CHAPTER TWO ARSÈNE

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.

“I guess we should go say hi.” Grace appears like she’d rather vomit in her own mouth than do so.

I don’t particularly want to kiss the ring of the Mary Sue who cried on her balcony and gave me the stink eye, but I also don’t want Grace to whine about me not being a team player.

We approach the Ashcrofts as much as we can. Women are flocking around Winnifred, demanding her cookie recipe, while Paul possessively wraps his arm around her. Grace shoulders her way into their sphere and air-kisses Paul’s cheeks.

“Hello there. How nice to see you two.” She moves on to kiss Winnie’s cheeks, squeezing her arms. “Why, you look stunning, Winnifred!”

She does not think this woman looks stunning, with her tacky high street dress and the striped heels she probably got on sale at Walmart.

“So do you, Grace.” Winnie’s smile is genuine and sincere. “You look like you could be in a movie.”

Maleficent, maybe.

“This is my stepbrother, Arsène Corbin. We do a lot of business together, so we’ve grown quite close in recent years.” Grace motions to me like I’m an auction piece in a fundraising ceremony. I smirk. The overexplaining always gives her away. If she simply introduced me as her stepbrother, maybe half Manhattan wouldn’t be whispering behind her back about my fucking her on the reg.

I reach to shake Paul’s hand. He beams. “Your reputation precedes you, Mr.?Corbin. How’s life outside of the trading world?”

“As unfulfilling as life inside it.” I withdraw my dry, rough palm from his sweaty one. “I keep busy, though, investing in more tangible assets.”

“Yes. I heard. You purchased a delivery and freight company, didn’t you?” Paul strokes his chin. “Very smart, in an era where online shopping is booming.”

He looks like the human answer to oatmeal. Privileged, bland, and boring. I’ve chewed through enough men like Paul in my life to know his aftertaste. He is the kind of guy to cheat on his wife with his secretary as soon as she hits her midthirties. The sort of man who keeps tabs on men like me to see what we’re doing, where we’re investing, in order to get ideas for himself.

“This is my wife, Winnie.” Paul kisses the petite woman’s shoulder. She turns her full attention to me, and finally, I can see it. The reason Paul decided she was worth more than a night between the sheets. She is, objectively speaking, radiant. Her skin is rich and glowing, her eyes bright and curious, her smile infectious and reassuring. She is the kind of woman people say lights up the room. Grace, by contrast, is the kind of woman who makes the temperature drop to arctic level anywhere she enters. My heart included.

Fortunately, Winnifred’s brand of girl next door doesn’t appeal to me.

“Hello!” Winnie flings her arms around me in an inappropriate half hug. Either she doesn’t know how to hold a grudge or she doesn’t recognize me from the balcony.

I step away from her embrace immediately. Hopefully she is not carrying any cattle diseases.

Paul snickers, obviously finding his wife’s lack of formality adorable. “Where’re your seats, Langston-Corbins?”

“Says here fifteen and sixteen.” Grace holds up our invitation cards.

“We’re nineteen and twenty, so I guess you’ll have to tolerate us a little longer,” Paul says brightly.

Whoopee-fucking-yay.

As the evening develops, so does my suspicion that Winnifred is, in fact, knocked up. She doesn’t touch a drop of alcohol, opting for sparkling water all night. She doesn’t enjoy the cold meats platter and stays away from those puffing on vapes and cigars. Her frequent trips to the restroom also make me wonder if there’s someone cozily napping directly on her bladder.

Grace is busy sticking her tongue in the right people’s buttholes. Figuratively speaking, fortunately. She is discussing work with Chip, Paul, and a guy named Pablo, who is a head trader. The three men try to lure me into talking shop, but I dodge politely. As all exotic creatures, I do not particularly want to be poked through the bars of a cage with questions about my insider trading accusations. And I’ve no doubt everyone here would like to hear about what I did to only get slapped on the wrist.

“Not the bragging type, ah, Corbin?” Paul nods understandably after yet another laconic answer from me about my preferred retail stocks. “Winnie’s the same. She doesn’t like to speak about her job at all.”

“That’s because I don’t currently have one.” Winnie takes a sip of her sparkling water, her cheeks tinting pink.

I turn to face her. A flicker of interest ignites inside me. She does more than play housewife? That’s a refresher.

“What do you do, Winnifred?”

“Graduated from Juilliard this year. Now I’m just .?.?. between auditions, I guess?” She lets out an embarrassed laugh, her southern drawl almost comic. “Can’t say I’m busier than a moth in a mitten. It’s hard, making it in the Big Apple. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?”

