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It’s not the Sinclair jewels, although I’m sure my piece that sits on offer comes with its own manufactured challenge from my dead father.
No. It’s something else.
Five foot two, maybe three. Female.
Inconsequential.
And yet this creature is proving more difficult to squash than I thought.
Zoey Smith.
I shouldn’t even know her fucking name.
She’s a hold out on the block. The tiny but strong roadblock I need to eliminate before I can begin.
But everyone has a price and her tiny hole-in-the-wall store can’t hold up against me or my money. Someone is sweetening the offer right this very minute. The amount on offer, the bells and whistles it comes with, is beyond what her place is worth, but getting her out of my way is worth it. Only a fool would reject my offer. And money always wins. It’s only a matter of time.
And that time is now. She’ll sign tonight, and I’ll hit the ground running tomorrow.
I’m not worried at all.
Someone knocks on the door. I look up. My mother stands there. Tall, glamorous, and impeccably dressed. I grit my teeth as she approaches across the white-washed wooden floor and comes up to my marble and steel desk in a flurry of expensive perfume.
“Magnus—”
“Now’s not the time, Mother.” I flick a glance at her, a suspicious one. I love her, but with the letter appearing, I don’t trust her. I know exactly where I get my devious streak from, and she’s in my office right now.
“I’m your mother. Make time.”
“Time’s money and I’m working.”
“You’re always working, Magnus.”
I raise a brow. “There’s always work to be done and money to be made. And I’m in the middle of something huge.”
“As always.”
I want to be annoyed by that, but it’s true. So I just fold my arms and wait. The woman’s here for something and I’ve a pretty good idea what it is.
She frowns as she rests a hip against my desk, one long, tastefully painted fingernail tapping on the letter. “You’re as driven as him.”
“My father?” I laugh softly and shake my head. “Don’t compare us.”
The sigh is soft, loaded with disappointment. “You just got the letter. The Sinclair jewels are—”
“I’m not the one who cares about them. And I haven’t, ever. That would be Ryder. He can have mine.”
“Magnus.”
I raise a hand. “Jewels are jewels, Mother. Pretty, but useless and a terrible investment.”
“It’s not always about money, Magnus,” she says quietly, looking up past me to the huge wall of windows where we can see the river and Brooklyn beyond. “This is about family.”
Part of me wants to say fuck family, but I don’t. “Don’t tell me my brothers have sent you in to convince me to get married. Hudson’s gone and done that. I’m not interested.”
“Did you read it?”
“Someone else can have my share. Again, Ryder,” I say. “We’re billionaires, and the jewels are pointless baubles.”
