Two

Savory scents lure me from a dreamless sleep. Eggs? And bacon, I think. Along with…

Damn. The hint of cologne betrays that this isn’t an ordinary meal, and I groan into my pillow. Barring his daily deliveries of bread slices, Hunter has only brought me breakfast in bed three times in my life. Once on the morning Mama died. The second occurence was the morning after I split my winter formal gown in tenth year and ran sobbing from the ballroom. And, of course, the day of Brandt’s trial.

“I’m not hungry,” I grumble without lifting my head from my pillow.

Nonetheless, his footsteps persist, creeping over my Persian rug toward my bed. There’s a thud, like that of Mama’s antique silver tray being set down on my dresser, followed by the hiss of Hunter’s heavy sigh.

“Snowy…”

Oh dear. He certainly sounds grumpy. My absence from the party must have caused more of a scene than I’d anticipated. What a scandal.

“I know, I know.” I stick one hand out from beneath my duvet and gesture dismissively. “I’ve brought shame upon the Hollings name. I’ll organize a brunch with Daniel to make up for it.”

A few simpering looks over tea should cool any remaining embarrassment. Right as rain, we’ll send out our glossy, official announcements and plan our four-page spread in the society pages. Publicity is the cure to any relationship strife. At least in my world.

“I’m not talking about the damn gala,” Hunter replies.

“Oh?” I stiffen at his tone. “Then what?”

“We… Fuck, I’ll just come out and say it: Daniel won’t be available for brunch any time soon, Snowy.”

“What do you mean?” My mouth wrinkles, and I find myself twisting a wad of sheets around my fingers. Has Sloane’s seduction finally won her the coveted prize? “Why?”

“Because he’s going to be in prison, most likely. Federally indicted on charges of money laundering and fraud.”

I laugh. “Very funny—”

“Would I honestly joke about something like this?”

Alarm draws me from my den of blankets. Hunter rarely sounds like this. Hard. Clipped. So much like our father.

I peel the corner of my duvet back and roll over to face him. He’s frowning, and more unease unfurls in my chest. I start to stand, dislodging a small object that rolls to the edge of my bed. Hunter catches it, giving it a shake. The pill bottle.

My shoulders tense with dread. Normally he’d spout off some speech about the perils of overdosing. Today, he tosses me the bottle. “Take two of those and join me in Mama’s study,” he says gruffly. “I’ll get your robe.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m seated in the upstairs drawing room while Hunter spreads butter on a piece of toast. He lavishes concentration on the act as if his sole motive for dragging me out of bed was to show off his skills with a butter knife.

Not unload a torrent of information that throws our lives into chaos.

“James only found out last night,” he explains, naming one of the men on the Hollings Enterprises board of directors. “The official indictment isn’t until Thursday, but apparently, some whistleblower snuck the Feds enough intel to open an investigation that’s been ongoing for months. The building’s been forfeited, with the newest shareholder already installed. The board called an emergency meeting two nights ago and kept it all a fucking secret.”

I swallow hard. He sounds so damn calm. Hunter, with moods so volatile Mama compared him to a thunderstorm, rarely showed this kind of restraint. In fact, I’ve only seen him like this twice before. Once when Papa cornered him about white residue the maids found on his bathroom sink, and the time a rumor spread that he’d gotten Penelope Granger pregnant.

Burgeoning drug use and scandal seem preferable now. My head spins with everything he told me. I keep replaying the sordid details, pairing them with the gilded elegance of last night.

Did Daniel know then the legal trouble facing him?

Did Hunter?

I ask him.

“Not quite.” He continues to swipe the edge of a knife against the toasted slice of bread. Flecks of brown exterior flake off beneath the brutal motion, revealing the softer, white interior. Swipe. Swipe. He wears a hole right through the creamy insides without seeming to realize. “Rumors like that float around all the time in this business. Here. Eat your breakfast.”

