Chapter 2

TWO

Nathan

It's a gorgeous day. A handful of clouds float through an azure sky. Sunlight glimmers over the ocean that's soon to be my backyard and a breeze dances through the air.

I'm too hungover to appreciate any of it.

Damn Dominick Taylor and his ability to short circuit my common sense by dangling wealthy donors in front of me. I court them while he scandalizes their daughters, nieces, and mistresses. It's a mutually beneficial deal…unless I have an early meeting.

I pull up to the site of my future home and curse. Not one, but two cars are parked and waiting, morning light slicing off their windows like knives into my brain.

Any other day I would have gotten here first, but my head was throbbing and the world was spinning and funny thing about that, it tends to slow a person down. I'm better with a chance to process my surroundings before other people arrive. A chance to plan what I want to say, and, most importantly, a chance to plan my escape for when conversation inevitably turns to how cool it must have been to grow up with Collin and Harlow West as parents.

And it was cool, just not for the reasons people expect. They want stories of fame and fortune, of drunken parties with celebrities and gallivanting around the globe in private jets, not solid parenting, a stable home, and the knowledge that our wealth doesn't make us inherently better than anyone.

I kill the engine with a sigh.

I am so not in the mood for this.

The meeting hasn't even started and I'm ready for it to be over, which is a shame because, thanks to Dom and his coaching, I'm actually excited about having this house built. It'll be nothing like my current home, one that suits my needs and nothing more. Nothing extravagant. Everything practical. My old place basically begs the world to see me as normal.

I've been afraid of my money. Afraid to enjoy the finer things in life.

No more. This new house will be an ode to things I never knew I wanted. To the lifestyle the rest of the world thinks I already lead. It's like Dom says, "People love a good show. Why not put on the costume and play the role they expect?"

I park beside an older Honda. Well cared for but limping close to the finish line of usefulness. A woman leans on the hood, nodding emphatically as she talks to herself, a sleek black ponytail bouncing as she bobs her head. Fair skin. A cute nose, pretty smile, luscious curves wrapped in black slacks and a filmy white blouse. Perky gestures punctuate her sentences. She's really giving herself a talking to. Probably about her choice of shoes. Who wears heels to a build site?

I laugh and it feels good, though foreign.

I need to remember to do that more.

Turning that thought into a promise, I swing open my car door, stretching my back and turning my face to the sky before slipping a pair of sunglasses into place. I'd hoped my headache would be better by now. No luck there. A bolt of shame twists in my belly. Nathan West doesn't get sloppy drunk and he sure as hell doesn't show up to meetings hungover.

But that was before my girlfriend cheated on me.

Before I realized people see me as a resource rather than a person.

Before I decided it was time to do whatever it takes to expand the foundation.

So, I drink more than I used to. And I don't trust people to be who they say they are. And I work so much my family worries, especially now that I've caught the attention of Fallon fucking Mae, the gossip and entertainment blogger from hell.

I don't know what I did to that woman, but she hates me.

And after weeks of being her favorite punching bag, the feeling is mutual.

I run a hand over my jaw, inwardly willing away the icepick in my temple as the hint of stubble scritch-scratch against my palm. I'm done drinking like that. I'm done feeling like this.

It's time to stop acting like an asshole and start acting like myself again.

Whatever that means.

The woman leaning on the car beside me is still talking to herself. Her personal pep talk is endearing, though she'd probably die of embarrassment if she caught me staring. Which she does, meeting my eyes as if she can hear my thoughts. She laughs lightly—a quick toss of her head makes that ponytail dance—then smiles and waves like she isn't embarrassed at all.

I used to respect confidence like that. It was one of the things that attracted me to my ex, Blossom. But now, brazen confidence makes me instantly question a person's true motivations. No one's that assured without a hint of narcissism, a dash of sociopathy, or a streak of ulterior motive running through everything they do.

My phone pings.

I give the woman a quick wave, then check my notification as a distraction. There's a message from the architect in the group chat, quickly followed by one from Dom. I dismiss the first—better to talk face to face since we're all here—and open the second.

Dom

Fallon fucking Mae strikes again.

She just posted a new article with pics from last night

You look good

I look better

The girls? Fucking delicious, brother

But head's up

She says you've entered your villain era.

Villain era? Villain era?

Sure. That's what this is. I've dedicated my life to The Reversal of Fortune Foundation, spending my days behind my desk and my nights with Dom, schmoozing the charitably inclined so I can expand our scope of benefits. Dominick gets the girls. I talk to their wealthy parents…

ROF's future isn't just children in need, but all people in need.

But the damn paparazzi always manage to find the one photo, with just the right angle, where it looks like I'm drunkenly hitting on a woman, while in reality the interaction was completely benign. Polite laughter over a cheesy joke. An apology over a spilled drink. That kind of stuff.

Dom

She says you spend all your time with spectacular and dazzling women

She must have us confused

You've got a hard on for rich old men

This is the wrong time to read the damn article. Not as the woman—undoubtedly Mina Blake, my interior designer—heads my way, calling a polite "Good morning, Mr. West!" over the roof of her car.

Distracted, I return the greeting as another text comes in.

Dom

She even insinuates you're Bruce Wayne, building a lair out on a secluded cove

Which isn't a bad look for you

We can work with this

Villains are popular nowadays

A choked laugh grinds up my throat. A lair…

That woman has no clue who I really am.

My phone rings with a call from Dom as Ms. Blake crosses in front of her car to introduce herself, hand extended, an unsure smile casting shadows in eyes so blue they put the sky to shame.

