1. Luke

The darkened windows of my father's estate glared down at me, as if they could smell last night's gin through my pores and disapproved. Even the stone gargoyles appeared especially smug amid the morning fog rolling in off the ocean.

I gave them a mocking salute before shoving open the heavy front door.

Once inside, my reluctant footsteps echoed up into the vaulted ceilings. The decor was a garish combination of old money meets Gothic revival: Victorian antiques, moody war paintings, splashes of gold and granite. Gauzy light flickered from the tarnished wall sconces, barely illuminating the double staircases curving up and away from me on either side like a pair of parentheses, closing me in.

On my eleventh birthday, I'd ridden backward down the left banister, flying off much too fast and crashing into a vase. It shattered instantly and I landed on top of the spiky porcelain pieces, promptly breaking my collarbone. My punishment had been waxing those banisters for the next three months—no easy feat with my right arm in a sling.

I turned toward the east wing just as sunlight sliced through the fog, catching me in the eyes. I winced and dropped my sunglasses back down. Going out with Harriet last night had been a mistake. She'd wrangled a babysitter at the last minute, then spent the evening trying to get me to flirt with the various hot people crowding the Shipwreck.

I didn't usually require much convincing, but my heart wasn't in it. Instead, I'd downed a series of gin and tonics that grew stronger as the night wore on. In the end, it was Harriet who left with the phone number of the pretty bartender.

Meanwhile, I felt like liquid fucking death and was about to subject myself to the mercurial whims of my family.

Portraits hung on the long hallway leading to the library. Most were of my father posing with various dignitaries—politicians and tech billionaires and celebrities, all flocking to the Hamptons for the beachfront privacy Lincoln Beaumont could guarantee with his luxury properties. There were a dozen more pictures of him with my current stepmother, Celine. A handful with my older brother, Preston, including one at his graduation from Wharton.

And at the very end, covered in a film of dust, was a photograph of my mother standing on the beach behind the estate, beaming as she held me as a baby.

I pressed my fingers to my lips, then touched her face. Took a deep breath and turned toward the mahogany doors. My brother shoved them open at the same moment, looking startled to see me and then pissed. Taking me by the arm, he dragged me a few feet away.

"Why are you wearing sunglasses inside?" he hissed. "You look ridiculous."

I flipped them up into my hair and grinned. "And a good morning to you too."

He sniffed. Frowned. "Drunk, really? At your own father's will reading?"

"Give me an ounce of credit. I'm not drunk. I'm severely hungover." I waved back at the library. "No one in there cares if I'm here anyway."

Preston examined me from head to toe, like I was a pesky mosquito daring to fly in his presence. He was the spitting image of Dad, right down to the permanent furrow in his brow. His skin was much paler than mine, which I assumed came from spending every hour of his day in an office. We shared the same mop of wavy black hair, but my blue eyes were our mother's, through and through.

He pulled a stray piece of lint from the blazer I'd tossed on as an afterthought. "After I take over the company, I expect you to quit that surfing job and join me here."

I arched an eyebrow. "Yeah, that's gonna be a big, fat, no thanks from me."

"You can't turn your back on your obligations, Lucas. You have always?—"

"Good seein' you, bro." I brushed past him, clapping him on the shoulder. "Love our little chats."

Inside, the library had been rearranged to pull in extra chairs, a long table full of food and a minibar. I made my way toward the bucket of ice, filling a glass while I scanned the room. Orderly shelves of books climbed from the floor to the ceiling, and large windows opened out to the beach, where cattails waved in the breeze. A small team of my father's lawyers stood ramrod straight at the very front.

I recognized one of them—an extremely cute woman named Courtney who I'd once spent a passionate weekend with a few years back. Her cheeks flushed when she caught me staring. I sent her a wink and the ends of her lips twitched as she fought a smile.

Celine, my stepmother, posed gracefully in the front row, dabbing at her eyes with tissue. Those same eyes kept darting to a large envelope on the table, which I assumed was the will. The same will every single person in this room was hopeful would contain a massive payout just for them. I'd only dragged myself here because the lawyers had begged me to. Dad had likely left me something vaguely dismissive. The oldest shoes in his closet, maybe, or the loose change from his pockets.

