- Zayne -

The air in the conference room was crisp and cold. I leaned back in his seat at the head of the long mahogany table, my expression disinterested. The gleam of my cufflinks caught the morning light.

"—And for the upcoming ad campaign," the marketing head droned on. A perpetual frown—his presence as uninspiring as the conversation. "The product line's focus is exclusivity. We need someone who embodies refinement—someone who appeals to both our high-end clientele and mainstream consumers. Suggestions?"

Another executive leaned forward, adjusting his glasses. "We've shortlisted a few names from the industry. However, none of those male models fully capture the essence we're looking for."

The word model caught my ear. My lips twitched, the faintest chuckle escaped me, a sound brief yet it brought the room to a standstill. Heads turned, the executives frozen in a tableau of unease.

My gaze remained unbothered by the ripple of tension my reaction had caused. "Go on," I said. "Don't let me interrupt."

The room exhaled collectively, the speaker fumbling to regain his momentum. But I was no longer listening. My thoughts had wandered to a different moment.

To her.

"Can you be my model?"

Her voice crept in uninvited—soft, uncertain. Shy. But her eyes—wide, blue, too damn clear—had told another story. There'd been something beneath that hesitation. A kind of intensity I recognized. A kind that demanded.

It had been a long time since a woman asked me for something that wasn't my money, name, or body. A long time since someone had wanted me for anything that wasn't transactional. It was almost cute listening to her fumble around.

I fucking hated that it stuck with me, just like the fresh scent of lavender shampoo that I wanted to bury my nose in her soft hair and breath in. So I taunted her. Twisted her innocent request into something she hadn't considered. To make her feel the same sick desire that I felt around her.

And she wasn't my type. I preferred very specific kinds of women—ones who understood the game. Experienced enough to match my pace, shameless enough to take what they wanted without fumbling over it. Women who could handle rough hands, a biting grip—a well-placed slap if they needed it.

And Yara?

She wasn't that kind of woman. She was the kind who needed coaxing. Sickly sweet words, slow kisses. Three months of dates before she'd even think about spreading those pretty thighs. A girl who wanted love before sex.

And yet—

I had the urge to ruin her.

I'd thought about fucking her since yesterday. Not just once. My jaw tightened. She was a pretty little thing with fire inside her. It was natural. A passing thought. Nothing more.

Still—I was on the verge of making a compromise I hadn't agreed to. Entertaining the idea of luring an innocent lamb into my bed.

And that irritated the hell out of me.

The leather groaned as I shifted, a flicker of heat trailing down my spine. My expression remained impassive, but for a fraction of a second—one I refused to acknowledge—she occupied my thoughts in a way I didn't like.

I leaned back, masking the lapse behind a disinterested glance around the room.

The meeting wrapped up. I cut through the murmuring. "Gentlemen, you have your directives. I expect results in the next report."

Muttered acknowledgments followed. Some nodded eagerly, others stiff with the weight of expectation. They filed out quickly. Good. I had no patience for wasted time.

The last of them disappeared. Silence settled in.

I exhaled slowly, letting my eyes shut just long enough to enjoy the stillness. A brief reprieve before the next move.

Of all the things I should be focusing on, she had the audacity to take up space in my mind. A girl too soft for my world. A distraction I couldn't afford.

So I let my thoughts shift.

To Maxwell.

His reaction when he received the severed eye surfaced, and with it, a flicker of dark satisfaction curled in my chest. A gift, courtesy of the mole he'd planted in my security team. His anger had been predictable. His fear—a delicious bonus.

He had underestimated me lately. They always did. Civility wasn't a weakness. It never had been.

There were bigger things to focus on, but for now—just for a moment—I allowed myself to enjoy knowing he was suffering.

And I needed to know what he was up to.

Moments later, a knock interrupted my dark thoughts.

"Miles," I said without opening my eyes.

"Sir." His tone was even. The sound of his shoes against the polished floor was unhurried He stopped a few feet from the conference desk, waiting. I opened my eyes. He had a tablet in hand. He didn't waste time. Didn't kiss asses, didn't need to. A rare trait.

"Update on the overseas trip, it's been scheduled," he said. "And a few situations that need your attention."

I studied him for half a beat. "How bad?"

A hint of dry humor flickered across his face. "That depends. Do you want to deal with an international investor's tantrum first, or the domestic headache?"

"Getting too comfortable, Miles?"

He smirked. "Apologies, sir."

I gestured for him to continue, as I rose from my chair. "Start with the bigger problem."

Miles fell in beside me, tablet in hand, his voice steady. "The chairman brought it up again."

Marriage. Again.

I exhaled through my nose, a slow, measured release of irritation. It wasn't that I was against the idea altogether. I knew I'd marry eventually—probably someone well-connected, someone who fit into the world I operated in. That was inevitable.

But not now. Not at twenty-eight.

Unlike my grandfather, my father, and every other Lanston man before me, I had no intention of living in a goddamn soap opera—wife at home, mistresses tucked neatly away, scandals brewing under silk sheets. I didn't want the extra work of lies, affairs, and cleaning up after my mess. If I married, I'd do it on my terms. At my own pace. And I'd be loyal. Not because I was some idealistic hypocrite, but because variety wasn't worth the trouble of ruining my own house.

Which was why I had no patience for my grandfather trying to shove some heiress down my throat like a business acquisition when I was still enjoying my freedom.

"Put it on hold," I said coldly.

Miles gave me a knowing look. "He won't let it go."

"He will when I make it clear I'm not a fucking pawn on his chessboard." My tone remained even, but the weight behind it was knife-sharp. "I'll deal with him when I feel like wasting my breath."

Miles nodded, flipping to the next agenda. "Then onto smaller issues—Hargrove and the conservative investors are restless. Complaints about your 'risk-heavy' approach."

