11

In the basement, they spun lazily on bucket seats at Warren’s bar. Victoria rarely used it, relegated to the upstairs for the social gatherings he insisted she host, but tonight was special. She tried on Warren’s space like an old sweater, and it felt good. Right.

She poured two glasses of Pinot while Teagan rambled on about her latest romantic escapade. Forever incapable of settling down. Jumping from one hookup to the next. Never staying still long enough to grow roots. She wasn’t judging Teagan, though.

Or maybe she was, but as the older and wiser sister, Victoria was allowed to hold Teagan to a different standard.

Okay, that was also bullshit. She didn’t care about Teagan’s promiscuity. Even the word itself bothered her. The negative connotation that being single and exploring somehow made her a lesser person. This wasn’t some Victorian era melodrama where a bare ankle was scandalous, and Victoria clearly wasn’t hanging her hat in the matrimonial bliss column.

If she were being honest, it wasn’t the sex that she took issue with. It was the freedom she envied. The unburdened ability to make her own choices. Where would Victoria be if she’d never married Warren? Would her father have given her control of the company? Would she have been overshadowed by another partner who adhered to the old-school values of the boys’ club?

Would she still be considering murder?

“Vicky-Icky, did you hear me? Hell-o?”

God, the nicknames. Victoria detested the nicknames Teagan had given her over the years. Rhyming, ridiculous, super embarrassing. Teagan knew this but made them up anyway. Her immature streak knew no bounds.

Teagan waved dramatically for her attention, her face contorted into dumb expectance like this wasn’t the first or fifth time she’d said her name. Victoria sipped her wine and scrambled for any detail from the story Teagan was telling. Something about his hands? Or the plans? Fuck it, she hadn’t been listening at all.

“Sorry. Spaced out there for a second.”

“Do I need to remind you about how conversations work?” Teagan asked, letting her annoyance take over. “One person speaks. The other—”

“I said I was sorry, gees. What more do you want?”

“A blood oath would be aces,” she said.

“I’ll get right on that,” Victoria deadpanned. “Go on, corrupt me with tales of your misguided sexual adventures. I swear I’m listening.”

“No, dear sister, I think I’m done sharing for today. I’m always the one to spill the beans.”

“There are just so many beans, it’s hard to keep track,” she said, gesturing with her glass.

“Beans are all the same. Beans are boring. Tell me something new with you. How are you? What’s going on in the world of Victoria Eloise Reginald Tate?”

Victoria checked the time again and rubbed an invisible spot on the bar top. “You’re incredibly persistent, you know that?”

Teagan preened. “Did you expect any less?”

“From you? Not a chance.”

Her tone softened, and that was almost as bad as the obnoxious nicknames. “Really, though, how are you?”

“I’m good,” Victoria offered. “Nothing new with me.”

“Except the hair.”

“Yes, except that.”

“Which has nothing to do with the ceiling getting repainted.”

“Not a thing.” Ten minutes until the town car was scheduled to arrive.

“Or your marriage.”

“Christ, Teags, sometimes a haircut is just a haircut.”

“You know what your problem is?” Teagan asked. She brushed a wisp of long auburn hair off her shoulder and sat a little straighter.

“I didn’t know I had a problem.”

“You do,” she said flatly. “And I’ll tell you what it is. You’re too serious. You don’t know how to relax. Ever. You’re always working. Or planning an event. Or networking. Or researching for a client. I’m tired just listing this stuff. You’re stressed way the fuck out, and that is sucking all the fun from your face. What little fun there was to begin with.”

“I’m fun,” Victoria said halfheartedly.

“You watch TikToks of people cleaning their houses.”

“Murder scenes, Teagan. I watch crime scene cleanups.”

“That’s not the flex you think it is. Why not take a vacation? Have a little romp in the sun with your handsome husband.”

Because Warren is demanding I quit my job to have a child, and I would rather kill him.

If only she could speak those words aloud and end Teagan’s prying.

Not that explaining her feelings had ever stopped her sister before.

If anything, it had burned whatever rickety bridge had connected them in the first place.

Their father had just been diagnosed with cancer. The doctors had given him a year to live. Victoria had wanted to streamline the process of her succession at that point, creating mock-ups of projections and a complete five-year plan.

He’d resisted.

Be patient, Teagan had said. Dad will come around. No one could run the company better than you, but he’s not ready to give up the reins yet. You know how he is. He thought he’d live forever, and now he’s got less than a year. Let him come to you in his own way. He will. I promise.

That promise had been as real as Teagan’s ass. Victoria had taken her advice—because their father favored Teagan. Because she’d thought that preferential treatment might pay off for once. But he hadn’t come around. Instead, he’d gone to Warren. The man who crowdsourced Facebook for his beard oil.

When the official announcement had come, Victoria had been blindsided, eating lunch with her traitorous husband at a café across from the office. Her phone had buzzed, Teagan’s name rolling down the screen. There was a second of dread that this was the text she’d been waiting for. The Dad’s dead message.

Have you seen the PR? Daddy named his successor. It’s Warren.

She’d read the message three times. Warren. Warren. Warren?

She’d met her husband’s gaze before the press release finished loading, finding the truth in his dopey mouth-tucked frown. He’d looked like he was about to ask her if she needed a lollipop. A shitty consolation prize.

“How could you?” Victoria had asked.

“Vic—”

“I’m your wife. Your partner. You watched me pour hours into proposals and pitches and didn’t say a goddamn word? Every day—for weeks, Warren, weeks—you just lied to my face.”

Warren had caressed her cheek, some performative healing gesture that had only fueled her anger. “I wanted to tell you.”

“Wanted to tell me—”

“I tried to fight for you.”

“Not very hard,” she’d said. They had both known it was true.

Warren didn’t bother contesting her point. He’d dropped the soft-blow, sugarcoated spiel he had clearly rehearsed and leveled with her. “Vic. Come on. It’s Jeremy fucking Livingston. The Reaper.”

He’d spoken about her father like he was an idol. She had wanted to break every one of his fingers as they twined with hers.

“I know who he is,” she’d said. “He’s my father.”

“But you also work for the man. You know the industry better than anyone else. You have to understand that you don’t say no to Jeremy Livingston.”

“Jesus Christ, Warren. You can’t be serious.”

“It’s been killing me keeping this from you, you have no idea—” She’d scoffed at that, but he hadn’t noticed. He never noticed. “—but now it’s all out in the open. And look, nothing has to change between us, not at home or at work. Okay? Trust me.”

Trust. Like he knew anything about what that meant. “Everything will change. You’ll be CEO.”

“And you’ll be my right-hand woman.” He’d taken said hand in his and winked, fucking winked, like they were partners in crime. Both in on the secret.

Gathering the pieces of her ego, Victoria had cleared the emotion from her throat and withdrawn from his grasp before he could feel her trembling. “Of course, darling,” she’d said. She couldn’t lose control. She had to get a handle on the situation and figure out a way for her father to renege on whatever deal he’d made with Warren. “I’ll be your number two. Congratulations. I’m so happy for you.”

The words had curdled on her tongue even as he’d rewarded her with his most charming smile, all teeth and tongue and blink-wink that was more endearing than successful. The blue of his eyes twinkling in victory.

That had been the first time she’d underestimated him, and she vowed to make it the last.