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“Fine.” Pulse racing, I strain a smile at an expectant Lana. “I’ll…I’ll do it. Don’t make me regret it.”

I’ll live for Mia—live enough for both of us, just like how Viola pretended to be Cesario in the play.

Even if I have to put up with the devil for a few weeks.

Chapter Six

“Whatwereyou thinking, Rex? They say you’re doing drugs. On your fucking birthday and the celebration of our inaugural cruise, no less.”

Maxwell tosses a pile of newspapers and tabloid magazines onto the coffee table in the two-story library at the Anderson Estate, our family home, where he now lives with his wife Belle and their toddler son, Levi.

He’s clearly pissed off, and I don’t blame him. We Andersons pride ourselves on keeping our reputations clean. Our ancestors were dukes and marquesses, and those manners had been hammered into us since before we could talk.

My copy of the perfection gene must be defective.

“Look, I’m not speaking to you as the CEO who’s worried about the cruise venture. I’m talking to you as your brother. You’re spiraling, Rex. What’s going on?” Maxwell leans forward and levels his penetrating gaze at me.

My head throbs. Casey and I may have hit the bar too hard last night. I barely slept because the damn nightmares kept me up again. And when I finally did, I had another blackout.

Woke up in my tub this time, water up to my chest. I could’ve drowned.

That would put me out of my misery. I snort.

But hey, it’s not sleepwalking. I drift back to my appointment with Dr. Kingston, a somnologist, two weeks ago. He’s the tenth doctor I’ve seen over the years for my random symptoms—intenseinsomnia, blackouts, random trembling and shakes, feeling my heart will give out at any moment.

This time, we did a sleep observation. According to my brain activity, I was apparently awake during my blackouts. Another diagnosis ruled out.

“See a neurologist and check out brain functions,”was his recommendation. The mole at the corner of his right eye sneered at me. He had an incessantly annoying habit of clicking his pen five times between every sentence.

I’m losing my marbles, literally.

Damn HSAM and photographic memories.

Fuck, I’m tired.

“Come on, lighten up. Now that you old farts are all tied down and enjoying domestic bliss and shit, someone’s gotta party it up on your behalf, right?” I chuckle. This usually works—deflecting, making jokes. “Save the death glare for the boardroom, bro. At least let me put on some armor first.”

The room falls silent. My pulse kicks up.

They aren’t falling for it.

“Rex? Talk to us. We’re your family,” Maxwell says.

They won’t understand even if I explain. They’ll just repeat what they told me all those years ago when Mom died—that it wasn’t my fault.

“Fuck. You couldn’t have done this at the gentlemen’s club? Or my apartment? You had to drag me up at the crack of dawn and haul me over here as punishment?”

I close my eyes. Even the dim morning light streaming in from the stained-glass windows worsens my headache.

“Did you miss the press camped outside The Orchid? Or all the nosy patrons?” This voice belongs to Ryland. The twins—always siding with each other.

“We’re worried about you,” Steven Kingsley murmurs. He’s a close friend and my brother-in-law now, since he married Grace two years ago.

“That’s what Casey said,” I mutter, my eyes flickering open.

Maxwell clears his throat, side-eyes Ryland, and the duo share one of those mysterious silent twin messages. I wonder what it’s like to have someone understand you without saying a word.

Must be nice.