Page 131 of Prelude To You

When I arrived at my office in the south wing, Byron was already pacing in front of the ornate iron gate at the entrance. On the outside, we were cut from the same cloth. Byron was as tall as I was, and we shared the same Belmont features, down to our father’s black hair and blue eyes.

But where I took care of myself, Byron overgroomed; his manicures alone required twice-monthly trips to Los Angeles. Apparently the Beverly Hills crowd took their grooming seriously. Byron liked to be surrounded by people who shared his values in life.

Separated by two years and a world of difference, we were brothers but definitely not friends. He had everything going for him; born into wealth with zero responsibility, good looks he maintained impeccably, and a certain charm that had women dropping their panties without him even asking them first.

Right now he was a cauldron of brewing tension and discontent. The gate was only unlocked when I was inside my office, and not having free access never sat well with him.

“The least you could do is have a bench out here for your waiting subjects,” Byron said, his mouth drawn into a disparaging grin sneer.

“Good morning to you too, Byron,” I countered, as lightly as I could. The last thing I needed, on top of everything else, was Byron throwing one of his tantrums. Which was almost a given. I punched the gate code into my phone. Once in the office, Byron continued pacing.

“You’re going to have to make this quick,” I warned him. “I have to prepare for the board meeting later today.”

“Work, of course. Poor Roman, carrying the cross all the way up to Calvary.”

“Let’s not turn this into a five-act opera,” I said. “Get to the point, please.”

“Like you don’t know what this is about,” he complained. “What’s with you putting a goddamn veto on my expense account.”

“Because until you learn to respect the money you never lift a finger to earn, you can probably learn from working with a budget like everyone else.”

“You’re so full shit,” he said, barely able to control himself. “I’ve said to you a thousand times, give me something to do and I will.”

“Propose something, Byron, and then we go from there. I’m not going to put you in charge of anything that can hurt the trust if you fuck it up.”

“See, you already anticipate my fucking it up, Roman. I can’t win here.”

“You’ve given me zero proof that you won’t fuck it up, and you’ve given me a thousand reasons why you probably will. As I said, give me a proposal and we go from there.”

“Fine. But give me a goddamn break with the expense account, will you?”

“I’ll consider it,” I relented. “Are we done?”

“Not quite,” he said, the bitter scorn turning his mouth into a thin line of retaliation. “So, I had an interesting chat yesterday with Celeste Van Buren.”

I gave my brother a warning glare. “You know if Porter finds out you’re fucking his wife there’s going to be hell to pay. And that’s not something I can bail you out of.”

Byron paced around, preparing to drop a bombshell. “She said two nights ago you were dragging around some precious stray you made queen for the night, and then promptly abandoned outside the hotel at two in the morning. And apparently when Celeste offered her some sound advice, the little bitch had the nerve to insult her. Some stellar choices you’re making these days, Roman.”

My insides roiled at the thought of Isabel having to deal first with Steven, and then with Celeste Van Buren. I didn’t want to imagine what Celeste’s sound advice might have been. My thoughts blurred into a haze of regret. All I had to do was wake up with Isabel, and not throw her to the wolves because I couldn’t deal with my own fucking despair.

My shock turned into straight-up resentment. But there was absolutely nothing I could do or say because the last thing I wanted Byron to know was that I cared for Isabel. He’d have noqualms about turning her misery into something catastrophic, just to punish me. I had to convince him that I couldn’t care less.

It took me a few seconds before I answered, and even as my body was vibrating with the restraint it took to not throw him out of my office, I presented the picture of indifference. “Oh well, so it goes. I can’t imagine what you’d like me to do about it now.”

“Wow, that’s cold, even for you,” Byron said, a derisive look tarnishing his features. “My psychiatrist calls it denial. Inability to process feelings. Not to mention lack of ability to communicate.”

“Byron, at a thousand dollars an hour I expect you to pull your own damn life together and not analyze mine.”

It took every ounce of willpower to stay even-keeled as I watched Byron plant himself casually on the Chesterfield. “Well, perhaps you should apologize to Celeste for your little bitch’s behavior. After all, Celeste was a guest at your hotel.”

“The day I apologize to Celeste Van Buren for anything is the day hell freezes over,” I said grimly.

“Okay,” Byron said. “But I have to say I’m surprised; I thought the Belmont was off-limits for scoring sex.”

“Can’t say I feel the need to explain myself to you or anyone,” I heard myself say. “And I don’t know why you’re getting so comfortable on that couch, because we’re done here for today.”

Byron dragged himself from the couch and sauntered toward the door. “You’re so warm and fuzzy, Roman. Always making me feel so welcome. But you know, the day that will is read, I take my share and you’ll never see me again.”

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