31. Hayden

THIRTY-ONE

HAYDEN

Money looks good on everyone.

Juliana, though? She's in a league of her own.

I suppress a groan as she leans over the lounge's balcony, neglecting the fact that it's four stories high, and watches the winner's circle through a small pair of binoculars. Her dress is spectacular—a solid shade of lilac, stopping just above her knees. It's classy yet strapless, and cinches tightly around her figure.

I don't care how much it cost me.

She needs ten more.

"That's a lot of flowers." She leans farther, spiking my adrenaline.

I glance toward the winner's circle. She's not wrong, though there aren't any more than usual this year. Primarily roses. Hedges curve around the circle, forming a horseshoe shape that contains a flock of photographers snapping photos of the horse prancing around, as if it knows its accomplishment. A blanket of roses drapes across its backside, behind the jockey holding an enormous bouquet, mounted atop a saddle labeled with the number eight. Not two, as I had hoped.

"I should've guessed," I grumble.

"It was the practical choice." She laughs, her body convulsing against the railing.

Another wave of fear jolts me, prompting me to loop my arm around her waist. "That's enough." She gasps quietly, as I pull her from the ledge.

A giggle escapes her when she meets my eye. "Now, Hayden. I would've never assumed you had a fear of heights."

My lips press firmly. I don't, but it seems with you, I do. "You never know. These railings have seen better days." I shrug, appraising them, before holding back a grimace. They're wrought iron and appear freshly polished.

She hums, like I have chicken written across my forehead.

I clear my throat. "I guess I'll have to adopt your genius betting strategy next year. Just pick based on the names."

"That does seem practical."

I cringe. Oh my god, she's relentless.

She busts up laughing, the pleasant sound floating across the open air. When she peers through the binoculars again, this time at a safe distance that my heart can handle, I lock eyes with my father over her shoulder... and there's no missing the disdain in them.

He didn't appreciate our celebration at the end of the race. Said we made a spectacle of ourselves—no, wait. Correction. That I made a spectacle, and that it reflected poorly on our family. Nothing new there. I could blink the wrong way, and he'd have something to say about it. I've always known that, from a young age.

So... why am I getting worked up, just holding his stare? I can usually brush him off easily, but right now, as every second drags on, the more I'm tempted to go over there and smack that look off his face. Our connection doesn't last long, though, broken when he swings his focus back to his wife, Clara.

Wife. I nearly laugh.

I'll never understand why he insists on marriage, when he can't hold one down for longer than three years. I'd pity Clara, if she wasn't just in it for the money—and I can confidently say that, without having spoken to her for longer than ten minutes. Sure, sometimes, true love can exist despite thirty-year age gaps, but... come on. It's him, of all people . And Clara, I just know her type. Stuck up. Power hungry, in her own unique way. Although, besides her upgraded lifestyle, I'm unsure what's in it for her, long term, since she's well aware of his marriage history and signed an iron-clad prenup.

And I mean, extra iron clad. God forbid another Sylvia comes along and rakes in half my father's money. After the divorce settlement, he nearly died from a stroke outside the courthouse—that's no exaggeration. Warren Kingston would choose money and power over the air he breathes, every single time.

Which is why his marriages don't last long. He gets bored. Tempted by another brush with power, or a different woman, entirely—contrary to that of his loyal appearance.

I study him closely, as he meanders about the balcony. Flaunting his wife on one arm, he introduces her to everyone he comes across with a proud smile, including her son, Sebastian, who holds his hand.

I look away as inevitable envy flares within me.

I hate him for making me jealous of a six-year-old boy, for the explanations springing into my mind... It's all an act. He's appeasing her, slipping on a fake mask while favoring her son, just to get between her legs tonight—and tomorrow night, and so on, for a year or two. He doesn't actually care about her or that boy. That innocent, blameless child, who deserves a real, loving father figure in his life.

I loathe every one of these thoughts. Not because I know they're true and are more certain than the sun rising tomorrow morning. But because somewhere deep down inside of me, in a place mangled and charred and unrecognizable, there's a part that wants them to be true.

I'd wonder if he was purposefully provoking my jealousy, but that would imply he actually cared enough about me to do so.

"Oh my gosh! Are those the owners?!" Juliana's voice reels me back to reality. She snickers. "They're wearing cowboy hats with suits on."