He shoves the mutilated toast at me. One look at my brother’s face and I know better than to refuse. With his more delicate bone structure and blue eyes, Hunter normally is about as different from Papa as someone can be. Well, someone other than Ronan. Though, lately, I see more hints of the old Hollings patriarch peering out from behind his shrewd gaze. It’s all in the way he looks at me sometimes. Less like a brother and more like a manager of one of our many properties, seeking out flaws while devising the best ways to hide them.

He’s a Hollings, after all.

“Snowy, please eat the damn toast.”

I take a bite and woodenly chew while my gaze wanders the room. Of all the places to ruin with his bad news, it had to be this one—the last sacred space in the entire house. Mama used to gather us here to either deliver a lecture or read us stories. Fantasies, usually. The kind involving knights and princesses—Ronan’s and my favorites. She would sit in that leather upholstered chair near the window overlooking the garden with her feet propped up on the matching ottoman. Ronan would curl up on the floor while I claimed her lap. Ever the stoic one, Hunter would stand behind her and pretend to be disinterested, but I would always catch him reading over her shoulder.

“Snowy?” He’s watching me now, standing near the fireplace. He’s holding a book, presumably snatched from the bookshelf, and rifles through the pages without reading them. His fingers shake. The next page he accosts tears. Sighing, he closes the book. Inhales. Then he throws it across the room so violently that it ricochets off the framed portrait of some distant ancestor. “Have you been listening to a fucking word I’ve said?”

I jump reflexively, but I’m not afraid. “Yes,” I reply, surprising myself. I sound so damn casual, as if this is a regular morning occurrence. Though, maybe in our family, such things are. Regular. Like clockwork. Scandal and ruin tick ever closer like a ruthless minute hand. All we ever do is turn back the clock. “I heard you crystal clear: We’re ruined.”

Scowling, Hunter snatches another book from the bookshelf and noisily flips through the pages as if the text might contain the answers to fixing this mess.

I decide to keep talking, processing the jumble of bombshells he just dropped. “You won’t be indicted, thankfully, but Daniel will—and the board is already shaken. They’ve voted you out with no notice. You knew his ‘methods’ were questionable, but the returns were too good to resist. So, while you never participated in his dealings yourself, you knowingly allowed him access to much of our stock and assets. When he’s convicted—and he will be—we won’t be legally vulnerable, but we’ll lose everything he had a hand in. The condos in St. Martin. The villas in the Alps. The properties in Frankfurt, Paris, and Milan, and just about everything we own in the States. Have I missed something?”

He remains silent while I take another deliberate bite of toast. My jaw works to chew, and I swallow without tasting a damn thing.

“That, however, isn’t the worst of it,” I continue. He mumbled this information amid delivering the other blows, but I’m a Hollings. We’re trained from birth to decipher truth from lies. “Even if we lost everything, with your connections, we could easily earn it all back. But you sold stock to Daniel before our marriage. To ‘sweeten the deal,’ I suspect.”

After all, his sister wasn’t enough to entice such a powerful entrepreneur. Oh, no. Hunter had to play his favorite game; he had to gamble.

“However, without your knowledge, Daniel had the stocks auctioned off in a desperate attempt to buy more time. So, not only are we ruined, but we’re destitute.”

“Snowy!” He flinches as though I’ve slapped him. Carefully, he closes the book in his grip and returns it to the shelf. Tension ripples through his shoulders, disrupting the fabric of his tailored gray suit. “What do you want me to say?” he demands.

“Oh, I’m getting to that.” I choke my last bit of toast down and fold my hands neatly on my lap. “You wouldn’t be telling me all of this if that was where the problem extended. I know all about how this family works.”

A web of complex secrets and lies, interwoven with a masochistic need for self-preservation at any cost. Someone bought our accounts, but he, my vindictive older brother, hasn’t mentioned who. I hate the knot forming at the base of my throat, blocking the passage of anything solid. Mushed-up bread sits heavily on my tongue. My stomach heaves. Speaking requires twice the usual effort, but I have to say something, if only to accuse him of the worst.

“Tell me that what I’m thinking—what you want me to do—isn’t true.”

His knuckles whiten as he snatches yet another book from the shelf: a heavy tome on the art of war and subterfuge. It’s the resounding theme of every book in this damn room. War. Deceit. Deception. Mama always brought her own, smuggled from where Papa couldn’t reach. To her, we were children, but to him?

