Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 112638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
Crying. On a luxurious vacation in the Italian Riviera. Such fickle creatures, women. Always impossible to please. Poor Paul.
We are locked in that weird stare again. She looks possessed. I should get up and leave. But she looks so deliciously vulnerable, so misplaced, a part of me wants to see what she’ll do next.
And since when do I give two shits about what people do?
Coolly, I stand up, grab my hardcover, finish the last of my wine, pivot on my heel, and walk away.
Mrs. Ashcroft might have a problem on her hands.
But it isn’t mine to fix.
CHAPTER TWO
ARSÈNE
An hour later, Grace is fluttering between her colleagues on the white-and-gray marbled floor, holding a flute of champagne. She laughs whenever appropriate, frowns in empathy when needed, and diligently introduces me as her stepbrother and finance wiz extraordinaire.
I play along. My end goal has always been making Grace mine for all to see—my father, her mother, my friends. The woman dug her way under my skin. She is permanently inked on each of my bones, and I won’t stop until I parade her as my prized possession.
In some ways, I enjoy the way she downplays our relationship. See, the more Grace highlights the fact that we are stepsiblings, the bitterer the pill she’ll later have to swallow when we go public.
In my darkest, rawest fantasies, Gracelynn Langston stutters her way into an explanation of how she ended up marrying the person she introduced as her brother for years.
She’ll be wearing my ring. Come hell or high water.
The restaurant is bustling with people. Grace and I spend time talking to Chip Breslin, the CEO of the company. He whines about spending the last month slashing high-momentum trades due to tighter Fed policies, glancing in my direction to see if I weigh in on that. I don’t hand out free advice. Especially now, when my own trading portfolio is at a standstill due to my new two-year ban.
“Ah, come on, Corbin, throw us a bone or two.” Chip chuckles, finally cutting to the chase. “How do you see the next quarter playing out? My pal Jim at Woodstock Trading said you mentioned short-only.”
“I’m a professional pessimist.” I glance around the room, looking for a distraction. “Regardless, I’m on an imposed hiatus, and not about to break my ban for a chitchat.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream!” He turns red, laughing awkwardly.
“You just asked me flat out, in reality,” I respond blandly.
Breslin smiles and says he has to go fetch his wife from the bar. “You know how it is.” He winks and elbows me as he makes his exit.
I do not, in fact, know. Grace possesses impeccable self-control in all areas of her life, other than her relationship with me. She is unemotional, calculating, and ruthlessly selfish, like me.
“See, this is exactly why people dislike you.” Grace clinks her fingernails—square, polished, nude colored—over her glass. “He tried talking shop with you, and you completely snubbed him.”
“There’s a handful of people I do not charge for my presence, and I’m currently looking at thirty-three point three percent of them.” My gaze dips to her cleavage. I think I’m going to fuck her tits tonight. Grace doesn’t like it when I come inside her, even with a condom, but she seems to be down with pretty much anything else my heart (and cock) desires.
“Are you trying to charm my panties off?” She smirks.
“I was hoping you weren’t wearing any to begin with.”
The room is filling up to a point it’s getting too busy and too sweaty, but our spot next to the bar remains empty.
“Everyone’s blocking the entryway. What’s all this commotion about?” Grace’s attention drifts to the entrance.
I turn to see what she is looking at. Paul and his hayseed just walked into the room. Everyone hurries toward them. Including Chip and his wife, the latter zigzagging her way unsteadily, clinging to her husband’s arm. The majority of the attention is given to Paul’s pretty blonde wife, the party’s main source of entertainment. Like an Andy Warhol painting, she is vivid and colorful, bursting at the seams in a room full of people wearing blacks, grays, and nudes. A curious little thing. Her clothes too loud, her smile too big, her eyes wildly exploring every inch of the space she just walked into. I find her adorably infantile.
“Is she handing out free blow jobs over there?” I ask conversationally, knowing my closeted girlfriend is not fond of being ignored, especially for another woman.
“Wouldn’t put it past her.” Grace bites on her inner cheek, her nostrils flaring. “Winnie’s everyone’s little lapdog. She sends Paul to work with cowboy cookies—the Laura Bush recipe—and volunteers for kids’ charities, and—”
“Her name is Winnie?” I frown down at her.
“Winnifred.” She rolls her eyes. “Quaint, right?”
“He married a caricature.” I humor her.
The girl is a walking, talking teddy bear. And she went to Juilliard, Grace’s school of choice back when she still thought she had a chance as a ballerina. I’m surprised she doesn’t show more open hostility toward her. Perhaps my stepsister has finally learned how to handle competition.