-polished nails curling around my suit jacket. “The fuck, Gemma?”
“You think I don’t know what you’re dealing with, but I do. I’ve been engaged since the day I started my period. Mom had the maids hand me a tampon, and by the time I’d come out of the bathroom, Grandpa had called Horace’s father.”
I looked at my sister—really looked at her. Gemma was in a black shift dress that hung heavy on her arms. Something plucked right off the Paris runway, I’m sure. And just like the runway, she looked like she’d been losing weight.
Her eyes found mine.