Chapter 11

Toward the end of dinner, Dad stands up and raises his glass. "To your mother, who'd be very proud of you all. She's here celebrating every milestone as she's always in our hearts." He stares at us, his eyes suspiciously red.

My chest clenches, and I roll my lips inward before taking a sip of sake. Maxwell clasps Dad's shoulder and whispers something in his ear, a smile on his lips that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Maxwell murmurs, "And to Dad, the man we all look up to. Happy Birthday."

We follow his lead in sending well wishes to our dad. I do my best to tamp down the sorrow threatening to bubble up in my throat.

Of all the siblings, Maxwell and I had the most time with Mom. She passed away when we were nine from what the press reported as a "freak accident," a sudden heart attack after falling off the stairs in our family estate, but we all know better. It wasn't an accident at all.

It was the family curse.

The one that befalls the women the firstborn sons of our family love. The mysterious and strange deaths. The ominous fates. The suspicious lack of women in the Anderson lineage, except for Lana. It's the reason arranged marriages or marriages of convenience are prevalent in our family. All part of the secret burdens everyone in our family carries, especially Maxwell.

Back when I didn't know any better, I used to scoff at the legend, unwilling to accept something as ridiculous as the truth, despite Dad's solemn face when he sat Maxwell and I down in the library after Mom's funeral to tell us the dark secret. Then there's the hoarseness in Grandpa's voice when he clutched Maxwell's hands on his deathbed, telling Maxwell he was strong enough to bear this curse just like the men before him.

Even so, Maxwell and I refused to believe in the curse. It wasn't scientific. It felt superstitious. It seemed fantastical, something out of a horror movie.

But then, who could fight the evidence presented in front of us? Generations of untimely deaths, including Maxwell's high school sweetheart, Sydney, the girl he foolishly gave his heart away to and eloped with when we turned eighteen?

And now, as I look at my brother, the eldest of the family by a mere four-hundred-twenty-seconds, the seven minutes which changed the course of his life and mine, the heaviness sinks deeper into my chest. What right do I have to live for myself when the choice has been taken away from Maxwell just because he exists, simply because the doctor pulled him out of the womb moments before me?

Maxwell and Dad share a laugh before Dad says, "Don't need to leave early on my part. John will take me back to the estate. Enjoy yourselves tonight."

We hug Dad goodbye before Lana announces she's leaving to meet with her friends at the ladies' lounge upstairs, followed by some foreign-sounding innovative medspa treatments at one of the few specialty luxury spas on the upper floors.

Five minutes later, the rest of us gather in one of the coveted private rooms in the gentlemen's club, usually reserved for weeks in advance.

The space is large, with floor-to-ceiling windows decorated with thick, velvet drapes, a dining and work area separated from the lounge. The decor is tasteful and masculine, dark woods interspersed with glass furnishings—a mixture of modern with traditional. From the Tiffany floor lamps to the modern pendant lights, luxury drips from every aspect of the room, and the few others in the club are similarly furnished. There are definite advantages to being the owners of The Orchid—one room is perpetually earmarked for us.

Rex plops down on a sofa with an audible sigh and starts swiping on his phone, a wide grin on his face. Ethan heads to the wet bar and pours a few drinks for us. I nurse my whiskey and sit in my usual navy armchair by the roaring fireplace, watching the flames dance on top of the embers, emitting a warmth I don't quite feel inside me.

"Who are you texting?" Maxwell asks Rex before he walks over to the windows.

"The other guys. They're nearby and are heading up right now."

As if on cue, a crisp knock sounds from the door a few seconds later, and Charles Vaughn steps through, his gleaming blond hair shining under the warm overhead lights, every inch the Scandinavian royalty stock photo nickname he has earned from friends. While he isn't royalty, he is close, with his family owning the Bank of Columbia and him at the helm.

Steven Kingsley follows him inside, dressed in his three-piece gray suit, like he came directly from a work meeting, which wouldn't be surprising, considering he's a fucking workaholic.

"Ryland." Steven steps up and smacks a hand on my back, a rare smile lighting up his usually serious face. "Crawling home with your tail between your legs already? Scarred the students at ULA for life?" He rakes his hand over his perfectly coiffed black hair.

"Oh please. The students are getting the education of a lifetime. Not only from books, but also from practical application."

"I saw the replay of your press conference a few weeks ago. Gossip Times got on your nerves, huh? But I must admit, there's some truth to what they're asking. We've never seen you with a girlfriend. And the women from your scenes at Noire upstairs on the Rose floors don't count. They're sexual outlets, not the real deal." Charles sinks into the sofa next to Rex, who perks up in interest as the gossipmonger within our group.

"I heard something about the Rose floors?" Rex grins, seeming all too interested in the several floors within this building infamous for a variety of adult entertainment.

The Rose floors have everything from luxury suites equipped with specialty furniture and toys, to kink rooms, burlesque clubs, and even a faux-outdoor club, Noire, which lets folks engage in various scenes or fuck "outdoors" without worrying about the prying eyes of the paparazzi. They are forbidden to enter this high-security building except on rare occasions.

Our companionship services, paid escorts for everything ranging from innocuous dates for galas to things of a more lustful nature, also operate within those floors.

It's a fine legal line we straddle, but with some influential lawmakers and even a few Supreme Court justices as members here, people look the other way. This is also why the personnel for the Rose floors are handled by Elias Kent's legitimate business front. The notorious and enigmatic crime boss has ways of handling delicate matters we don't want to know anything about.

Plausible deniability.

Our only requirement is the employees of the Rose floors must be here of their own free will and be allowed to quit like any other job.

The Orchid is a haven for the rich and famous who are lucky enough to undergo multiple rounds of interviews, pay an exorbitant annual fee, and secure an invitation only membership. It's a place where the power makers can mingle and relax without worrying about public image.

