Page 78 of Distorted Obsession

I adjust my silk embroidered cravat, ensuring it’s properly in place, before buttoning my double-breasted navy blue vest as the engine cuts off. “Trust me on this. Eva is their weak spot. She’s vulnerable, and they’ll do anything to protect her, including covering up the murder of her best friend.”

“Mase—”

The car door opens, and I hold my hand up, silencing his rebuttal. “Let’s end this here. Our focus now is on serving this weekend. We hash out everything Eva-related when we’re backat school. Any mention of the Pierce family now will only seal our fates.”

“Our family business has been declining for the last few years, Ma.” I hear my father say as I walk down the hallway of the Bradley mansion. “We can’t put the near collapse of Fort Mosen on the Pierce Holdings. Rhion Pierce is a businessman who did what was best for his company.”

My hands clench at my side at the regurgitated argument—excuse. I snap my eyes shut, feeling my ears heat from the rage roiling in my gut. How is it not his fault? We had the deal set to be signed, and Pierce Holdings swooped in and snatched the food from our plates.

Pausing, I wait for my heart to slow and the tension to leave my body. I can’t enter the room this angry, not when I know what the topic of conversation will be.

“You’ve always been a pushover, Ian,” Uncle Ansel snaps. “A man comes in and yanks the deal necessary to save your family from the poor house, and you just throw your hands in the air on some, you win some and lose some bullshit.”

I internally high-five my uncle as I continue down the hall. I never thought I’d do it, but he’s spot on. My dad is being too timid. Business is cutthroat—there’s no room for a lamb that will be slaughtered in the lion’s den.

“Ansel Gerald Bradley, you’re not too old to get the switch,” Grams hisses. “Be respectful or get out!”

Stopping short, I listen in. If I walk into that room now, they’ll stop talking, and I need them to continue.

“Ma,” Uncle Ansel starts, “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but it’s the truth. Ian has always led with a gentle demeanor. He’s not cut out to be in charge.”

“Ansel, you’re two words away from the sense being knocked back into your head.” Pop’s baritone voice is laser-sharp with his rebuke. “When it was time for you to take charge, you were too busy chasing tail and gambling away money you never earned.”

The room is so silent that I’m tempted to peek inside to see if anyone’s still there, but I know what’s coming. “Three… two… one,” I whisper.

“Pa, don’t start,” Uncle Ansel grits out, and I can picture his pale, fawny complexion blaze five different shades of red in a matter of seconds.

“I didn’t start—I finished it,” Pop retorts.

My mouth falls open, and I reach into my back pocket, pulling out my phone. Liam needs to be present for the nuclear bomb that’s about to erupt.

“Why do you always do that?” my uncle petulantly asks as I send my message. “You wanted a perfect robot. That’s why you went with this b?—”

I swear I hear a whoosh before a pop booms through the room. “You think because your balls dropped, you have the right to be disrespectful in my house?” The anger in my grandfather’s tone is enough to make me stifle my laugh. It was a bridge too far.

“What’s g—” I shout when a tap on my shoulder nearly has me jump out of my skin.

Spinning around, I quickly lift my index finger to my lips. “Shhh, sit back and enjoy the show.”

“Enough,” Grams’s arctic command ends any further commentary. “It’s all water under the bridge. The focus now is getting the Bradley name back where it belongs—on top.”

“But why does it have to be at the expense of one of my sons?” my mother questions. “We still have more options to explore. Mason and Liam shouldn’t shoulder this burden.”

“Go, Ma,” Liam murmurs.

Reaching back, I pinch him. “Would you shut?—”

“Arranged marriages have always existed. It’s how families secure their wealth,” Uncle Ansel states. “This modern-day marriage for love bullshit is for the poor. We can’t afford such luxuries.”

“Then why don’t you offer up one of your five sons?” Dad argues with a force I rarely see. “They’re all of marrying age.”

Go, Dad. If I weren’t present, I wouldn’t believe it.

“Not to Lilly Langston,” Uncle Ansel snorts. “That girl isn’t a good fit for my boys, and if you ask me, Mason is more of Lilly’s type.”

I gnash my teeth so hard I think I chipped a tooth. “Easy for you to say, asshole. I’m being put on the block like some fucking stud,” I grumble a little too loudly.

“You two can join the conversation instead of acting like nosey church folk,” my grandmother shouts, and like two kids caught sneaking some of the frosting from her red velvet cake, we sheepishly enter the family room.

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