CHAPTER SIX ARSÈNE

CHAPTER SIX

ARSèNE

“This might not mean jack shit.” Christian inches in front of the billiard table, holding his cue like a rifle. He shoots a perfect cannon. “You’re reading too much into this.”

I’m perched on the recliner behind him at the New Amsterdam. A private gentlemen’s club on the corner of Sixty-Ninth Street. It is the most exclusive club in New York, and therefore relatively empty.

Christian, Riggs, and I have been hitting the place ever since Riggs informed us we could no longer go to the Brewtherhood, our favorite pub, because he’d banged his way through the patrons, the pub goers, and some of the supply providers.

“Hardly.” I flip a page in the astronomy book I’m reading, a pipe tucked in the side of my mouth. “I went to see his estate lawyer today. He couldn’t give me details but said that Grace inherited something of value.”

“That could mean anything. It could mean the good fucking china. When can you see the will?” Christian puts his cue aside to grab his beer and take a swig.

“A physical copy should be sent to me any day now.”

“But why would your dad leave Grace anything?” Riggs frowns, moving around the billiard table to examine where he wants to take his best shot. “Wasn’t she his former best friend’s spunk stain?”

I put the pipe down. “Being a polarizing piece of work runs in the Corbin family. Giving her something he thought I’d want would be the ultimate fuck-you. I don’t think he ever forgave me.”

“For what?” Christian frowns.

“Being born.” I smirk.

“You weren’t the one who shoved his cock into your mom, excuse my French.” Riggs takes a pull of his drink.

“Grudges, like crotchless underwear, make very little sense.” Christian claps my shoulder. “What do you think he left for her?”

The hotel on Fifth Avenue? The yacht? The time-share private jet? The options are limitless. The Corbins are old money. So old you can trace it back to eighteenth-century France. My ancestors ate cake with Marie Antoinette.

“Hard to say.” I toss my book onto a table. “Douglas had a lot of assets and zero scruples. The only thing I know for sure is that he couldn’t have given her too much. We’re not known for our generosity.”

“There’s a silver lining to all of this, though.” Riggs leans against his cue like it’s a cane, ankles crossed, a winning game show–host smile on his face.

I arch an eyebrow in question. “Enlighten me.”

“He’s dead now, and you get to make the final move. To leverage whatever’s in the will to your advantage.”

“Meaning?”

“Whatever she doesn’t get, you’ll dangle in front of her face like a carrot.” Riggs uses his cue to scratch his back, his eyebrows arched. “You wanted to conquer her, didn’t you? This is how you deliver the final blow. How you win.”

I narrow my eyes. “I didn’t peg you for the cunning type.”

“Oh, I can be ruthless.” Riggs waves me off with a chuckle. “I just never give enough damn to show that side of me.”

Huh.

I’m going to make the most out of the situation.

Even if it means putting flames to Douglas Corbin’s legacy.

Three days later it arrives. A signature-required manila envelope. Alfred from reception calls to let me know it is here. I charge out of my apartment barefoot.

“Who delivered it? UPS?” I pluck the folder out of the old man’s fingers.

He shakes his head. “Hand delivered by some important-lookin’ fella in a suit. I hope it works out well for you, son.”

In the elevator, I muster every ounce of my self-control not to rip the brown envelope to shreds. That would be exactly what my father would have wanted. I can’t risk the infinitesimal chance an afterlife does exist, and his spirit is watching me from above.

I flip the bird upward instead, then downward, toward the floor. “My inkling is you ended up in hell, but there’s just enough chance you bribed an angel for a place in heaven.”

When I return to my apartment, I frisbee the envelope atop my office desk, go to the kitchen, make myself a cup of coffee, and then return. I slit the envelope with my letter opener, then neatly pull out the stack of papers, reminding myself internally for the millionth time that I don’t care either way.

But I do. I care, and it’s fucking killing me.

I know my shine would dim in Grace’s eyes if Doug made her as rich as I am. I dangle my pedigree, my prestige, my family’s billions in front of her to keep her. If that goes away, she might leave for good.

And if she leaves for good, I lose. Truly and finally lose our three-decade war.

Here goes nothing.

I skim over the boring parts and dive straight to business. I begin reading through the items.

The majority of the estates, save for the office building in Scarsdale that went to Dad’s business partner, now belongs to me.

The liquid money, bonds, and bank accounts go to me, in their entirety. His investment portfolio is mine now. His time-share private plane too. I even get the cars, antique furniture, and ugly heirlooms.

I get everything he’s ever possessed.

Miranda Langston gets nothing. Not even the canned goods in the pantry. Not even his best fucking regards. Grace doesn’t seem to be getting anything either. What the hell was the estate lawyer talking about? That he left her something of value?

I stare at the file in confusion. What am I missing?

And then I see it. At the very end of the will. Gracelynn Langston has received Calypso Hall. The small theater, a stone’s throw from Times Square, is neglected and in desperate need of refurbishing. If it is functioning at all, it must be a money pit. I suspect the only reason it hasn’t closed thus far is because too many tourists can’t get their hands on Broadway tickets in time and end up catching a show there.

The place isn’t worth the real estate it is occupying. And the best part is it’s a historical building, so whoever is gonna buy it would have to keep it a theater. It is therefore unsellable. Not for a good price, anyway.

Grace isn’t a penny richer than she was before this will.

Great news for me.

A bombshell for her.

I sit back, mulling this over—what was Douglas’s angle? What was he planning to achieve by depriving me of this glorified shithole?

Then it hits me.

Calypso Hall was originally purchased when my mother first moved to the US. I’d overheard the servants say that she was lonely and bored out of her mind during her pregnancy with me. To pacify her, my father decided to gift her something to keep her busy and out of his hair. Since Patrice was an aspiring actress, he bought her this failing theater. He appointed her as the managing director and, in true Corbin fashion, told her to spare no dime in making it a success.

She’d spent days and nights there, fussing over every detail, each stage prop, each show. Some said she actually turned it around and made it profitable for a few months. My father didn’t tell me a lot about her, but he did say that as soon as I was born, she tossed me into the arms of a wet nurse and continued working at the theater, and forgot all about my existence.

I was the only one who’d have you, Ars. It’s you and me, boy. Forever.

One of Douglas’s only saving graces was the fact that he took me on when my mother moved to Manhattan and lived a life without me.

I’m not sure why Dad thought giving Grace something my late, dysfunctional mother once loved would spite me, but he missed the mark by a thousand miles or so.

If anything, giving Grace something sentimental and of no fiscal value just shows how little he knew his stepdaughter.

Smirking, I spin my office chair to face the floor-to-ceiling window. If I got a copy, that means Grace got one too.

She is about to find out that I just became one of the richest men in the country. Minted beyond her wildest dreams. It is going to kill her—but it is going to lure her in too.

And thus begins another game between us. A game of chicken.

Who will cave in first, pick up the phone, and call? Admit defeat? Accept their destiny and finally bow to this sordid arrangement and all that it entails?

It is a good time to remind Grace of something she might’ve forgotten.

I always win.