New York Billionaires Series

“I can’t believe I was happy for you in the beginning. I wish I could take it all back,” I say, shaking my head. “You smug bastard.”

Tristan’s smile just widens further, and despite my words, we both know I’m still thrilled for him. He’d found happiness in a way that had been denied him for years. Doesn’t mean it isn’t still insufferable to watch, sometimes.

He doesn’t ask me why I hadn’t responded to his text about coming around for dinner yesterday, and I’m grateful for that. He doesn’t push.

Victor strolls toward us, weaving around tables covered in white linen. His hands are in the pockets of his slacks.

“Think it’ll do?” he asks.

“It will.”This material belongs to NôvelDrama.Org.

His face is a cool mask. “Remind me why we do these things again.”

“Network. Prestige. Goodwill,” Tristan says. “The company looks good. Acture Capital looks good.”

Victor shakes his head. “I had to tell them to relegate all emails about this to my assistant. Do you think the question of what the catering company should serve really deserves the CEO’s attention?”

I look past him to the preparations for the evening. Two technicians are on the stage, unrolling foot after foot of cords.

“Cecilia is good at handling that,” Tristan says. “It’s the one thing I miss about Exciteur.”

Victor’s quiet for a beat. “You mean Miss Myers?”

“Yes, Miss Myers,” Tristan says dryly. “Your assistant, previously mine.”

“She does good work, I suppose.”

I roll my neck, catching a crick. Last night had been another one with barely any sleep.

Tristan bumps my elbow with his. “Tell us how the matchmaking company is doing. Have you found your ideal woman yet?”

I shake my head. “I still can’t believe I’m the one who got this assignment. Should have never lost that poker game.”

“Well, it’s not like you’re too busy with anything else, are you?” Victor asks, answering emails on his phone. His words are spoken matter-of-factly.

Because it is a fact. I don’t do much else these days, not when I can handle my business from my home office.

“We’re turning it into an app,” I say. “Should have the company turn green in a matter of months.”

“Gutting staff?”

Summer’s face flits through my mind. “No. They have expertise, and they’re a small operation already.”

Tristan nods, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “We’re going global with it, right?”

“There could be something there. Hosting elite singles parties worldwide.”

“Like the Gilded Room?” I ask.

Tristan frowns at me. He doesn’t like it when I mention his past habits, despite the fact that I’d once accompanied him to one of those parties. Especially not in public. I know he doesn’t like it, yet here I am, needling him.

When did I start wanting to watch the world burn?

“In a way,” Tristan says, lowering his voice. “But more… respectable. An app launch with a purpose.”

“Could work.”

Victor clears his throat. “Are you bringing any family members tonight, Anthony? Your brother?”

I stare at him long enough that he looks up from his phone. Ice-blue eyes are cold as they stare into mine. “That’s a no,” he assumes.

“That’s a no,” I repeat.

He shrugs, returning to his phone. “A shame. Your connections could help us.”

Tristan and I watch in silence as he strides off to the event coordinators. They stand straight as pins when he instructs them on what is doubtless minutiae.

“Remind me,” I say, “why we tolerate him again?”

Tristan sighs. “He brings in a shit-ton of money.”

“It’s almost not worth it.”

“Almost not,” he agrees, and turns so he’s standing by my side. We look out over the ballroom. “I’m glad you’re coming tonight.”

I make a noncommittal sound. Hate that he, too, has started to walk on eggshells around me. It’s bad enough whenever I speak to my parents. Bad because I know it’s not my impending blindness they’re careful not to bruise themselves against, not when they have no idea the thorn is there. It’s my temper they’re wary of.

“Glad you don’t have to spend those fifteen minutes alone, you mean.”

He snorts, more to humor me than in any real amusement. The silence between us shifts, deepens, and his voice drops. “You know I care about you, man.”

I close my eyes. “Don’t.”

“I have to,” he says, and his eyes are on mine. “Is everything all right? Truly?”

It’s the first time he’s outright asked. Not just commented on my singleness, or my lack of social life, or my temper. But actually asked me for a response.

The truth rises further up my throat than I’d anticipated. Further than it ever has with my family.

But the thought of what comes after stops me. The questions. The well-meaning advice. The suggestions for a second opinion, for technology, for fucking Braille and guide dogs and how are you feeling’s? The altered behavior. How I’d turn from a friend and business partner to someone you pity.

He’d inevitably ask the question that burned like acid in my stomach whenever I thought about the future. How long do you have left until you can’t work anymore? Until my time as an equal partner at Acture Capital is over, until I become a burden, obsolete to everyone I know.

“I’m great,” I say.

My answer might be dishonest, but the silence between us isn’t. Tristan hears the lie and I know he does.

But he just nods. “All right.”