Page 66 of The Re-Proposal

My fingers freeze on the keyboard and I send a frosty glance Vargas’s way.

“Whatever. Just remember you’re supposed to be a harmonious father and foster son. People want a smiling Orphan Annie with housekeepers who burst into song, not one who looks like he’s still being held hostage by Miss Hannigan.”

I notice Vargas grabbing his book bag and slinging it over his shoulder.

Alarm rises in me. “Where are you going?”

“Home.” His tone has a distinctduhhidden in it.

“You’re taking the kid with you, right?”

Vargas scowls at me. “No, Bolton. The kid is staying in your house which is why all the journalists are praising you online and our stocks are stable again.”

“Vargas, the kid is your responsibility. I told you to deal with him.”

“And I will. During work hours. I’m off now.”

“Vargas!”

“Have fun bonding.” He tosses me a backward wave and traipses through the door.

I throw my pen down and rake both hands through my hair.

Great.

Yesterday, I was an ordinary man running an empire. Today, I’ve got a back-talking teenager with a bad heart who can’t get angry or scared waiting in my penthouse.

Since I’m the type to tackle the hardest problems first so I can relax later, I force myself to go upstairs.

Thankfully, the living room is empty.

I have no idea what my new houseguest is doing, but I sink into the peace and quiet like a man soaking in a hot tub.

A pile of letters on the table catches my eye. I asked Vargas to collect my mail. I regularly get hate mail, so I tend to let it gather for a few weeks before I tackle everything.

Pouring myself a glass of brandy, I sit and open the letters.

Charity Invitation.

New York Fashion Week Invitation.

Hate mail.

Career Day invitation.

Die, pig.

I snort. How unoriginal.

I’m almost done with sorting when I see a red envelope. I notice a familiar handwriting. When I open the letter, a card slips out. It’s a drawing of a teddy bear with a knife stuck through its head. Underneath, someone wrote ‘you will pay’ in all caps.

Cute.

My door bell rings.

I let the letter drift to my table and take the brandy with me to open the door. There are only a handful of people who have the access code to my elevator. Plus Clay has his security team monitoring the hallway feeds twenty-four-seven.

I smirk when I see my brother glaring at me outside the front door.

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