Chapter 10

ON THE SURFACE, the various theories of business ethics are contradictory. Utilitarianism suggests the correct ethical decision should maximize net benefit or minimize the costs for all parties. The Rights Theory dictates a decision should be evaluated based on the impacts to the individual and basic human rights of the stakeholder.

I want to offer an alternative argument. Aren't these two theories two sides of the same coin? The right to autonomy, to make decisions for ourselves, for example, is a crucial factor to our happiness. Without considering individual happiness, how can we achieve happiness in the group?

My fingers smooth over the pendant nestled above my navy cable-knit sweater as I reread Millie's first paper. The topic is to argue for a prevailing ethics theory.

"Without considering individual happiness, how can we achieve happiness in the group?"

Her words are arrows to my chest. She's speaking directly to me, peering under the thousand-dollar suits, the shiny facade of a fancy title and a rich last name, and jabbing her weapon into the tender flesh of my heart, opening wounds no one else has ever seen before.

I clutch Mom's pendant tighter in my grip, the metal edges digging into my palms before letting go and looking out the airplane window forty-plus thousand feet in the air.

"Mr. Anderson, we'll arrive in New York City in one hour. Would you like any food or refreshments?"

"No, thank you. Are the arrangements ready when we land? We're already running late."

"Yes, sir. The helicopter is on standby and will take you straight to The Orchid," the flight attendant replies before returning to the attendants' quarters.

I settle back into my seat and close my eyes, but Millie's words keep echoing in my ears. I can hear her dulcet voice whispering those sentiments to me then following with, why aren't you living for yourself, Professor?

It's madness. The thoughts are a disease corrupting my mind, attempting to obliterate my control, my morals. Why am I thinking of her?

I shouldn't be noticing the way she fiddles with her fingers before she speaks in class. Or the way the swells of her chest move when she releases a deep exhale after delivering her answers with passionate ardor. Or how her eyes trail me as I walk around the room.

I shouldn't notice the way her pale skin flushes a pretty pink when my eyes catch hers in the middle of lecture, her tongue flicking out and swiping her plump lips as if she's nervous.

I shouldn't live for the moments when she lingers after class to ask me follow-up questions on lecture topics, her pupils dilating when I mutter back a response. Or memorize the way the tips of her ears flush when she makes a comment that'll make my lips twitch with repressed humor.

Gnashing my teeth together, I open my eyes and stare at the dimming skies, an endless stretch of dark blue, a thick blanket of clouds underneath us. I'm literally soaring above the earth, a sensation I used to revel in when I was six years old, when Dad took me on the jet for the first time.

Back then, as I stared at the great beyond, my face pressed against the windows, I felt like life was filled with endless possibilities. I could become a superhero like Dad, who I'd hear from classmates how many people worked for him, how he was a very important man.

I could become anything.

But now, as I behold the endless skies before me, the freedom it represents, suspended in midair with technology not making sense to me even as an adult, the elation I used to feel is long gone. Instead, the dark expanse out there seems to taunt me.

You can look, but you can't have.

My phone pings with an incoming email with the heading "Congratulations to our newest tenured professors at ULA" and it's a dagger digging into the bleeding wound in my chest.

What I'd give to be on the shortlist for tenure track, instead of dealing with IPOs, investors, and reporters. To spend my days buried in research, my specialty being corporate governance and ethics, something rising in importance in a world that is increasingly focused on the bottom line at the expense of morals and ethical standards.

But I can't, because of the damn trust. The fucking prison.

All legal Andersons, defined as legitimate Andersons through marriage or bloodline, must work for the family business if they choose to work. Failure of one person to do so will cause the entire family to lose a significant portion of our wealth and control over Fleur. The funds will go to an array of government organizations.

Our forefathers thought this was a way to tie the family together, to ensure the wealth gets passed down the generations. It was an idea they brought with them from regency England back when the estates and fortunes of the aristocracy were entailed.

It's archaic. It's ridiculous.

