Page 80 of Reaper Flame

Puh-lease. It was hard to take ‘too far’ seriously from a man who ordered his own wife to be killed because he couldn’t stand to be second best. Karma has a way of biting you in the fucking balls.

“Why invite me here?” Vixen asked. “I’m not your fucking therapist.”

I laughed as Bryce’s lip curled. He was used to people licking his shoes clean. Being spoken to like that by a badass punk woman was a confronting experience for him, and I lived for it.

“I want to finalize my will,” Bryce said.

A waitress came over to our table. “Do you want to order?”

Vixen stared at Bryce as she replied, “How about a hot plate of stop wasting our fucking time and I’m not buying your bullshit?”

The waitress nervously checked the menu board to confirm she’d not forgotten the daily specials.

“Umm…” she hesitated. “We have carbonara?”

“No thanks,” I said, nudging Vixen in the ribs. “We’re not hungry, right Vix?”

The waitress didn’t wait for confirmation. She scuttled away with her notepad in hand as Bryce drummed his fingers on the table.

“Have you gone senile in your old age?” Vixen asked. “Or have you forgotten how you’ve lost everything? We bought the manor off you, remember? A will means nothing when you’re penniless.”

“Giles lost a lot of the Briarly fortune in his pathetic development schemes, but do you think I was stupid enough to give him complete control?” Bryce tutted. “I may have lost the manor, but I have contingency plans offshore.”

“So?” Vixen’s chin jutted out in defiance. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“I want to name you as a successor to my estate.”

“Me? I don’t want your fucking blood money,” Vixen spat. “And neither does Zander. We don’t want anything from you. The Sevens built their empire on their own, and we’d rather die than accept any charity from you.”

“Why don’t you think about it?” Bryce suggested. “Don’t you feel this is what you deserve after your childhood? You grew up without a mother and father having to fend for yourself on the streets like a rat, while Zander languished in luxury. Why not agree to be my successor?”

“I’d rather die than take a cent of your dirty money!” The spray from her vicious words hit Bryce in the face. “You may be doing this to get back at Giles, but there is nothing you can do to get me or Zander to sign. Give Giles all your money for all we care! We have something worth more than all of your dollars, we have fucking principles.”

“I thought you’d jump at the opportunity,” Bryce said. “I’m offering you everything you ever wanted. You’ve always wanted to be recognized as a Briarly, and now you will finally get your chance.”

Vixen’s tough shell cracked for a moment as her jaw went slack. A second later, she gritted her teeth and went into psycho bitch attack mode.

“I would rather die than be recognized as a Briarly,” Vixen hissed, standing to her feet. “Zander has always been right about you. You’re a fucking monster, and you always have been. I don’t know what my mom ever saw in you.”

She paused, letting her words sink in, then spat in Bryce’s wine. She turned on her heel and stormed away. Her giant New Rock boots could have caused a small earthquake from the force she stomped out, but I didn’t follow her… not yet.

“How long does she have to think about it?” I asked.

Vixen didn’t want to accept Bryce’s offer. But, with the manor gone, an extra windfall wouldn’t be all bad. Call it reimbursement for all the years of private education she was robbed of.

“The sooner the better. A few weeks, a month at most,” Bryce said, bending down to retrieve his briefcase. He placed it on the table and took a contract out of it. “All she needs to do is sign the contract in the presence of a lawyer and it’s done.”

“Why now?” I asked. “Why do you care about settling your estate? What’s in it for you?”

Bryce sighed deeply. He usually played the part of a showman, but I could see him for what he really was. A tired, exhausted, old man who knew his time at the top was ending.

“I’m dying, Candy,” he said, meeting my gaze. All the money and power in the world couldn’t make you immortal or immune to the perils of an ordinary man. “Cancer. They don’t know how much time I have left, but it won’t be long. Is it so hard to believe a dying man wants to do the right thing?”

He didn’t know the meaning of right and wrong.

“Don’t expect me to feel sorry for you.”

“I never asked for your pity,” he said. “But I am asking for your help.”

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