My father's protection agents were stationed at each of the doors, their postures rigid, expressions inscrutable. Every person with money in town had at least one bodyguard, and it wasn't odd to see them trailing some up-and-coming movie star while they strolled the beach. But the amount of protection he'd employed was over the top and always had been.

Their cool assessment made my skin itch, brought back too many memories of them catching me when I'd snuck out past curfew. Or attempted to raid the high-end liquor stored in this very library. They'd made it clear from Day One they were here to serve my father, which included pretending not to notice his more monstrous behaviors.

My phone buzzed with a text from Harriet. I know today will make you wanna bungee-back-flip off a bridge, or whatever it is you do for fun. Please know that I love you more than chocolate chip pancakes. He can't hurt you anymore, Luke. And for that, I'm grateful.

A raw tightness had been coiling in my chest since the funeral, only a few days ago. I tapped my finger against the screen, re-reading her words. Then sent, I'm glad he can't hurt you anymore either, sis. Love you more than hot fudge sundaes.

I moved to the back of the room, hoping to slink into a chair and remain unnoticed. But I was intercepted by Kenneth Bromley, the president of The Beaumont Group's board and my father's closest friend. He rose from his seat, his cheeks ruddy and his bald head shining. He was a short white man with a booming voice and a fondness for cigars. Not a fondness for me, however. After my mother died, Kenneth liked to swoop in with what he believed was the extra parental support Preston and I needed. It wasn't loving or supportive. It wasn't even particularly nice.

His eyes narrowed with disdain as he took me in, cataloging every wrinkle and loose thread. "I'm shocked to see you gracing us with your presence, Lucas," he said. "You look a mess."

I shrugged a shoulder. "Guess I'm just full of surprises today."

He huffed. "I didn't get a chance to tell you at the service how pleased Lincoln would have been to see the hundreds of people who came to pay their respects. There was even a line waiting out the church door and halfway down the block. You don't see things like that anymore."

Kenneth shook his head with a satisfied smile. "It just goes to show the power of his impact. Your father was a titan of industry, the most innovative businessman I've ever known. Cape Avalon owes him everything. Your brother will have big shoes to fill when he takes over."

"He sure will," I managed, raising my glass in response, then turning to the back. There was an empty chair, close to an open window. I inhaled the scent of late summer sun, saltwater, the last traces of morning fog. Outside, the waves were a sparkling cobalt blue.

Calmed by the view, I sprawled in my seat and pressed the glass of ice to my pounding forehead. One of the lawyers at the front of the room stepped forward, clearing his throat. Gregory Miller had served as the family's legal counsel since before I was born. He was a thin Black man with salt-and-pepper hair and a serious countenance. The sun glinted off the silver letter opener as he unsealed the will.

The room fell silent.

"Thank you for being here today for the reading of the last will and testament of Lincoln Branson Beaumont," he said. "Public will readings are quite unconventional these days, but Mr. Beaumont insisted it must be done. I will begin with personal financial holdings and assets, followed by those of his business, The Beaumont Group."

I eyed my brother, sitting piously in the front row. Gregory began reading and the air filled with a tangible anticipation. Dad had left large charitable donations for the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where he'd served on the board, and to Harvard's endowment. Locally, he'd given gifts to the Cape Avalon Historical Society, the performing arts center and a nearby food pantry.

The estate we were sitting in was left to Celine. The penthouse in New York and the cabin in Vail, as well as the private jet, the helicopter, and the luxury cars parked in the garage, went to my brother. My right knee shook with each item mentioned. I tried not to think about Harriet and my nieces, the jagged pain on her face when she first revealed what my father had done to her and her mother.

Gregory paused before his next announcement. A few hushed whispers quieted. In the silence came the clinking of ice against glass, the crashing of the waves outside.

"And finally," he continued, "I leave the entirety of the Beaumont Group to my son"—Preston rose from his chair—"Lucas Emerson Beaumont."

A rush of shocked and furious sounds followed the announcement. The entire room turned as one, gaping at me like a bunch of enraged owls. As if I'd been the one to kill my father and not the heart attack he'd had on the treadmill. Preston was already moving toward me, lips curled in a snarl.

Warily, I pushed to stand. "Uh…what was that again?"

"TBG was left to you," Gregory said.

Stunned, I offered the room my most charming smile. "Well…holy fucking shit."