“Or weakens you.” I shrug. “Depends on the ‘what’ factor, really.”

She stares at me wide eyed, the simple little thing. “You do have a point there.”

“Do you think you have what it takes to succeed in New York?” I ask.

“Would I be there otherwise?” And there’s that smile again. The one crammed with all the hope and goodness in the world.

“People come to New York for many reasons. Most of them aren’t kosher. How’d you meet Paul?”

With each question, it feels like I’m undressing her. Publicly. Deliberately. And like all naked people in public settings, she is starting to squirm, shifting in her chair now.

“Well.” She clears her throat. “I—”

“Waited on his table at Delmonico’s?” I take a wild guess. Could be Le Bernardin too. She is a solid eight. Maybe even a nine, in the right dress.

“Actually, I was a fairy at his niece’s fourth birthday party.” She purses her lips into a thin line, frowning.

“A what?” I would splutter my wine if she was worth it. “My apologies, I didn’t catch that.”

I did, but this is too good not to be repeated. Timeless American entertainment. The textbook version of Poor Girl Meets Moron Rich Guy.

Paul is deep in conversation with Pablo and Grace, oblivious to the fact I’m grilling his wife like she’s a prime steak.

Winnifred straightens her spine and looks me in the eye in an attempt to show she isn’t scared of me. “I was a fairy character at his niece’s birthday party. I glitter-painted his face. He couldn’t stop laughing, and was totally on board, even when I drew Tinkerbell on his cheek. I realized he’d make good father material. So I gave him my number.”

I bet the fact he probably showed up to that party in a vintage car that’s worth more than her family’s home didn’t hurt his chances either.

“No one else stood a chance after that.” Paul, withdrawing himself from Pablo and Grace’s conversation, nuzzles his nose into the crook of her neck, giving it an open-mouthed kiss. “She’s mine for life now, aren’t you, baby doll?”

I bet he thinks this sounded romantic and not like a commercial for a mail-order bride.

“Do I detect a twang, Winnifred?” I ask innocently.

Grace shoots me a stop-it-this-minute look. I’ve always had the habit of playing with my food; only now, the person I’m chewing is her boss’s brain-dead wife.

“I’m from Tennessee.” Winnie swallows visibly again. “Just outside Nashville. A town called Mulberry Creek.”

“Home of the best apple pie in all fifty states?” I smirk into my wineglass.

“Actually, we’re more known for our biscuits. Oh! And inbred tendencies, of course.” She gives me a saccharine smile.

So she does fight back. Didn’t see this one coming.

“C’mon, baby doll. No need to be sarcastic.” Paul flicks her chin.

If he calls her baby doll one more time, I am going to break my wineglass and stab his neck with a shard.

“What made you move to New York?” Don’t ask me why I keep picking on this woman, because I have no fucking clue. Boredom? Sociopathic tendencies? Your guess is as good as mine.

She looks me dead in the eye and says, “Why, all the big, blinding lights, of course. Sex and the City too. I thought, gee-oh-my, living there must be just like in them glitzy films. Oh, and don’t forget that Alicia Keys song. Huge factor. Huge.”

Grace stomps on my foot under the table, hard enough to break a bone. Her knee smashes against the surface, making utensils dance in place. Paul jumps back a little, surprised. Too late. I’m too far gone to care. Winnifred Ashcroft is the only thing remotely entertaining about this event, and feasting on her self-esteem is tastier than eating any other dish served here tonight.

“Winnie’s a bit sensitive about being an out-of-towner.” Paul pats his wife’s head like she’s an adorable Chihuahua.

“It is like Sex and the City, though, isn’t it?” I ask her pleasantly, as Grace’s heel digs deeper into my loafer in warning, smashing my toes to dust. “You found your Mr.?Big.”

“Paul’s more of a Mr.?Medium, if the glimpse in the urinal was any indication,” Chip jokes. Everyone laughs. Everyone but Winnie, who stares at me, wondering what she did to deserve this.

You asked me to care. Back on the balcony. Now you’ll see just how careless I am with people’s feelings.

“Okay, Arsène, time to change the topic.” Grace smiles apologetically, yanking at my sleeve. “People are here to have fun, not get interrogated.”

I know Grace is not doing this out of the goodness of her heart. She is a savvy woman who wants to get ahead. Right now I’m pissing off her boss and his baby doll.

“Actually, I believe it’s my turn to ask the questions.” Winnie tips her chin up.

I sit back, watching her with open pleasure. She’s like that little ladybug spinning on its axis. Adorably desperate. Too bad I’m dead set on Grace, or I’d sample her for a few months. Paul wouldn’t even be an obstacle in my way. These type of women go for the highest bidder, and I have the deeper pocket.