It's a place where any wish can be granted. Thousands of influential deals are brokered within this building. There's a reason it's the crown jewel of Fleur Entertainment.

"They're fishing for gossip. There's no one," I reply.

"You're not a monk, bro," Rex retorts, "I find it hard to believe there's absolutely no one piquing your interest."

Dark brown hair, a heart-shaped face, and stunning blue eyes seeming to see all too much materialize in my mind. My heart skips several beats and heat rushes up my neck.

You're a sick man.I shove the image away.

"Where will I find time to date these days? The company takes up my entire life and any extra time I have is spent teaching." I throw back my drink in one gulp, wincing at the burn.

"You don't have to teach, you know. I think the family reputation can survive without the Prince of the USA spending time in academia. We give back in many other ways—our charities, volunteering, scholarships," Rex comments, his brows furrowing as he scrutinizes me. In this moment, the playboy is gone and in his place is the concerned brother.

"I want to continue teaching." It's the one respite keeping me going.

"Something else is going on then. I don't know what," Rex replies. "You're quieter than you usually are. And I've been monitoring the Rose floors activities. You haven't booked a scene in at least half a year. Is this a health issue? Something wrong with your dick?" Fucking bastard.

"How did you get that information?" Steven asks, sitting up straighter on the other black sofa across the room. "Doesn't Elias keep that info under lock and key?"

Rex waggles his brows. "I have ways of making all people open up to me…including the coldest of bastards."

He swivels his head toward me. "Don't think I let you off the hook. Tell us what's going on. Maybe we can help. You have the smartest people in the city here, especially me, of course."

I roll my eyes, a spark threatening to ignite in the chilly cavity of my chest. "My health is perfectly fine," other than the increasing difficulty in breathing sometimes, but that's neither here nor there, "and my cock is functioning fine. I just don't feel a need to frequent the floors these days."

And frankly, no one has captured my interest.

But is that really true, Ryland?

Fuck.

"Red flag for sure," Ethan quips. "I agree with Rex this time. You used to run around in Noire playing predator and prey at least once a month. What did you say the last time we asked? It was freeing to your soul, and you felt in touch with your primal self. ‘Crucial to your mental health…' I think was the phrase you used. Why haven't you been there for half a year or are you getting some action on the side, which circles back to the original question… Do you have a woman?"

I shake my head, my fingers gripping my empty tumbler tightly. Stop asking me questions I don't want to answer. The sensation of not being able to breathe is returning and a vein pulses on my forehead. I fight against the urge to stand up, throw the glass against the wall, and break open a window to let the cool fall air in.

"I haven't heard him mention anything about spotting strange birds these days, either. That was one of his old-man hobbies, birdwatching," Charles murmurs as he strides to the fireplace, his aristocratic features harsh with the roaring fire behind him.

Steven cocks his head to the side. "At first, I thought this was just a joke, but now I think there's some truth to these questions."

He taps his finger on his chin and muses, "Something's going on. I can't place it. But Ryland, whenever you want to talk, we're here for you. But in the meantime," he addresses the others in the room, "let's lay off of him."

I chuckle halfheartedly, the pressure on my chest easing as I set the tumbler on the imported coffee table made from the finest dark oaks and glass. It looks like these idiots won't press me.

How can I explain to them the discontent simmering in the background for the last decade, which suddenly threatens to explode and incinerate everything in its path? Even I don't understand it well.

"Anyway, how are you doing, Steven, with your father and TransAmerica?"

Misdirection. The best way to stop their incessant questioning is to turn the spotlight on someone else.

My friend's face darkens. His family is based in LA and is at the helm of the large conglomerate, but for some reason, Steven never wanted to take over the company, and opted to move across the country to make a name for himself on Wall Street. "There may be a situation brewing on the horizon. I'm monitoring it."

"Anything I can help with?" Charles offers, and the men break into a serious discussion about warding off takeovers and working with bad actors who are resorting to using shady tactics to get what they want.

I get up from my chair and stride to the large windows, staring at the enormous park in the middle of the city, punctuated by the warm glow of streetlamps, with the bright flashes of headlights from cars and buses whizzing by.

The city never sleeps. It has a heady energy that used to make me excited, but now can't seem to eke out a thump in my heart.

"Hey," Maxwell murmurs as he stands next to me, gazing out the window. "Don't think I don't know what it means when you slink off and stare outside. You're feeling trapped somehow, right? Guilty perhaps?"

His words pummel my chest and I clench my jaw, not wanting to answer him lest I give anything away in my voice.

He always knows what I am thinking.

Maxwell slaps his hand across my back. "You don't need to tell me anything until you're ready," he murmurs.

I stare at our reflections on the glass windows, silhouettes almost identical, but with distinct differences—he's taller than me by two inches, slightly leaner, his hair longer, the jawline a little more refined and aristocratic and a tall, Roman nose instead of my curved one.

"I just want you to be happy, Ryland. Don't feel guilty. The curse is random luck. I'm not jealous of you."

He clears his throat. "I'm glad you can be free to live and fall in love. I've accepted my place in life and made the best out of it. I only wish you'd release yourself from whatever's holding you back. I want you to be happy, and so would Mom."

Wetness prickles my vision as the pendant weighs heavily on my chest and the light leather bracelet suddenly feels like a fiery brand around my wrist.

What have I done to deserve this unconditional love? I'm a selfish man deep inside. Secretly resentful of everything that was given to me, the good fortune Maxwell would probably die to have. The good fortune most people in the world would cry tears of joy for.

Ugly. Dark. Corrupted.

Ungrateful.

"Let it go, Ryland," Maxwell whispers as we stare into the night. "Let it go."