Seriously. How does anyone have eyes that blue? Especially with hair so dark and silky it's like midnight melting…

Fuck. Thoughts like that are off limits. I'm not doing the dating thing. Hell, I'm not even doing the one-night fling thing, especially not with someone who's clearly hurting for money. Not after Blossom.

And if all that wasn't enough to get me to hard fucking pass, she's my interior designer. Business and pleasure do not mix, never mind my newly appointed villain status.

"I'm Mina Blake and I?—"

"I know who you are," I bark as I decline Dom's call, then immediately feel bad. It's not Ms. Blake's fault Dom can't stand to be ignored. It's not her fault Fallon fucking Mae needs to get her head out of my ass. It's not her fault I'm too hungover for any of this. I hold up a hand in apology. "I'm sorry, I?—"

My phone rings again, another call from Dom. He won't give up until I hear what he has to say. If there's any hope of focusing on this meeting?—

"I have to take this." I storm out of earshot from Mina before answering the call. "What?" I grind out through a jaw so tight I'm lucky my teeth don't crack.

"You read it yet?"

"No time. I'm ten minutes late to my meeting to plan the Bat Cave."

"Come on. You have to admit, that's pretty funny." Dom laughs to prove his point.

"There's nothing funny about being serially misrepresented by this woman. Villain era? Really?"

"You can't let stuff like that get to you, brother. You know what they say about publicity, and Fallon fucking Mae has that covered for you." Dom sucks his teeth. "You meet your dream team yet?"

"I was just incredibly rude to my interior designer, if that counts. Thank you for that, by the way."

"What's she like?"

I pause and glance over my shoulder to find Mina glaring daggers at my back…and talking to herself again. She doesn't seem to be a Nathan fan, though she does have this gutsy, effervescent quality to her. Like she never met a situation she couldn't find her way out of. She seems a lot like someone I'd like to know better. But Dom doesn't care about that. I give him the details he's fishing for.

"Cheap clothes. Cheaper car. Pretty face. Great body. She's talented too," I add, to mitigate the guilt of reducing a human being down to a superficial checklist of finances and physical attributes.

"So, she's in a bad financial situation, not afraid of work, and she's hot. Basically your Kryptonite."

"You're mixing your superheroes. I'm Batman, not Superman, remember?"

"What you need to remember is don't date down . If you learn one thing from Blossom, let it be that women like them see you as a paycheck. Not a person. A paycheck."

That is exactly the lesson I learned from my ex. Hence my resolve to focus on work.

"Not everyone is Blossom."

"More are than aren't. Mark my words. Your hot little interior designer will say something about ‘a man like you' or ‘a person in your position.' She'll make it clear she sees you as other within the first ten minutes of your meeting."

Blossom used to say it all the time. A man like you should get what he wants . Like I'm somehow better than the rest of the world. Why? Because I have money?

It felt like a manipulation. Like she was trying to pull a sleight of hand by soothing an ego that doesn't exist.

"Gotta go," I say to Dom. "Thanks for the heads up about the article."

I end the call and shove my phone in my pocket, then stroll towards a man in tight jeans and a T-shirt that begs someone to acknowledge his gym time. The man named "One to Watch" by Architectural Digest for five years running glances up as I approach.

He shakes my hand. Firm grip. Likable smile. "Benjamin Bancroft. It's great to finally meet you in person. As I said in the group chat, this site is brimming with potential."

"The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Bancroft," I reply as my phone vibrates like a goddamn buzzsaw in my pocket. Probably my family complaining about me dragging our name through the mud when they really should be tracking down that awful journalist and talking to her.

I refocus on Bancroft, slipping off my sunglasses and hooking them into the neck of my T-shirt. "The body of your work speaks for itself," I say, mirroring his smile despite my raging headache. "I can't wait to hear what you and Ms. Blake have in mind for my new home."

My phone stops alerting me to texts and switches to calls as Ms. Blake arrives beside me. Her hand's extended. Her smile is plucky, like she refuses to be ignored, kind of like whoever the hell is blowing up my phone.

"Mina Blake," she says and damn it, if my phone doesn't stop ringing, I'm going to throw it in the ocean. "It's an honor to meet you, Mr. West. And yeah, this site is amazing."

I pull out my phone, glare at the slew of notifications, and silence the damn thing before I shake the woman's hand. "Ms. Blake."

She's beautiful.

I mean, you know, in an everyday kind of way. Softer than the rail thin socialites Dom flirts with night after night. Ebony hair glistens like onyx in the sunlight. She's overdressed for the occasion in a pair of tailored black pants and a delicate white top that hugs her chest every time the wind whispers through. The outfit looks worn, though well cared for, like her car. Money's tight for Mina Blake. Her face is guarded, but her lips twist into a mischievous smile when she glances at Benjamin.

"I am so excited to work with someone as talented as Mr. Bancroft. Especially on a project like this. This is basically a dream come true for me." Mina's eyes meet mine, sparkling with enthusiasm, which should be a point in her favor, but after my conversation with Dom, I'm afraid they're sparkling with dollar signs.

"You mean a project with an unlimited budget." I shoot her a scathing glance that's really meant for the Blossoms of the world, then swallow hard, preparing an apology, but Mina speaks first.

"An unlimited budget will let us flex our creative muscles to your heart's content." The temperature of her voice drops several degrees. "A man like you deserves to get what he wants."

A man like me…

Fuck. Dom was right. Five minutes of conversation and there it is.

I can't trust Mina Blake.