I smirk. When I said she was cute, I meant it. "Those are the trainers, most likely. A lot of horse owners are just regular people looking for investments."

"You mean rich people."

"Sure, yeah, same thing. Most of them are here, in this lounge—or watched from our section."

She swivels around, shaking her head. "Hayden, Hayden, Hayden... Only you would call thirty-grand derby tickets a regular-person thing. Most people aren't billionaires, you know."

"Hey, now. I know we're in Billionaires' Row and all, but not everyone here reaches that status. Actually, I'd say most are just millionaires."

"Just millionaires?" she scoffs.

As a trail of grumbles breezes past her lips, I bite mine to keep from laughing. Nevertheless, I can't help but add, "Or they're celebrities. Well, a lot of them are both, but... You get what I'm saying."

"What??? I haven't seen any... well... I guess I've been focused on the race." Her eyes sweep across the balcony, and sure enough, in no time at all, they pause, narrowing. "Wait... is that...?"

I trace the line of her gaze, finding an eccentric-looking man at the end. "Ahh, yes, it is."

"Holy shit."

I grin—she rarely cusses.

"I-I just listened to his new album last week."

"Oh, yeah? I did, too, along with the rest of the country."

"Wow..."

I appraise her in all her astonishment, loving every bit of it. In fact, I'd like to see some more. "You wanna meet him?"

"What?! No!" Her eyes widen like a startled deer, nerves bursting about her.

"Are you sureeeee?"

"No, no!" She huffs and puffs. "I'm good, right here."

"Okaaayyy. Tell me if you change your mind."

Not another minute passes, and she's gaping at yet another person. "Oh my... don't tell me..."

"Mhmm," I confirm. "That's her."

"No way... I love her movies! And that show—the one that just came out. I'm blanking on the name..." She snaps her fingers. "Ahh, whatever. But she's amazing in it, and..."

She trails off, explaining some drama series I know nothing about, before she spots another celebrity, which sprouts a whole other tangent. Even so, I soak up each of her words—I mean, actually listen. Not sighing and nodding, thinking about something else, as I would with any other girl. And the longer she rambles, I start to realize something. Well, admit is more accurate, because it's always been there...

There's something between us.

Beyond physical attraction.

And it's mutual.

I feel it. She feels it.

Although, she's probably still in denial, as I have been, for obvious reasons. We're polar opposites. Jeremy's her brother. My promiscuous nature... Honestly, I think we could work those things out. I could change. I am changing, as a result of being around her, even if a part of me opposes the transformation. It's just a fact.

But there's also another fact.

"You deserve someone better," I whisper.

Her rambles stop abruptly. For a moment, she wears the same expression—happy, carefree, as if she didn't hear me at all. Until her smile falters, and I know she did. I wait, feeling sick, as I anticipate her what? or why would you say that? or perhaps the classic what do you mean? The feigned innocence she loves to play, myself included.

It never comes.

She only stares, holding my gaze with a strong, almost defiant grip.

"Don't go any further down this road. Not with someone like me."

"And why not?"

I nearly stumble backwards. I knew it. I knew it, down to my core, but hearing her not deny it... "I'm not good for you, Jule—" My throat burns. "Juliana."

That's right. Juliana. No more Jules. Don't make this any harder on her than necessary.

Hurt flickers across her features, before it's squashed by fire. She huffs. "How very vague of you, Hayden. Is this about... what happened in the hot tub? I know we said it was just physical, but if you're more interested in Olivia, you can just say tha—"

"I don't give a fuck about Olivia."

Her eyes bulge, and fuck can I not unsee the satisfaction in them, and the way her lips twitch at the corners... Sweet Juliana, she wants me all for herself, a possessive liking we share in common—something I'll never be able to shake, unlike her beloved nickname.

You're going to have to. For her sake.

"So... This is about the necklace..."

Shame thunders through me, powerful and inescapable. I snap my attention away from those captivating emerald eyes, but find no solace. Five years, and I'm still haunted. There's a reason I never bring it up, never think about what happened. Now is no exception.

She drops to a whisper. "Look... I thought about it and—"

I whip back toward her. "No."

Goddamnit, no. She will not forgive me for that. My breaths come out choppy as I pace before her, not caring if I draw attention. I thread a shaky hand through my hair, tempted to yank the locks from my scalp.

"That's not it," I say, and it's no lie.

She tracks my movements, gnarled in confusion, before she snatches my shoulder. "Then what is?!"

