Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“But Uncle Gabe wouldn’t hurt me,” Sylvie insists, and my heart constricts painfully as I see how tortured she is about this. “He’s the last tie to my mother.”
“I know,” I murmur, reaching over to rest my hand on her shoulder. “Tell you what… I’ll talk to your dad after I meet with Gabe, okay? We’ll try to figure out something.”
“And you’ll tell Uncle Gabe I don’t blame him?” she presses.
“Of course I will. In fact, would you like to write him a note and I’ll give it to him?”
Sylvie’s eyes light up and she nods exuberantly. “Yes, that would be awesome.”
I have no clue if Ethan would approve of this, and I fully intend to let him know what I’m doing.
But after I hand the note over.
This is important to Sylvie and I’ll take the heat if it pisses Ethan off. But at this point, I can’t see the harm in making her feel good about maintaining the hope of a relationship with the one person who loved her mother the way she did.
CHAPTER 4
Gabe
The office in this new house was also a major selling point for me. It doubles as a library, stocked with shelves upon shelves of classic books bound in rich, brown leather. It’s not that I’m an avid reader, although I do read on occasion, but it’s the room’s atmosphere that speaks to me. White paneled walls, fabric-draped windows and dark hardwood floors softened by a deep blue and white geometric-patterned rug underfoot gives me the warmth and casual comfort I never had at my parents’ home. A buttery caramel leather couch sits before a hand-carved mantel, also in white, and the cherry desk is ornate and old-fashioned.
It’s traditional and charming, the absolute antithesis to the minimalist décor and concrete gray walls of the Mardraggon estate that screamed of order and strict boundaries.
In the early twilight, the moss-covered oaks and the edge of the pool house are visible outside the panoramic windows with a hint of horse pasture beyond, but those fields are empty. I’m not a horse person nor did I buy this estate to fill it with such. I don’t appreciate the scenery and only spare it a glance before focusing on the thick sheaf of papers before me. I’m three hours deep into plotting the careful dismantling of Lionel Mardraggon’s legacy. I plan to remove him from the head of our empire.
A knock pulls me from my thoughts and I’d nearly forgotten I had an appointment this evening.
It’s her—Kat Blackburn—and I’m immediately tense with anticipation of a fight.
I’ve put off this meeting as long as possible. Just days ago, I was hounding Ethan to meet with me because we have some major business decisions to make about the winery and I can’t make a move without his approval. But now that Ethan has delegated his duties to his sister, I don’t want to be bothered with any of it.
Okay, that’s not quite accurate.
It’s Kat I don’t want to be bothered with.
Of all the Blackburns I would’ve preferred to deal with on a business matter, Kat would be the last. She’s the least preferable to have to pass on opposite sides of a busy street because even that close of a proximity invites disgruntlement.
It’s always been that way, some occasions stronger than others, and it will never change.
But as it stands, if I want to have a pathway back to Sylvie, it seems the winery is my best chance. Therefore, I’m going to have to deal with the raven-haired beauty.
When I open the front door, she stands there in all her perfect glory, her green eyes burning promises of mayhem as they pierce me. She’s a horse girl through and through and always has been. Although I’ve seen her at high-society functions in dazzling gowns, Kat Blackburn is most comfortable—and admittedly, most beautiful—in faded jeans, her face scrubbed free of makeup. She’s got a purse over one shoulder and a three-ring binder tucked under her arm.
“You’re late,” I say, having glanced at my watch on the way to greet her, even though I lost track of time myself. I don’t let her know that.
“Tough shit,” she replies as she pushes past me into the house.
“Come on in,” I mutter with an exaggerated sweep of my hand from behind her while shutting the door.
Tucking my hands into my pockets, I watch as Kat’s head tips and she takes in the cathedral ceilings with coffered beams. The heavy chandeliers are dimmed and cast a warm glow on the parquet floors. Another selling point of the house—the softness of the lighting.
She glances back at me. “Could you have picked anything more ostentatious? What do you need all this for?”
I shrug, the corner of my mouth quirking. “What’s the point of having money if you’re not willing to spend it?”