I scoffed. "Risk-heavy? These are the same old croons who pissed themselves when the market dipped last quarter."

"More or less," Miles said dryly. "Maybe that's why they're concerned about your 'aggressive restructuring.'"

"Tell them their dividends don't seem to mind."

"I already did. That didn't stop them from whining."

I strode toward the door to my office, already done with this conversation. "Then let them whine."

Calculated risks weren't reckless—they were necessary. My track record didn't make me arrogant, just sharper.

Marriage. Investors. Family power plays. Everyone always wanted something from me. But they'd get it on my terms. Not theirs.

And speaking of someone wanting something—

A man leaned casually against the receptionist's desk, charming my new assistant, Tessa. Petite redhead, blushing at whatever smooth line he fed her.

Aaron Lanston.

"Company policy is clear," I reminded dryly, cutting through Aaron's antics before he even started. Tessa paled before inching away. "That employees are off-limits to family members. You know the rules."

Aaron greeted Miles with a nod before grinning at me. "Nice to see you too, cousin." Then he flashed my paling new assistant an easy smile before winking. "Catch you later, sweetheart."

I shut that down immediately. "No, you won't."

Miles gave Aaron a nod before stepping away, leaving us to it. I pushed open my office door, and Aaron, unbothered, followed me into my office like an overgrown golden retriever.

His grin widened. "Relax, bro. Just being friendly."

"You can be friendly with someone who isn't on my payroll," I said flatly. "And preferably someone who can't mistake your charm for career advancement."

"Still as grumpy as ever," he chuckled.

I didn't bother answering.

I didn't enforce this rule because I gave a damn about my family's hedonistic habits. I knew exactly what a lack of boundaries led to.

I hadn't put this rule in place to be difficult. I put it in place because I knew exactly what unchecked power led to. Maxwell and Raynor had used their last names as both a weapon and an invitation, leaving behind a mess of whispered promises, under-the-table favors, and ruined careers when things turned sour. It had been a game to them. A loophole waiting to be exploited.

So I closed it. And my family hated me for it.

A shame. I couldn't bring myself to care because they hated me anyway.

I settled behind my desk, eyes skimming the documents Miles had left me. "How's the recovery going?"

Aaron dropped into one of the chairs, long limbs stretched out. "Fine. I don't miss waking up in my own vomit, if that's what you're asking."

"That's a start."

It was, considering this was the first time he'd actually taken rehab seriously. I'd seen him slip before, always convinced he had it under control—until he didn't.

He flashed me a toothy grin. "I'm throwing a party this weekend. You should come."

I glanced at him. "If I suddenly feel the urge to listen to trust-fund kids talk about their spiritual awakenings in the Maldives, I'll let you know."

Aaron laughed hard. "Aww, come on, it'll be fun. You need to loosen up."

Remind me why I think Aaron was slightly tolerable, out of all the Lanstons.

I leaned back, unimpressed. "You know, sobriety doesn't mean shit if you're still surrounding yourself with the same parasites."

I knew well the kind of people that filled his circles. Leashed chaos dressed in designer, too much money, and not enough purpose, high on drugs, alcohol, and sex.

Aaron snorted. "I'm three years younger than you, not three. Don't go dad on me now. Even my old man barely cares."

I arched a brow. "On the contrary, I have no intention of babysitting you."

He grinned, easy and unbothered. "Good. Because I'd be a nightmare of a child."

The conversation should've ended there, but Aaron never liked letting things settle. He shifted, eyes gleaming with something distinctly dark and mischievous. "You know," he drawled, stretching out like a cat too pleased with itself, "I heard something interesting."

"You always do."

His smirk widened. "Our dear Uncle Maxwell—seems someone left him a little present on his doorstep. An eyeball. Just sitting there, all pretty in a box."

I didn't react, hiding a smirk. Just let the silence stretch between us.

"I wish I could've seen his face, interesting things happen when I'm not around the house. From what I hear, he squealed like a pig." He sighed dramatically.

Aaron didn't know. Maxwell wouldn't admit to the humiliation. He'd swallow his pride first. That suited me fine.

His hatred for this family was no less than mine.

Miles walked in, setting down a tray. My coffee, black. Aaron's coffee was something sweet and ridiculous, paired with sugary pastries.

Aaron shot Miles a look of mock pity. "Zayne, are you slaving Miles away?"

I sent him a cold side-eye.

Miles arched an eyebrow, he tactfully said. "As long as I'm paid well for the overwork and mental damage, I'll happily slave away, sir. Please, enjoy your coffee." He walked out before either of us could respond.

"A funny guy that one." Aaron took a sip of his cold coffee. "So, I hear I'm being thrown into the corporate machine again."

"Rehab's over. It's time for you to start."

He munched on a macaron with a sour expression. "Fuking cockblockers. I was hoping for a few months of doing absolutely nothing. Why bother? You're doing all the work anyway." His irritation was palpable.

I barely looked up from the papers I was reading. "Do it, at least to keep your mother off your back."

Aaron groaned. "Dude, don't shove reality down my ass." But he didn't argue.

He talked animatedly for some time but didn't linger knowing I was running against the clock and barely had any more time for 'catching up'.

I'd seen this side of Aaron—the carelessness, the easygoing charm, as long as I could remember. He acted like a total fool, but I knew better. Aaron had the same jagged edge we all did. The same bloodline. His armor was just different than mine.

Despite Caroline's constant attempts to pit us against each other, there was still something—however fragile—resembling brotherhood.

He could joke, drink, and play around, but addiction didn't let go just because he wanted it to. I'd seen men drown in their vices, and I had no intention of letting Aaron be one of them.

But I wasn't going to say that.

I finished my coffee and let the bitterness settle.