“Fire away,” I say.

“What do you do?” she asks.

“Jack-of-all-trades.”

“Doing what?”

Shrugging, I drawl, “Anything that makes money.”

“I’m sure you can be more specific than that. This could mean weapons dealer.” She folds her arms over her chest.

Fine. Let’s play.

“Equities, corporations, currencies, commodities. Though I’m on a recent ban for insider trading. Two years.”

All eyes shift to us. I’ve yet to address the subject in this room, having inherited from my father the unsavory trait of never giving people what they want.

“Why?” she demands.

“Market manipulation charges.” Before she asks what that means, I explain, “They say I misrepresented material to investors, among other misconducts.”

“Did you do it?” Winnifred holds my gaze, looking childlike in her innocence.

With the whole room watching, I swipe my tongue over my bottom lip, smirking. “I have one issue, Winnifred.”

“Just the one?” She blinks innocently before relenting. “And what’s your issue?”

“I never play to lose.”

Her eyes, as pretty as bluebonnets, are still on mine. An uncharitable thought crosses my mind. She’d probably look ten times better in Grace’s aquamarine earrings. Seeing her in nothing but those earrings would bring me a lot of joy. Oh well. Maybe Grace will misbehave and dump me soon, and I’ll take up a quick affair with this little thing to remind my stepsister that I’m still a man with needs.

“And people here accept you?” Winnifred looks around us, surprised. “Even though they know you did something bad and undermined their trade?”

“The dog barks and the caravan moves on.” I lounge back. “Even people who care stop caring once sentiments translate into action. Humans are notoriously selfish creatures, Winnifred. This is why the Russians invaded Ukraine. Why the Afghans were left to fend for themselves. Why there’s a humanitarian crisis in Yemen, Syria, Sudan, and you don’t even hear about it. Because people forget. They get mad, and move on.”

“I care.” She bares her teeth at me like a wounded animal. “I care about all those things, and just because you don’t doesn’t mean that others are as bad. You’re a dangerous man.”

“Dangerous!” Grace shrieks, forcing out a laugh. “Oh, no. He’s just a kitten. We all are, in the family. Harmless number crunchers.” She fans herself, blabbering. “Which I understand isn’t as exciting as showbiz. You know, my dad owns a theater. I used to go there all the time as a kid. I found it totally charming.”

While it is true that Douglas owns a theater, Grace just pretended to like it growing up to earn his approval. Theater is a low-margin field. Gracelynn only likes things that make money.

The diversion mission is a success. Winnifred averts her attention to Grace and asks her questions about Calypso Hall. Grace answers enthusiastically.

My phone begins to ring. I tug it out of my pocket. The area code says Scarsdale, but I don’t recognize the number. I hit decline. Chip tries to ask me something about Nordic Equities.

My phone rings again. Same number. I hit decline.

Get the hint.

Damn scammers and their ability to use numbers in your area code.

The next call arrives from a different number, still in New York. I’m about to turn the thing off when Grace rests a hand over my thigh and says through gritted teeth, while listening to Winnifred gushing about Hamilton, “Could be the jeweler. About the necklace you bought me from Botswana. Answer it.”

The phone rings a fourth time. Standing up, I excuse myself and amble out of the restaurant’s door and to the balcony overlooking the harbor. I swipe the green button.

“What?”I spit out.

“Arsène?” a voice asks. It is old, male, and vaguely familiar.

“Unfortunately. Who’s this?”

“It’s Bernard, your father’s assistant.”

I check the time on my watch. It is four in the afternoon in New York. What can my father possibly want from me? We rarely talk. I make the trip to Scarsdale a few times a year to show my face and discuss family business—his idea of bonding, I suppose—but other than that, we’re virtual strangers. I don’t exactly hate him, but I don’t like him either. The feeling, or lack of it, I’m sure, is mutual.

“Yes, Bernard?” I ask impatiently, parking my elbows on the railings.

“I don’t know how to say this .?.?.” He trails off.

“Fast and without mincing words would be my preferable method,” I suggest. “What is it? Is the old man getting hitched again?”

Ever since divorcing Miranda, my father has been making it a point to have another woman on his arm every couple of years. He doesn’t make any promises anymore. Never settles down. An affair with a Langston woman is the fastest cure to believing in the notion of love.

“Arsène .?.?.” Bernard gulps. “Your father .?.?. he’s dead.”

The world continues spinning. People around me are laughing, smoking, drinking, enjoying a perfectly mild Italian summer night. A plane passes in the sky, penetrating a fat white cloud. Humanity is completely unfazed by the news that Douglas Corbin, the fifth-richest man in the USA, has passed away. And why should it be? Mortality is only an insult to rich people. Most accept it with sad resignation.

