“Jesus.” I rein in my temper with an effort, because I don’t want Emma to see me angry. I glance at the bookshelf in the corner, but it’s more of the same. There isn’t even a copy of Harry Potter in here. “You know what, it’s so late that maybe we should save story time for tomorrow night.”
She pouts. “That’s not fair. Mom promised me a story.”
“Yeah, well. I got something better.” I rifle in the pocket of my jacket for my phone and wave it in her face. “I’ll let you listen to my newest playlist until you fall asleep. But you have to go to bed right now.”
“Deal.” Emma reaches for the phone with eager hands. “You always find the best stuff.”
The smooth vocals of AlunaGeorge play from the tinny speaker. “Turn it down to low, and I’m coming back to get it in an hour, whether you’re asleep or not.”
“In an hour, you might be asleep.”
“Not a chance,” I reply with a grim smile, but she’s already twisted onto her side and doesn’t see it. I’ll absolutely be awake, because I almost never sleep. It’s a good night if I get an hour before waking up again. “Eyes closed, or I’m taking it back.”
She positions the phone on the pillow next to her and then dutifully closes her eyes. “Night.”
I lean forward to kiss her gently on the forehead. “Night, munchkin.”
“Don’t call me that,” she grouses, voice already heavy with sleep. “I’m not a little kid anymore.”
“You are as long as I have something to say about it.”
Eventually, I’ll break Emma just like I have everything else good that has been in my life.
But I’ll put off the inevitable for as long as I possibly can.
Nine
When I come out into the hallway, Giselle is waiting for me with a sour expression on her face.
“What were you doing in there?” she asks, more demand than question.
“Tucking Emma into bed. You know, that thing you promised to do.”
I have a secret suspicion that Giselle only gave birth to Emma as a way to secure her access to the Cortland family money. Even in the case of separation or divorce, the mother of an heir can still claim a piece of the pie.
The insecurity that wraps around her is as obvious as the over-the-top gown she hasn’t taken off yet. Another one of my talents, seeing the things that people desperately try to hide.
Or maybe I’m being a little too uncharitable.
Giselle waves away her broken promise like a fly she can bat out of the air. “I’ll make it up to her tomorrow.”
Yeah, no.
“I don’t give a shit what you do.” I push past her, but her hands come up to grip my arm, nails digging in just a touch too hard. “Get off me.”
She lets me pull my arm away, likely because she doesn’t want to ruin her manicure. “Your father wants to talk to you.”
Duke Cortland isn’t much for sleep, either, but unlike me he usually tries to get something constructive done in the wee hours of the night. The old man has always been focused almost exclusively on his work.
This town isn’t going to run itself, after all.
But years of chronic insomnia are starting to show in the sagging lines of his face, the growing paunch around his middle and how much slower he moves compared with even just a few years ago.
My own bad habits haven’t caught up with me. At least, not yet.
Duke is sitting at the desk in his study when I shove open the French doors. The room smells faintly of cigar smoke, but there isn’t one in his hand when I step inside. He won’t bring out the good stuff when Giselle is around, because she complains that his Cubans smell like dog fart. A decanter of brandy is on the table next to a full glass.
“What?” I drop into the armchair across from him without waiting to be invited. “I need to get to bed.”
“Don’t take that tone with me, boy. And lying in bed smoking a joint isn’t the same thing as sleeping.”
“Vaping, not smoking,” I correct him, voice laconic as I lean back in the chair. “Gets the job done faster.”
Duke just shakes his head as he shuffles the papers on his desk. “One of these days, something is going to come along to wipe that smirk off your face, and you’re never going to see it coming.”
“Doubt it.” The relationship I have with my father is complicated, to say the least. For most of my childhood, there has been one form of benign neglect or another. I think he planned for Giselle to raise me after my mother died, but that’s what happens when you don’t know who you’re marrying. “What did you need?”
“Something that you have to see.” He pushes the sheaf of papers across the table, knowing my eyes will be drawn to the highlighted portion on the photocopied pages.
“What is this?”
“A copy of the prenuptial agreement I had with your mother. I’ve been trying to get my hands on the originals, but it’s under lock and key at the only law firm in town I can’t buy off.”
“Wait a minute.” I spread the pages across the table, trying to make sense of the legalese. “This makes it look like she brought the lion’s share of the assets into your marriage. That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It does.” Duke looks more tired than I’ve ever seen him. “This is something I’ll deny if you ever breathe a word of it, but the Cortlands have been hemorrhaging money for years. Everything but the house was mortgaged to the hilt. Your grandfather made more than a few bad deals in his time, unfortunately. When your mother and I agreed to marry, her family’s fortune saved us from bankruptcy. But the money came with conditions.”
My real mother was born an Abbot, well-respected in Deception, but not one of the founding families. Like
