Brothers of Paradise Series

“He’s direct, yes.” Her gaze turns curious. “A lot of us were surprised when he decided to put you on this project.”

I could only imagine, having seen the glances the other architects shot me well enough. “He knows about my background.”

Terri nods again and turns to face the window. I can tell there’s more on her tongue, but she mercifully doesn’t press.

Henry’s responded, this time with a fact of his own.

Henry Marchand: Cincinnati has an entire subway system underground, complete with tunnels and stations, that’s never been used.

That’s news to me. I’ll have to Google that later and find out more. Our cab comes to a stop, and Terri leads the way, shaking hands, introducing me as her associate. Together, we make pleasant small talk with the other architects in the lobby.

“Rykers just arrived,” she whispers under her breath to me. “Our turn to pitch is next.”

I straighten my shoulders and run through the numbers I’m to present in my head again. I got this. “We’re ready,” I whisper back. “Let’s kick some ass.”

Her eyes widen in amusement, but she nods. “Let’s.”

We walk side by side into the boardroom, following Marlena Rykers, ready to put it all on the line.

Henry

Chicago is miserable.

It’s miserable the first day, when I see the project my father wants me to invest in. It’s miserable the day after, when I tell his partners that I’m not going to invest or accept the project.

And it’s miserable now, having to explain the reason to a man who can’t fathom why I’d turn my back on what he considers generosity.

“Henry, you can’t be serious.” The look my father shoots me is scathing. It’s one I recognize well; he reserves it for people he doesn’t respect. I’ve seen it turned on waitstaff, on my aunt, on my little sister when she was a teenager watching reality TV.

“I am. I came here, as you asked, and I’ve seen the project with my own eyes. It’s not something I’m interested in.”

He braces his hands on the table. The plate in front of him remains untouched, has been since we started this conversation. “I did you a favor here, son. Piers and Rolfe took my word when I vouched for you.”

“I understand that. But I never once said that this was a done deal for me. I told you that I wanted to see it myself before making a decision.”

His scowl deepens. “You could at least have been civil about it. I raised you better than that.”

I put my own fork and knife down, the flavors in my mouth turning to ash. “I was civil. I listened to their presentations. I looked at the development. I went over the financials. I did my due diligence before I told them-politely, out of respect for you-that the project wasn’t for me or my firm.”

“The New York scene has twisted your head. You’re a small firm. These prestige projects of yours-they’re excellent when you have a base to stand on.” He shakes his head. “But it’s projects like these that make you money. Enough money to fund a thousand of your parks. You think you’re above things like this?”

This conversation is going nowhere.

“My firm, my decisions,” I say, knowing it will annoy him. He was the one who had told me once that I would have to work my way up before he would even consider partnering with me on a project.

He brings his hand down hard on the table. Our wineglasses shake, drawing curious looks from the other tables. “Damn it, Henry. You’re not a child anymore, playing with architectural models. It’s time to step into the big leagues. We build for profit.”

I think of Elliot Ross and his conqueror’s grin.

I think of Faye and her beautiful eyes, lit up with excitement over a new design element.

“I’ll reach the big leagues in my own way. If you think I act like projects like this are beneath me, let me make something perfectly clear to you. It’s because they are.” I take a breath, watching as his eyes grow steely and distant, ignoring my own response to his disapproval. “We both know Piers and Rolfe’s business practices are distasteful, even if you won’t admit it. Pushing out people who have lived there for decades-it’s disgusting. The city zoning laws are set to be reformed in a few months, and if it’s not in their favor, the project is dead in the water anyway. I think you should walk away too, Dad.”

“Then how come my own people found no fault in this, huh? Why are you the only one?”

I highly doubt that-the people he surrounds himself with have a talent for making money, not making good decisions-but I can’t say that.

“Why did Piers and Rolfe only ask you?” I counter. “They’re not looking for other investors, are they?”

He crosses his arms over his chest and says nothing, just stares at me, gray eyes narrowed. The anger rolls off him in waves, thunderous and black. We might not be finished with our meals but it’s very clear that dinner is over.

“You’re coming to Lily’s wedding next weekend.”

It’s a statement, not a question, but I give a nod regardless. “Of course I am.”

“She’d be heartbroken if you weren’t there.”

“I’m going.” The absolute last thing I need is to be lectured about how to handle my younger siblings, especially Lily, whose wedding I wouldn’t miss for the world.

His frown is still in place. “Rhys hasn’t been in touch for a while.”

“He’s good. He’s coming as well, of course.”

Dad gives a curt nod. His relationship with his middle son has never been good, and I often serve as a mediator. One of the many perks of being the eldest.

“Fine.” He motions for the waitress and gives her the universal signal for the check. “You should head to the airport.”

Ah, and the send-off. He’s still pissed all right.

“I will.”

The silence is tense as we wait for the check. My father signs it with a flurry-I know better than to offer my own credit card and be called ungrateful again-and we stand. I’m a head taller than him, having grown past him when I was sixteen. It’s ever stopped bothering him.

“You’re bringing a girl to the wedding?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Your mom is worried. It’s not natural when your youngest child is the one to get married first.”Content rights belong to NôvelDrama.Org.

“I’ve always told her not to get her hopes up regarding me,” I caution.

Dad waves a hand. “That’s what she does. Now, I have more business to attend to tonight.”

It’s hard to keep my face impassive at that, but I manage. “Fine. Until next weekend.”

We shake hands. The emotions flowing out of him are clear, from the hard set of his shoulders to the disapproving look in his eyes. Ungrateful, it says. Not good enough.

I ignore it on the ride to the airport. I ignore it in the lounge, focusing on the glass of whiskey in my hand instead. The decision is sound. I have no qualms about that. The stubborn, impossible, insufferable man just needs to get that through his head. But despite my conviction, the flight back to New York is as miserable as the trip had been.