Page 9 of False God

I don’twantto walk inside.

I’m too proud. Too similar to my father.

I’m also rapidly running out of other options. Selling off a couple of smaller properties and making minimum payments were enough to limp through this past year without filing for bankruptcy. But not a long-term solution. Interest is continuing to pile up. Off-loading a few assets didn’t draw much attention, but selling more will create speculation.

No one except me, my grandmother, and my father’s barristers know about the disastrous state of the family’s finances.

No one’s started asking questions. Yet.

A steady drizzle starts to fall, followed by a loud clap of thunder that suggests the storm is just beginning. If I don’t move soon, I’ll walk inside soaked.

I don’t care. The stormy weather is oddly soothing. It reminds me of home. Reminds me why I’m here.

Fuck you, James.

The angry words echo in my head for a minute. I never called him anything except Papa to his face. Using his Christian name creates a little distance—space that feels necessary right now.

My relationship with my father was complicated while he was alive.

Following his death, it’s never been worse.

I’m sofuriouswith him, wondering how he could have done this to me. To my sister Blythe. To Granny. Did he think he could fix it before anyone found out? Did he think getting pissed at a local pub and driving into a tree would be any sort of solution? Did he realize, when he lost control of the car, who would have to deal with the aftermath of his mistakes?

I’ll never know the answers to any of those questions, and that only adds to my anger.

I square my shoulders as I head for one of the revolving doors beneath the large silver letters that spell outKensington Consolidated.

For a few seconds, my mind drifts to the only Kensington I’ve met in person. As far as I know, Elizabeth has no involvement in her family’s company. The current CEO is her uncle, Oliver Kensington.

I’m supposed to attend a polo match at Atlantic Crest Country Club tomorrow, and I can’t help but wonder if Elizabeth—or Lili, as she’s imprinted in my mind as—will be there again. And if she is, which version will I face—the enigmatic, intriguing stranger I met in the barn or the cool, reserved heiress who pretended not to know me?

Every time she’s crossed my mind in the past year, I’ve told myself that bizarre transformation is the only reason she’s of recurring interest. Seeing her in person again will simply solve a mystery I shouldn’t have been puzzling over in the first place.

The young woman working at the front desk glances up with a prepared smile as I approach the massive block of marble she’s seated behind. She brushes the bangs out of her eyes, and I read the interest there immediately. She taps a capped pen against her chin, smirking a little as my gaze dips to her tits. The silk fabric of her blouse is so snug that I can see the outline of her bra.

Maybe I’ll ask for her number on my way out of here. I’m supposed to have dinner with my mum, Derek, and Ellis before we head to the Hamptons tomorrow, and I could use something to look forward to after. If last night’s meal was any indication, it’s going to be another awkward evening.

“Charles Marlborough here to see Asher Cotes,” I tell the pretty receptionist.

“Of course, Mr. Marlborough.” Her smile is still flirty, but her tone is cool and professional. “Can I please see some identification?”

I tug my leather wallet out of my pocket, extract my driving license, and slide it across the counter. My signet ring clinks against the marble, and she eyes it with interest.

“Thank you. I have your visitor’s badge right here.” She slides a square of plastic my way, along with my license. “Please return it on your way out.”

I nod, clipping the badge to the damp lapel of my suit.

“Mr. Cotes’s office is on the fifty-fifth floor.”

I nod again, nerves constricting my throat and making it difficult to speak. Months of preparation for this meeting, and I’m bleeding confidence by the second.

Fuck you, James, I think again, then start toward the lifts.

A group of three older men steps off, one eyeing my dress shoes disdainfully. They’re saturated with water, just like the rest of me, squeaking against the shiny floor. The haughtiness vanishes when he scrutinizes closer, noticing my tailored suit and expensive watch.

The shift should be reassuring; it only irritates me more.

I look like I belong here—minus my sogginess—but I don’t. Everything about me is false. I’m a fraud, leveraging my title, along with the wealth and connections associated with it, to enter places I shouldn’t be allowed anymore.

---