I look down at her, straight on. Christ, she's so beautiful. So perfect, I don't even know how to act around her. Unconsciously, my body gravitates toward hers, until I'm basking in her aura at an inappropriate distance, wishing more than anything that I had the guts to humiliate myself, to scream from the rooftop of Churchill Downs that...

I'M A FUCKING LIAR!

A worthless. Good for nothing. Liar.

And Juliana deserves better.

Sure, she had a little crush on me in high school and maybe it's rekindled this past month, but unlike me, she's changed, grown, worked on herself over the years, has accomplishments that should reflect in her partner. A man who wouldn't lie about working under his father, thereby reaping benefits he never earned, essentially dangling the promises of a respectable match under her nose, someone who can talk business, has a promising future, can impress her friends and family.

Someone like my brother.

He really is my carbon copy, physically, except he comes with all those shiny accolades. Maybe the two of them should give it a try. I saw the way he looked at Juliana in the office, the intrigue that simmered in his eyes. Even better, he's in an open relationship, an engagement that's strictly business, so he's free to entertain Juliana all he wants. Invite her to his office at any hour. He's there all night, working hard, anyway, so no one would question it. Well, not until they heard the dubious sounds oozing from those thin walls, while he's got her bent over his—

I jerk away violently, surprising her.

"Hayden?"

"I-I'm... I'm gonna..."

I book it across the balcony, aiming for the French doors into the lounge. She calls after me, but my strides are too long for her high heels. I'm blinded, consumed by a fury of my own making, with one destination in mind.

The men's restroom.

Maybe not the most glamorous choice, but it has surprisingly low foot traffic, and it's the only place I could guarantee Juliana wouldn't go looking for me. And she hasn't, for the ten minutes that I've sat here, fully clothed, sitting on a closed toilet lid. Enclosed by the four walls of my stall, I'm alone with my thoughts.

I got the reins on my anger, finally, but...

Juliana must think I've lost my mind. I more-or-less confessed my feelings for her, told her to stay clear of me without providing a solid explanation, then ran off. I completely ditched her, my date, in a place where she knows next to no one and—

I hear the bathroom door swing open, along with a familiar voice.

"...if he doesn't like my offer, he can go pound fucking sand. Tell him that, verbatim."

Through the crack in my door, I catch Elias's suit-clad frame march by the stalls, pressing a phone to his ear.

"Yeah, yeah, that's another problem. Just have the files on my desk as soon as possible..."

He retraces his steps, pacing, zooming by again.

"No, it can't wait until Monday... Well, why don't you use that little Econ degree Harvard handed you and answer that for yourself, huh...? Exactly. The Stock Exchange is closed on weekends, so we need to hit this now while market volatility is low."

I hold back a sigh. Of course, he's working. I shouldn't be surprised, given that he never sat down in his derby seat, and I doubt he was actually watching from somewhere else, but... did he really need to come in here for his phone call?

He swings by again, pinching the bridge of his nose. "No. It needs to be done sooner than that. Call in another analyst. An intern or two, if you must... Yeah, well, capitalism doesn't sleep, just because it's their Saturday. This is what they signed up for... Yes, I'll make it there in time. I'll notify the crew to prepare the jet for departure."

My heart sinks, listening to the strain in his voice. Guilt eats at me for having been upset with my brother, even if it all was just in my head and I hadn't spoken a word to him. What's all that stress good for, if he never has a single day off?

"You have three hours, max. That's when I'll touch down in New York."

When his pacing stops abruptly, I angle my head, peering through the slit, until I spot him standing in front of the row of sinks, looking at himself in the mirror. His face doesn't really seem to show any emotion, despite his stressful tone. He's just... staring, blankly.

Heavy pressure weighs down my chest. I don't know why, exactly. It's not like he's having a mental breakdown from a problem that's surely not far from what he handles on a daily basis. However... when he sinks a hand into his pants pocket, I instantly pinpoint the reasoning for my concern and predict exactly what I'm about to see before it actually comes into view.

A small plastic baggy, filled with snowy powder.

I blink away an onset of tears, refusing their coming, yet I'm unable to look away as he prepares the line with his credit card. Right there, on the bathroom counter.

"Tell Katie to order in cappuccinos with extra shots, and some food from that Thai place around the block. My usual."