If it were only my wealth we were risking, I'd have no qualms in stepping out from the fold and pursuing my dream of being a full-time tenured professor, but this isn't the case. My actions will cause everyone I love to lose everything.

And I can't be that selfish.

My hand finds its way back to the paper I was grading, my eyes roving over the last paragraphs like a madman, my heart beating against the prison of my rib cage.

I want to be free. A tiny voice whispers from deep within. A voice I haven't dared listen to for so many years but is louder and more incessant these days. One can only hide its darkest nature for so long.

My stomach swoops and falls, cold sweat breaking out on my back. I press a button on the controls to turn on the air. I can't breathe. My lungs attempt to rake in more oxygen, but the effort is exhausting.

I can't breathe.

"Why aren't you living for yourself, Professor?" imaginary Millie murmurs and my head falls back on the headrest.

I press another button on the controls, closing all the shades simultaneously.

Darkness. Much-needed relief.

"Happy Birthday, Dad." I stride into a private room inside Kobayashi, a Michelin-starred Japanese restaurant, one of several equally lauded fine dining experiences offered within The Orchid.

"His Royal Highness has arrived, better late than never," Rex snickers from his seat on the traditional tatami flooring. "The food is getting cold."

He slides his hands behind his head, unleashing one of his devil-may-care, shit-eating-grins at me. I roll my eyes and smirk. I don't even bother correcting him on his nickname for me, which has spread like wildfire to everyone who knows us, only to be made worse by the press's moniker of me as the Prince of the USA.

"I know this might sound shocking, Rex, but sushi is usually cold," Ethan, my youngest brother, offers, twirling his empty sake cup in his hand.

"You're so boring, Ethan. How the hell are you younger than me? Fine. The food is not as fresh as it was, then."

"From when it came ten minutes ago?" A skeptical rise of a brow from Ethan.

"Unlike you, he had to travel thousands of miles to be here," Maxwell murmurs to Rex. "Cut him some slack, won't you?"

He flashes me a small grin, his dark eyes twinkling, a rare moment of levity for my twin. He reaches for his drink on the table, the metal clasp on his leather bracelet flashing in the dim light.

"You boys will send me to an early grave," Dad says as he stands and pulls me into a tight hug. "You didn't have to fly all the way out here for a dinner."

"Of course I do. It's not every day your old man turns sixty-five. It's only a jet ride away. Sorry for being late. There were some inclement weather issues, and the flight got delayed by traffic control."

He waves me away and takes a seat at the head of the long table, already filled to the brim with a scrumptious rainbow assortment of thinly sliced fish, from ahi tuna to jumbo scallops, artfully crafted hand rolls, which look more like pieces of artwork than food, unique creations of Chef Kobayashi, who has won multiple accolades in his long illustrious career.

The door bursts open and in wafts the soft scent of roses.

"Ryland, you're here!" Lana, our youngest sister, breezes in. Her long brown hair, partially covered by a thick scarf, is flying behind her.

We all stand at her presence—chivalry is decidedly not dead in the Anderson family, the manners passing down for generations with roots from our titled ancestors in England.

Technically, we still have a dukedom with Dad and a marquessate with Maxwell, the eldest son of a duke, but they don't have active duties in England since they are not elected hereditary peers. But regardless, the family has inherited hundreds of years of tradition and the infamous stiff upper lip of the British aristocracy.

"If only men outside this room had the manners you all have." Lana grins, flying into my outstretched arms, and burrows her head against my chest. "I miss you, B."

My chest warms at the inside joke, and I press a soft kiss on her hair. As another tradition, our family gave us middle names in alphabetical order according to age. It was said there were too many of us to keep track of. Maxwell's middle name is Angus, mine is Benedict, and the rest of our siblings' middle names follow the same pattern.

"It's only been a few weeks. And you have three other older brothers to terrorize you."

"You're my favorite," she whispers into my ear before pulling back and giving me a sassy wink. "Don't tell the others I said that."

"I heard you loud and clear," Rex complains with a mock scowl on his face, "don't come to me with your men troubles later on."

