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Yes. Fate was very, very cruel.
He hadn’t been able to bring himself to leave the safety of Kent, the familiarity of the gleaming wood floors, the antique furniture he’d once scoffed at. Now he understood his father’s inability to get rid of the chesterfield sofa with its worn arms where he’d once sat with his mother as they watched old movies. His refusal to sell the faded Persian rug in front of the fireplace where Griffith had sat in the winter and opened Christmas presents.
Too late, he saw the value, saw the wisdom of his father’s words, understood the caution urged upon him not to get too caught up in opulence and bank statements. With both his parents gone now, the pieces of furniture were no longer old heirlooms he wanted to replace, the home no longer old and lacking the polish he preferred in his purchases. Now the sofas and rugs and chairs inspired memories of times he could never get back. The home welcomed him with open arms, despite all the disparaging remarks he’d made.
Much as his parents had.
Kent had become a harbor, a place to hide. The familiarity of his surroundings, the warmth of a place he’d once called home, had given him the kind of solace none of his ritzy penthouses and expensive town houses had.
But his refuge had been ruined a week ago when he’d been out walking along the shores of the private lake and a light had flashed in the trees. The next day, a picture of him looking down at the ground had appeared on the front of a tabloid magazine. The picture had been a touch out of focus, enough to blur the worst of his scars. But it was evident that the man who had once been lauded as one of the handsomest in Europe was no longer so.
The story had included a full recounting of the car accident that had claimed the life of his father, Belen Lykaois. It had also revealed that the head of Lykaois Shipping had been worth far more than hundreds of millions of dollars. He had been worth billions.
Billions that had been left to his sole surviving heir, Griffith Lykaois.
The phone calls had started less than an hour later. The vultures had descended, including invitations to charity galas, private yacht vacations, dinner parties and of course more investments, scams, people clawing for a piece of his wealth.
Wealth he had once dreamed of. Wealth he could barely now stomach the thought of possessing.
Kacey’s call had been the final straw. He’d just gotten off the phone with his secretary in London who had been fielding calls for interviews, events and the like. His private cell phone had rung, and he’d answered without checking.
Kacey had greeted him with that nickname he’d loathed—Griff—and told him she missed him and could she see him please to apologize—
He’d tossed the phone out the window into the pond below without a second thought.
Security had caught two more paparazzi later that evening. His sanctuary tainted, he’d taken his limo down to London, to the one place he knew would be as secure, if not more so, than Buckingham Palace.
The Diamond Club.
He’d walked into the lobby from a private back entrance off the mews and been greeted by a portly man with a beak-like nose and one of the most elaborate silver moustaches he’d ever seen. Lazlo, as the man had introduced himself with a deferential bow, had led him across the marbled floor of the grand hall and up a sweeping staircase. The hallway had been covered in silk carpeting that masked the sound of their footsteps as they’d walked to a black door with a gold number eight.
He’d been here for six days now, stalking around the suite like a caged animal. That Griffith’s father had had it decorated not for himself, but for his son, had been obvious. Soaring windows with black trim on one side, an accent wall of red brick, and creamy-colored paint elsewhere balanced warmth with the industrial look Griffith favored. After his mother’s death, he’d grown to detest the old-world charm of their estate in Kent. The style he imagined his father would have selected if he’d decorated for himself. But Belen had chosen gleaming metal and glass, the style Griffith preferred that, as Griffith had argued numerous times, signified progress.
Whenever Griffith looked around, at the leather furniture, at the original artwork on the walls, he didn’t experience any pleasure. Just shame. Shame and a deep-rooted self-loathing that he had rejected everything his father stood for, kept him at arm’s length for so long while Belen had continued to love him from afar. He’d even eschewed his own preferences as he decorated the Diamond Club suite for his ungrateful son.
Griffith had everything he’d talked of wanting, only to find that he was missing the one thing he’d had all along and never appreciated. The last conversation he’d had with his father, more of an argument than a discussion, had been an old one. Belen had been concerned about...well, everything. Griffith’s long work hours. His relationship with Kacey. His spending.
“I don’t spend your money,” Griffith had snapped as he stopped at a light. “I spend the money I earn. You yourself just acknowledged I work my ass off for this company.”
“And for what?” Belen retorted. “Rolex watches? Paintings and sculptures you stash away in one of your numerous penthouses?”
“You own beautiful things.”
“Yes, and I enjoy them. I don’t just buy them to have them. Your grandfather built Lykaois Shipping from nothing. My early years were poor. Your grandfather lived most of his life poor. To have the wealth we have now—”
“Is earned, not a right,” Griffith finished. The edge in his voice widened the growing chasm between them.
Belen had sighed, a sigh that cut straight through Griffith’s anger and lodged in the part of his heart that would always be a boy seeking his father’s approval.
“There’s more to life, son, than things.”
“Things are like trophies. Evidence of success. The result of hard work.” His hands tightened on the wheel. “Tangible.”
Griffith shoved the memory away before he could relive what had followed. He moved to the balcony, leaned his forehead against the cool glass. Plush chairs surrounded a glass fire pit. Wrought iron fencing rose up just high enough to interrupt prying eyes from nearby buildings. Black lanterns fixed to the fencing gleamed bright as gray clouds rolled across the sky, growing darker with impending rain.
What was he going to do? Lykaois Shipping, his grandfather’s pride and the legacy that had elevated their family from poverty-stricken resistance fighters in World War II to the upper echelons of the world’s wealthy, was being run by an efficient team in his absence. No one had questioned his request for a yearlong sabbatical. Between his extensive injuries and his father’s death, not to mention the international scrutiny, the board had vocalized complete support in the virtual meeting he’d conducted. He’d kept his camera turned off.
Not because they’d wanted to be rid of him. No, as his executive assistant had shared, they wanted him to rest so that he would come back stronger than ever. After he’d been put in charge of the British division of Lykaois Shipping five years ago, everything had soared: the company’s share of container traffic, accuracy, profits. The board wanted him to do the same for the entire company. Even if they had to wait a year for him to bury his ghosts and adjust to his new reality.