We were tools.

“Fine,” I say, turning my attention to the cooling tray of food. Eggs. Bacon. Another piece of toast. I pile the former ingredients onto the slice using my bare hands. With every messy plop of egg and meat, Hunter stiffens. “So,” I begin while arranging my monstrosity on a plate. “Who bought our stocks?”

He doesn’t even face me. “I don’t know. His name is Blake Lorenz. Apparently, he’s some new upstart bastard from Germany. From what I heard, he somehow got the board’s unanimous support practically over-fucking-night. God, it’s all gone, Snowy. The fucker even bought Bolles.”

A shiver runs through me at the mention of Papa’s notorious gentlemen’s club. Rumors claim that its wealthy members traded more than cigars and gossip there. Most girls had the threat of the boogeyman looming overhead to keep them in line. I had the promise of Bolles and whispered stories of the women traded like cattle inside its walls should I ever consider straying from my parents’ wishes.

“Ah…” I stare resolutely at my breakfast creation while running my fingers along the rim of one of Mama’s finest, white china plates. I lift it by the painted edge, balancing its weight on my palm. One tilt of my hand sends it on a slow-motion fall to the floor. Smash! It’s suddenly a million pieces and my brother has the nerve to flinch. “I am not a prostitute!”

“Keep your voice down!” Hunter snaps, but he’s even louder than I am. He whirls on me, his fists clenched, his face reddening. “You think I want to send my little sister to spy on some opportunistic piece of shit?”

“‘Spy?’ That’s a rich word for it! And why shouldn’t I think so?” I demand. “You’ve done it before. You’ve all done it before. After all, being a Hollings ‘means something.’ It means whoring yourself out to anyone desperate for a taste of the family name!”

“That is enough!”

I blink. For a split second, Hunter isn’t the one glaring at me, puffed up with arrogance and rage. Numb, I slide two fingers down to my wrist, and a hard pinch puts everything into perspective. Papa’s still dead; my brother hasn’t completed his transformation into him yet.

“All you have to do is ask to see the damn man,” he snarls. “As a worried fiancée. Or have you already fucking forgotten about the man you supposedly love?”

“Oh, no you don’t. I gave you what you wanted.” My vision blurs as my voice cracks on a bleating note. God, not now. I swipe my hand across my cheeks in vain. Warmth coats them a second later. “You said, ‘We need investment dollars, Snowy.’ So, I gave you Daniel—”

“Yeah, as much good that fucking criminal has done for us, huh?”

“You said we were done with this. You’d never ask me again—”

“I didn’t expect the bastard to wind up in a goddamn federal sting, now did I?”

“You know what this feels like!” I can’t stop my bottom lip from trembling. No. I curl my hands into fists, sinking my nails into the surface of my palms in a bid for control. Hard. Harder. The burning pain isn’t enough to combat the ache ripping through my chest. Being used by your brother hurts—go figure. “You know—”

“Don’t,” Hunter warns. “Don’t you fucking go there.”

I have no choice. “All those times Papa would make you ‘golf’ with that wealthy French bastard who bankrolled our expansion?”

“Stop it, Snowy.” He advances a step, his jaw clenched. He won’t hurt me, but I have no qualms about hurting him.

“Or when he had you ‘accompany’ that rich Swedish bitch with the inheritance he coveted? Remember those ‘favors,’ huh, Hunter? You hated it!”

“And I did it anyway!” he shouts, my eardrums ringing with the force of it. “Because I give a damn about this fucking family. And I may have had to sit on some pervert’s lap and call him ‘uncle,’ but I never lied. I never got someone killed—” He deflates, his face paling, shoulders slumping. “Snowy, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry.” He starts toward me, but I lurch to my feet.

“Stay the hell away from me.”

“Snowy!”

He chases me down the hall to my room, and I barely manage to slam the door before he can push his way in. The second I lock it, the wooden frame rattles, startling me. He must have thrown his weight against it.

“Snowy, open the fucking door!”

