Note to Readers:
This book is intended for those who can approach heavy, intense subjects without becoming overly emotional or upset. It deals with tough situations that may be unsettling, so please proceed with caution if you're sensitive to themes of betrayal, manipulation, or injustice.
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Samuel stretched out on the couch, reached for his wine glass, and rolled his eyes as Mr. Corallo launched into yet another lecture. The man's voice was background noise now, just another thread in the tapestry of expectations Samuel had long stopped caring about.
"Get good grades," "Finish school," "Take your place at Nickel Boron." Always the same speech. Always from someone who had no idea who he was.
He tapped his foot against the opposite knee, leg bouncing. Still in his pajama pants and an expensive silk shirt, he had barely hung up from a call with his mother, vacationing in Vegas, probably losing money she hadn't earned. She'd delivered the usual script: The company needs you, Samuel. Be ready to take over from your aging father.
Right.
Bonnie Boron loved reminding him how grateful she was to have him, how lucky they were to have someone to carry the family name. A name bought with marriage and maintained with appearances.
He shifted on the cushion. Mr. Corallo, oblivious to Samuel's disdain, droned on, flipping papers and mispronouncing half the terminology.
"You mean basic training," Samuel corrected coolly.
Mr. Corallo adjusted his glasses. "Yes—yes, of course. My apologies." He cleared his throat. "As I was saying, Nickel Boron's valuation has surpassed a trillion dollars, making it the premier oil empire globally. Your father expects you—"
"To care," Samuel muttered, swirling the wine in his glass. "And yet, I don't."
Corallo faltered but kept going. He always did. Hired to prepare Samuel for succession, the man was relentless. But Samuel didn't want any of it. Corporate legacies, executive meetings, oil markets, it all sounded like a death sentence dressed in polished shoes and power ties.
And Corallo, bless him, was being paid a fortune to make sure Samuel didn't tank the family business.
"Do you even hear yourself?" Samuel said. "You talk like a dying engine."
"I—I'm simply doing my job," Corallo stammered.
"How much is the old man paying you?" Samuel asked lazily. "Whatever it is, I'll triple it if you promise never to show your face again."
"I can't accept that."
Samuel tilted his head. "When was the last time you had a haircut?"
"Excuse me?"
"Your collar's stained. Shoes aren't polished. And you speak like you haven't had sleep since 2003." He smirked. "Got a daughter? Tall? Sharp? Speaks fluently? I could date her for two days. She wouldn't regret it."
Corallo stiffened. "I have two daughters, both older than you."
"Perfect. I like them older."
"Master Samuel, your father would be—"
"More disappointed than usual? I doubt it." Samuel tossed back the last drop of wine and let the empty glass fall onto the table with a clink. "Anyway, I'm done."
"We still have thirty minutes left in the session," Corallo pressed. "It's important that we cover—"
"The company," Samuel said with mocking finality. "Nickel Boron, the sacred empire. Save the sermon, Padre. You're fired."
Corallo blinked. "Only your father can—"
"You're dismissed," Samuel snapped, already walking toward the stairs.
"You'll regret this," the tutor called after him. "Your father won't be pleased."
"Neither will my wine cellar," Samuel muttered. "Shut up and leave. That's an order."
⸻
Vivian stared at her phone, scrolling again.
She couldn't stop thinking about them, the five impossibly perfect boys who had walked into the bar like they owned it. All laughter and swagger, their tailored jackets catching the low lights like gold. She'd watched from behind the counter, wishing she'd been the one serving them instead of Clata, the redhead with the fake laugh and fake charm.
Clata always seemed to get the best tables, and the manager's attention. Vivian had her theories, but she kept them to herself.
She especially couldn't stop thinking about Harrison Charley. That voice. That smirk. That disinterest, which somehow only made him hotter.
"Ugh, he's too handsome," she muttered.
"Who?" Anna asked, looking up from her notebook.
Vivian startled, she hadn't realized Anna was beside her on the bed.
Anna snatched the phone. "Harrison," she said knowingly. "Why am I not surprised? You practically daydream his name."
Vivian rolled her eyes but didn't deny it.
"Why don't you just talk to him at school?" Anna asked.
Vivian scoffed. "Yeah, that'll go well. 'Hi Harrison, I watch you like a Netflix drama and think you're too pretty to function.' Not creepy at all."
Anna laughed and turned her attention back to the mess of papers in her lap. Her mind wandered to earlier that day, leaving campus, a luxury car had passed and someone had tossed a plastic bottle at her. Inside: Daniel Gundi, the one who looked like a sculpture and acted like the world belonged to him.
He hadn't even blinked.
Their fathers' faces were on every magazine cover. Property empires, oil empires, stock empires. And then there was Vivian, who was very much not an empire.
"Why are they everything a girl wants?" Vivian sighed.
"They're rude," Anna replied without looking up.
"They're rich."
"They're obnoxious."
"They're also hot," Vivian said, dreamy again.
"And you're obsessed."
Vivian didn't argue. She had fallen for all five of them the moment she arrived on campus, and apparently, she wasn't the only one. They were legends. Untouchable. Worshipped.
"Anyway," Anna muttered, "they don't even top their classes."
"They don't have to. That's what their money's for."
Anna rolled her eyes and changed the subject. "Mum made apple pie. Kitchen. Want some?"
"Hell yes!" Vivian grinned.
Anna's mother baked one every Saturday before returning to her nursing job three hours away. Her father had died before she was born. Anna was used to being self-sufficient, and Vivian knew it.
"Tomorrow's Friday," Vivian said. "Let's go out. My treat."
Anna hesitated.
"No excuses," Vivian insisted. "No brooding. Just us and some poor decisions."
Anna smiled faintly. Maybe poor decisions weren't such a bad idea.
******
Clinton woke to a chill. The sheets, though expensive, clung to him with an unwelcome coldness. He yawned and tossed the covers aside, rising from his bed with the sluggishness of someone whose body was awake, but mind was not. Today was important. He was set to tour the acres of land he'd handpicked for his future penthouse, a space he intended to craft into perfection.
The penthouse he currently occupied had only been his for week, purchased on impulse for its ocean view. Clinton had a weakness for high places, for glass and sky and the illusion of escape. He'd arranged everything: the helicopter was likely waiting on the roof; the architects were briefed. This wouldn't just be a residence, it would be his statement.