Page 18 of Billion Dollar Mistake

A smirk forms on the corner of his lips. “Can only imagine how much that would piss you off.”

My eyes narrow at my brother. “You have no idea,” I mumble.

Looking around my office, I take in how I went from becoming a doctor to a CEO. I was unable to practice medicine and own a chain of hospitals at the same time, so I decided to step away from my chosen career to follow a new passion.

I’ve worked hard to get here. My brother is no different as the owner of the family’s newspaper, Lincoln Media. He is sharp and successful in the business world, which is why we have these business conversations. And missing occasional family events is understood. Our mother, on the other hand, takes more sweetening.

“Is it worth it? Can’t you find someone else?”

I shake my head. “I fucking wish.” I swirl my glass of liquid, the ice hitting the sides.

“He’s the only one who designed and manufactures these speculums. If I had another option, I would’ve taken it by now,” I admit.

“I’m sure I can put in a good word for you. You know it’s our mother, not Dad or Iris.”

Hearing Grams’ name makes me think of Nova. The little spark of fun in her even though she’s losing her dad hits me differently. We share something in common and she doesn’t even know it.

It’s not something I’ve told people about because saying it out loud means it’s real. And I’m not ready to accept it. I like to control things and Grams’ breast cancer is out of my control. How is she so brave about something so crippling?

“How’s Grams today?” I ask, swirling the ice cube in my glass.

“Same feisty woman. You wouldn’t know anything’s wrong with her.”

I snort, picturing her smile and the wrinkle in between her brows as she gets a read on you. “I can imagine her giving you shit for asking.”

“Yep,” he mutters before taking a drink.

“I’ll call her before poker. Are you coming tonight?” I ask. Usually, I play poker with my brothers and friends on Thursday nights.

“Not this time, I’ve got a meeting with one of my employees,” he gruffs.

Anytime he uses that tone it’s when he’s angry. He’s not a big talker. Growing up, he was picked on at school for being quiet. He prefers small groups, and even then, he communicates sparingly. However, I’m used to him that way, and, in fact, I appreciate the serenity he brings.

His obvious hatred of this guy has my interest piqued.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s odd. I can't put my finger on it, but when I figure it out, I’ll let you know.”

“Sounds fair,” I reply smartly.

A wrinkle forms between his brows. “I’m telling you there’s something off about him.”

I put my hands up in the air like I’m surrendering. “I didn’t say there wasn’t.”

“But you’ve got that skeptical look on your face.”

Confused, I let my expression fall. “What look?”

“It’s a face you pull when you don’t believe someone.”

I tilt my glass back and finish it. Placing it on the table with a thud, I say, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

My phone chimes with a new email, distracting me from our conversation. It’s the Director of Education from my hospital in Chicago. I can’t ignore this.

“I’ve got to read this email, it's urgent.”

“Of course,” he responds, standing. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

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