I say nothing. Instead, I march to my bed and fish my bottle of Xanax from the sheets. Only two land on my palm when I shake it. I swallow both and head for my bathroom. The woman I find watching me from the mirror’s reflection is a stranger. Bloodshot eyes. Bloated, grotesque frame. A Snowy from ten years ago who sold her soul and drove the only boy she ever loved to his death. She’s fucking disgusting.

I swipe at her, willing her away. Gradually, she morphs into someone new. Slender. Older. Colder. Someone who would do anything to protect the Hollings name.

Because it fucking means something.

Closing my eyes, I inhale raggedly. Then exhale. With my vision still obscured, I run cold water from the faucet and splash some on my face. Then I smooth my hair back into a bun before just letting it fall. The more disheveled I look, the better.

As hopeless as a doomed prince from a morbid little fairy tale, Hunter uses underhanded tricks to get his way. Ronan prefers charm, and Papa employed a mixture of blackmail and intimidation. Meanwhile, my currency was always feeding off the pity of others like a parasite and using it to my advantage.

I leave my cheeks tear-stained and flushed. From my wardrobe, I pick the most modest dress I own in a soft shade of ivory, harkening to my impending marriage. I dress slowly, ruminating over every little detail: a white pair of gloves to convey a delicate nature, a fox fur stole to portray ignorance of my impending poverty. Compiling my ruse is like putting together a costume. I’ve done this so many times, having performed way too many acts to name. So is the life of a Hollings: a minor role in a never-ending play.

When I finally approach my door, the knocking has ceased. Opening it, I find Hunter sitting on the floor, his back to me. His eyes are as bloodshot as mine are, and his brow furrows as he takes in my appearance while rising to his feet.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” he starts, placing his hands on my shoulders.

I scan his face, hunting for honesty. There are none of the telltale signs of deception I’ve been trained to look for. No hints of our father—for now.

“You never said that before,” I admit, hesitating over the words. “About me lying.”

And he never has. Not even back then when I accused our family friend of the unthinkable.

“And I know you didn’t.” He runs his fingers through my hair, smoothing my loose curls away from my face. It’s something he used to do when we were younger and he took his job as my big brother and protector too seriously. “I’m a fool. I should have never said that—”

“I’m sorry too,” I admit. “Though, in a way…doesn’t this all feel somewhat like we deserve this? After what Papa did to…”

“No.” Guilt flashes through Hunter’s gaze before he manages to squash it, as any Hollings would. “Don’t go there,” he warns, but I can tell from his tone that he’s aiming for the gentle route. He strokes my cheek and ruffles my hair again. “The Lloyds were criminals, Snowy.”

Criminals. Harrison Lloyd and my father were business partners for years. Until, one day, they weren’t. Harrison was accused of fraud, severed from their joint company, and thrown in prison. His son died not long after, though he suffered a much worse fate.

“It feels like karma,” I say. My heart churns bitter acknowledgment through my blood. Whatever is happening now, we deserve it.

“Bullshit,” Hunter says fiercely. “We aren’t like them, and you want to know why? Because we fight for what we deserve. Snowy, I know I promised before, but I can’t stand by and watch everything we’ve built burn to the ground. Ronan won’t give a shit. But you and I—” His grip on my shoulders tightens almost to the point of pain, not that he seems to realize. He’s staring through me, into the past, reliving all the horrible things he’s done in the name of family. “We’ve always done what must be done. Even if it kills us.”

And, now, he wants me to track down a certain German investor and flash a smile or grovel at his feet. Anything to get inside the man’s head. He doesn’t have to say it.

Our father drilled the blueprint for manipulation into our very souls.

“I don’t want to fight anymore,” I croak. “And bringing up old wounds won’t help us now.”

Hunter sighs as I smooth my hand through his neatly coiffed hair and finger his wrinkled lapel. He’s right. Ronan lives in bliss while we are forced to dwell in the darkness of our family. Being a Hollings is inescapable for the rest of us.

As Papa repeatedly claimed, it means something.

“You’re right,” I say thickly as grudging acceptance solidifies in my stomach. “We always do what must be done… So tell me where to go.”