Page 64 of Burning Daylight
I don’t know who Frederick is, but I don’t ask questions. It’s not surprising my father would have someone who knows how to control the media.
“Pop the trunk, Bartholomew. Guess I should get this over with.”
He looks affronted. “I’ll have your luggage taken inside, sir. You just go on in.”
Oh. Right.
“Great,” I say, acting like I know the first thing about having the type of money where people literally do everything for you.
It’s a little off-putting, to be honest.
He tips his hat. “Have a good night, sir.”
“Yeah, you, too,” I reply. But my attention is already off him.
Is my father inside waiting?
Does he even care enough to be here?
I focus on the front doors, so large I have to crane my neck to stare at the top of them as I make my way up the porch.
One swings open and a young man walks out, his blond hair perfectly swooped, and a movie-worthy grin pasted on his suntanned face.
It’s been years since I’ve seen him, but it doesn’t matter. My mom rammed the idea of who my family is through my brain from a young age, showing me pictures and videos she collected from various news sources.
I’d recognize this guy from a mile away.
Benjamin Voltaire.
Eleanor’s nephew and my dad’s by marriage. Technically, my cousin, although we aren’t blood related.
Last time I saw him, he was a kid, two years older than me, and I only ever interacted with him from a distance. I’m not sure if he even knew about my existence.
Still, the bitterness churns up like it’s fresh. I remember being furious that Benjamin was treated like a son—that he got to experience my father in a way I never did.
Maybe because he’s a Voltaire, so money was already in his blood.
The private schools, the summers on yachts, the nepotism that allowed him a life of advantage while others had to beg for scraps.
Privilege.
The kind you’re born with, not the kind you work for.
“Roman fucking Montgomery.”
It’s a jolt to my system hearing my old name pouring from his lips, but I guess I should get used to it. Ryder Speare died the second I stepped on that private jet.
“Benjamin,” I say coolly, tipping my chin. “I wondered if I’d see you here.”
That’s a lie. He hadn’t even crossed my mind.
His brows rise high on his forehead, and his upper body leans back like my words surprise him.
“So, youdoknow who I am,” he says. “I knew you, too, but hell, man, we thought you were dead.” He laughs. “And it’sBenny, by the way.”
Before I can respond, a honey-slick voice cuts in from our right.
“Benny, don’t be rude.”
