Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
“Are you okay?” Autumn asks me.
My brow furrows. “Me? Are you okay?”
Autumn readjusts her clothes, righting her panties and then her dress, while I do the same with my own. “Simon, I was scared. I’ll admit that, but I was more scared that you were going to take it too far than Tristan. You forget, I’m a New York girl. Riding the subway is like Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome. I could’ve kneed him in the nuts and was in the process of doing so when you rolled up. But I was trying to help him. He needs help.”
“I’ve been helping him,” I argue. “Or at least I thought I was.”
Autumn steps into me and straightens my tie, her voice soft. “You have been. But he’s on the edge of the scariest moment of his life, and you’re his barometer for success. That’s a lot of pressure on a guy like him.”
“I was a guy like him,” I say, the anger returning.
Autumn tilts her head, smiling gently. “No, you were an orphan, but you weren’t like Tristan. Where were you at eighteen? Walking a runway? In a fancy home with plenty of food in the pantry? Looking at a future with near limitless possibilities?”
The truth hits me sharply. I want to help these boys and feel like I can empathize with them because fuck knows, I’ve got plenty of hang-ups from my start in life, and even when my life was significantly more golden with my aunt, it still wasn’t perfect by any stretch. But Autumn’s right, I wasn’t eighteen and facing the streets like Tristan is.
“That doesn’t excuse what he did,” I say flatly.
Autumn shakes her head. “Of course it doesn’t. But it puts some perspective on it.” I give her a dubious look and she says more fiercely, “I wasn’t hurt. Tristan needs help. He’s not a bad kid, not a bad man. He’s terrified.”
“You’re too kind-hearted.” It’s one of her best traits, but it’s not a compliment right now.
“Fair enough. But you are too, and you’re going to need to help Tristan . . . without punching him.”
“Maybe a game of basketball?” I suggest, thinking we could work some anger out that way.
“No. Words . . . using your words,” Autumn decrees. She’s standing tall, her head swiveling slightly and her finger held up, daring me to challenge her.
“You’re sexy when you’re bossy.” The compliment doesn’t change her mind, and she lifts one brow. “Fine,” I say, agreeing despite feeling like a conversation with Tristan isn’t going to help in the slightest.
A Monday morning meeting is no one’s idea of a great start to the week. At least today’s meeting should be relatively quick, with a simple report on the smashing success of the fundraising gala.
House Corbin is technically a corporation and is therefore governed by the incorporation laws of France and the EU, but that’s in name only. The board isn’t the power here. Jacqueline Corbin is, as evidenced by her position at the head of the conference room table for this morning’s meeting. Even her chair is different, a black leather wingback chair more akin to a throne than a simple meeting chair.
Of course, part of what annoys me about these meetings is that I’m seated at the extreme far end of the table, not completely opposite my aunt, but at the foot on her left side. After all, while I’m a senior executive, I’m not technically a board member. So I get to sit in an inferior position to fools like Venerable, who’s being his normal sniveling ass.
“While the charity event was good for publicity, was it the most effective use of House Corbin funds and resources?” he says with a doubtful look as my aunt concludes the report to the board describing the event.
In one night, we brought in almost ten million euros for the orphanage. It’s enough to not only fund their operations for the rest of the year, but also to do some much needed renovations to the property.
That’s not enough for Venerable, of course.
“I wonder, what would you have suggested we do otherwise?” I ask snidely.
“I . . . right off the top of my head, I’m not exactly sure,” Venerable stammers.
Seriously? He’s calling the gala an ineffective use of resources but has zero ideas of an alternative. He wants to call out so-called problems with no attempts or ideas to solve them. He’s nothing more than a contrary, negative pessimist who wants to build himself up by knocking others down.
Venerable continues, sticking to his script. “But while I support the idea of helping the orphanage, I wonder if perhaps it could be done more . . . efficiently?”
Lying sack of shit.
I start to protest, but my aunt gives me a sharp glance, and reluctantly, I shut my mouth as she decides to take this herself. “Monsieur Venerable, you raised these protests to me directly when Simon’s charity idea was first approved, and I addressed them then. We all know the saying. Good enough will often get the task accomplished while perfect is still pondering over the first stitch.”