Tossing down his card, he gives himself another look in the mirror. This time, I see the dread there. In his eyes, whirling like a dark vortex. He sighs. "It's gonna be a long night. Goodbye." Click.

Silence envelops him, reaching the walls and every corner of the bathroom, so eerie I wonder if he can hear my shallow breaths as he stares down at that white line.

Stop him, a little voice whispers.

From snorting coke? He's a Kingston. He despises being told what to do. Perhaps I could brush the substance from the table? Steal his drugs? His pockets are endless, in both cash and connections. He'd have his next fix before he's airborne.

Save him.

Save...

Tears well, yet again. I know too much. I've seen our father's work logs, the proof that he abuses Elias, after training him his whole life as a prized pony, then turns around and secretly chains him up like an ox to pull a heavy carriage while the other hitches a ride up top. It's sickening. Exploitative—of his own son.

Elias won't listen to me, I tell that voice.

Try anyway. You're his brother. Who else will?

Certainly not Mom. She isn't around enough to notice, never was, and we don't have any other siblings.

He's alone... Truly, alone in this.

Time crawls as Elias leans over, pressing a finger to one nostril and angling the other.

Save him!

But I'm frozen. Struck by horror and drowning in guilt, watching him inch closer.

SAVE HIM!

I bolt for the door, only to freeze once again at the sharp sound of his inhale. I'm too late, useless, staring as the stall door swings on its hinges, unveiling the full scene.

Elias stumbles back. "Ughhhh," he groans, squeezing his eyes shut. "Fuck..." He sniffs again, pinching his nostrils, until his eyes open.

And meet mine in the mirror.

I knew what to expect, but it's no less shocking. The redness in them, the veins crawling across the whiteness... it's brighter than the distinct shade of blue we share. As the high sets in, his pupils dilate, and hazy clouds roll over like a glassy film.

His jaw clenches. "Were you listening that whole time?"

I don't respond. I can't.

He swivels around, flaunting his Armani suit. "You got something you'd like to say?"

Yes—DAD IS USING YOU!!!

But the truth lodges in my throat, caught between guilt and the fear of his reaction.

"Ohhhhh, I get it. You just want to stand there and judge, huh?" He encircles me, his steps unsteady, but his gaze piercing. "Seeing that you eavesdropped on my conversation, you damn well know some of us have responsibilities to uphold. So what, if I need a little help? Everyone does it. Who the fuck are you to judge me? Are you some saint, all of a sudden? You don't have the right, and you definitely don't have the experience to understand what it's like to be in my shoes. The things I've accomplished for our family's company."

"At what cost?"

"At what cost—at what cost...?" he grumbles, pacing aimlessly, cursing up a storm. "That's how you cope, isn't it? Oh, poor Elias. He's just soooo miserable. Did you ever stop and think, for one minute, that I could want this life? That I want Kingston Entertainment, the titles, the corporate lifestyle, everything. Well, I do. It makes me feel—"

"OOF." He slams into a corner of the wall, buckling at his knees. I rush over to help, but I'm met with his outstretched hand. "Don't touch me."

"You need help, Elias."

"Spare me." He dusts off his sleeve, turning to leave.

Tell him, tell him, tell him.

"Wait!"

He doesn't.

"Dad's overworking you!"

He grips the door handle as a sarcastic laugh rips through him. "You don't say."

"No. I mean, you work more than him. A lot more."

He freezes. For a moment, he's just silent.

Thank God. Maybe I'll get through to him, after all.

In a flash, he whirls around and bounds toward me, his lips coming an inch from my ear. "YOU'RE JUST JEALOUS!"

I jerk away, cupping my ear, knocking into a stall. I can hardly hear his next words as a violent ringing blares through my senses.

"You always have been. Need to invent fucking lies to help you sleep at night." He paces, faster than before, clutching his chest as he wheezes, emotions caught in his throat, enough that I wonder if somewhere, deep in his consciousness, he senses that I'm right. "You're jealous Dad picks me over you, that he sees something in me. Now you're just trying to get between him and I—the good thing we've always had going..."

I grapple for the stall door, nearly sliding on the tile as it swings on its hinges.

"Pathetic," he spits.

"Elias..." I groan, meeting his eyes.

He hesitates, a flicker of regret crossing his expression. Rolling his lips, I can almost make out their apology—or perhaps that's just wishful thinking. With a curse, he aims for the door.

Guess I'll never know.