Page 26 of When Hearts Collide

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.

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