"Oh please, I'm the one who usually mops up after your women troubles, not the other way around."

"If the press gets a whiff that the members of the C-Suite of multi-billion-dollar Fleur Entertainment Holdings are all behaving like squabbling six-year-olds, our stock price and IPO plans will tank," Maxwell mutters, but his eyes are soft as we watch Lana and Rex bicker with each other. "Why anyone will believe us is beyond me."

"I think you guys got my birth year wrong," Ethan quips.

While he's the fourth child in the Anderson pecking order, he gravitates more toward Maxwell and me than with Lana and Rex, who were as thick as thieves growing up.

"The IPO plans are still going well?" I ask Ethan, who is our chief financial officer, and will be doing most of the heavy lifting on the accounting and financial reporting side of the offering.

"The Board of Directors is formed for Fleur Twilight. We just engaged with an accounting firm to audit the financial statements. You know the partner."

I cock a brow. "Who?"

"Jess Chapman."

"Steven's oldest sister?"

Ethan nods. "She flew out here two weeks ago with her husband, James. We met up with them and Steven here. So, we have that going for us. At least it's someone we know and like who'll be digging into everything, not that there's anything interesting in Twilight's books."

"No more shop talk, you guys," Lana interjects as Rex nods beside her. "If you start talking about the IPO, then I'll need to start gushing about how Ryland is making my job as chief of PR easy with his impeccable public image, and Rex will then make everything about him and his latest marketing efforts."

"They are groundbreaking campaigns because I'm a genius. Investors are lining up at the door because of them." Rex narrows his eyes at her.

Lana arches her brows as if to say, See?

I shake my head. My siblings are a rowdy bunch, but I wouldn't trade them for anything in the world. If only Mom were here to see us now.

Lana brings up her phone and says, "I know the press thinks everything is hinging on you, B," she looks at me, "but you know we have your back, all jokes aside, okay?"

"I know." But I'm still the only person the press focuses on.

"I'm not going to insert myself into this. I'm retired and leaving the madness of the company to you five." Dad polishes off the sushi on his plate before he reaches for another helping of the stir-fried udon on the table.

"Enjoying retirement, Dad?" He retired three years ago after handing over his position to Maxwell. "Still gardening?"

Dad smiles, his eyes glazing as if reminiscing about the past. He nods, his fingers twisting the silver ring on his left hand. "I feel closer to your mom in the gardens."

A heavy silence blankets the room as my eyes dart to Maxwell, finding his brows furrowed, a heaviness in his tall frame. I clasp one hand on his shoulder and the other on Dad's, giving them both a soft squeeze.

They're the biggest victims of the curse, their burdens are the hardest to bear. Not to mention, they're subjected to the same family trust I'm trapped in. And you think you're living in a cage? You haven't lived in their shoes before, you ungrateful bastard.

"I'm sure she's looking down on us and is happy at what she sees," I murmur, my voice thickening as the pendant weighs heavily under my sweater.

Faded memories of Mom float through my mind—her kind green eyes, bright smile, playing hide-and-seek with us in the large backyard gardens of our estate. Rex was screeching at the top of his lungs, alerting everyone to his position, and Ethan was babbling nonsense as the nanny shushed us because baby Lana was asleep.

It's one of the last memories I have of her before she died.

"Anyway, retirement has treated me well. I think my hair has stopped graying." Dad chuckles, pointing to his mostly gray hair streaked with the dark strands prevalent in our family.

We laugh and I look around the room, taking in the people I love more than anything in this world, the very people I can give up my life for without a second thought, the reason I've dutifully followed the footsteps planned for me since I could walk and take my rightful place within the company.

I take in Lana's bright smile, her cheeks flushed at whatever Rex is saying, Rex's arrogant smirk, something the ladies love him for, Ethan's exasperated sigh at the new ruckus at the table, Dad's face, finally not creasing from stress when he was at the helm of the company, and my twin and closest friend, Maxwell, who's smiling softly at the same scene before me.

Family first. Sometimes, it's best not to travel the road less taken.