“Is he, now?” I hear myself say.

“He had a stroke this morning. The housekeeper found him unresponsive at about ten thirty, after knocking on his door several times. I know it’s a lot to digest, and I probably should’ve waited until you got here to tell you—”

“It’s fine.” I cut him off, running my palm over my face. I’m trying to figure out what I’m feeling right now. But the truth is .?.?. I don’t feel anything at all. Some oddness, yes. The same sensation you get when something you’ve been used to—a piece of furniture—is suddenly gone, leaving an empty space. But there is no agony, no gut-piercing sorrow. Nothing to indicate I’ve just lost the only living relative I have in this world.

“I should head back,” I hear myself say. “Cut the trip short.”

“That would be ideal.” Bernard exhales. “I know it’s very sudden. Again, I’m sorry.”

I put him on speaker and withdraw the phone from my ear, scrolling through the next available flights. There is one two hours from now. I can still make it.

“I’ll text you my flight details. Send someone over to pick us up.”

“Of course,” he says. “Will Miss?Langston be joining you?”

“Yes,” I say. “She’ll want to be there.”

She’s closer to Dad than I am, the little suck-up. Visits him every other weekend. The fact that Bernard knows that she is with me tells me everything I need to know—Dad knew damn well that I was screwing my stepsister and gossiped about it with the help. Funny, he never mentioned this to me. Then again, the Langston women have been a sore subject for us since he kicked me out to attend boarding school.

I make a pit stop in the unisex restroom before getting into the restaurant. Unzip and take a leak. When I get out of the cubicle, I hear a faint voice coming from behind one of the doors. A bone-chilling, feral cry. Like someone is wounded in there.

Not your problem,I remind myself.

I roll my sleeves up, wash my hands, as the wails grow louder, more erratic.

I can’t just leave now. What if someone gave birth to a baby and left it to drown in the toilet? While no one could accuse me of having a conscience, drowning newborns isn’t a thing I’m happy to get behind.

I turn off the faucet and make my way back to the cubicle.

“Hello?” I lean a shoulder against it. “Who’s there?”

The weeping, which turns into little hiccups, does not subside, but there is no answer either.

“Hey,” I try, softer now. “Are you okay? Should I call someone?”

Maybe the police? Or someone else who actually cares?

No answer.

I’m running out of patience, and my nerves are shot as it is. My whole body is reeling with the news about Dad.

“Look, either you answer or I kick down the door.”

The cries are harder now. Uncontrollable. I take a step back for momentum and kick the door open. It flies off its hinges, slamming against the large cubicle wall like a casualty in a gory action film.

But I don’t find a baby or an injured animal.

Just one Winnifred Ashcroft, curled over the toilet tank in her red dress, makeup smeared all over her face, drinking wine straight from the bottle. Her hair is a mess, and she is shaking like a leaf.

Isn’t she pregnant?

Poor Oatmeal Paul. Can’t even get himself a sensible trophy wife.

Tears run down her cheeks. She put a good dent on that bottle. It’s half-finished. We both stare at one another silently, engaged in some fucked-up contest. Only now, it’s clear she doesn’t expect me to ask her what’s wrong.

“Are you in trouble?” I spit out, asking mainly because it is my civic duty. “Is he hurting you? Abusing you?”

She shakes her head. “You’ll never be half the man he is!”

There goes my lifelong mission.

I glance around us, waiting for her to pick herself up and evacuate the toilet. She’s the most bizarre creature I’ve ever met.

“My husband is amazing,” she stresses, getting riled up, like I’m the one crying into a bottle of alcohol atop a germ colony.

“Your husband is as unremarkable as my least favorite pair of socks, but that’s not a conversation I’m interested in having now,” I counter. “Now, if there’s nothing I can do—”

“Yes, there’s nothing. Even if I did need help, I wouldn’t turn to you for it. You’re stuck up higher than a light pole.” She wipes her nose with the back of her arm, sniffling. “Beat it.”

“Now, now, Winnifred. I thought all southern belles were sweet and agreeable.”

“Go away already!” She jumps to her feet and slams the door in my face, or whatever’s left of the unhinged door, anyway.

For a brief moment, I contemplate giving her my number, in case Paul does abuse her. But then I remember my plate is full of my own shit to deal with, including Doug’s death, Grace’s wishy-washy attitude, my career, and so forth.

I turn around and walk away.

To tell Gracelynn Langston that Stepdaddy Dearest has finally kicked the bucket.