Because I have a heart.

  Because I have something he doesn’t have—loyalty. To what my great-great-grandfather built and what my gran held tight to.

  And that, more than anything, is what has my gut churning.

  “So we’re good, then?” Rhett asks.

  I stare at him and shake my head before turning on my heel and walking away.

  No. We are most definitely not good.

  NINE

  Holden

  FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

  “God, it’s hot in here,” Mason says quietly, pulls off his shirt, and tosses it on the couch beside him.

  “Shh.” I look up from my American History textbook and fire off a warning glance to be quiet.

  He’s right though. It’s as miserable and muggy inside our tiny apartment as it is outside. Feels like hell on earth. The Carolina summer has arrived with a vengeance, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to be abating anytime soon.

  Air so thick you can feel it when you inhale.

  But the last thing Mom needs to hear is us saying we’re hot. She’ll try to pick up an extra shift at the diner or look for an additional house to clean after she gets off work. Even if she earned more, it wouldn’t be enough for us to leave the air conditioning on long enough to make a difference.

  We have fans. Ancient oscillating fans that blow the hot air around the small space, but it’s better than nothing.

  “Maybe we can sleep with the windows open,” he says, but we both know we can’t. We may not have much, but it’s more than a lot of other people have around here, and a ground-floor apartment is a blessing and a curse in that respect.

  I make a noncommittal noise as I stretch my fingers, cramped from annotating this stupid text. “We’ll figure it out. I can sleep on the couch tonight so there’s more room in the bed. Now finish your homework.”

  He groans. “It’s boring though.”

  “That book’s not the best. I’ll agree with you on that, but you still have to read it.”

  “Why? When am I ever going to be stuck in the wild with a dog as my only friend and you not around?” Mason asks, brushing his hair off his forehead. He needs a haircut. I’ll have to see if I can trade Mr. Dobbins again, mowing his lawn in exchange for a seat in his barber chair.

  “Because school is important. It’s how we get to the other side of the river someday.”

  He stops and drops his pencil, his curious eyes holding mine. “Is it really like the movies there?”

  I chuckle and play off his curiosity about the country club where I work. The one on the other side of the river where wealth is more common than not, and the residents don’t have to leave their windows open at night because they can afford to air-condition their entire larger-than-life estates.

  I make a concerted effort not to talk about the things I see and the differences that are blaringly obvious between our life and the lives of the people I serve. I figure if Mason doesn’t realize what he’s missing, then he can’t exactly know how much to miss it. And the last thing I want him to realize is just how drastic those differences are.

  Defeat, whether it comes to you later in life or is handed to you at birth, often smothers hope.

  But not in this house.

  Our mom refuses to allow that to happen.

  “Nope. Nothing like the movies,” I lie. “They’re people just like us.”

  “Yep. Holden’s right,” our mom says as she moves into the room from the postage stamp of a back patio where she’s been hanging up some laundry to dry. “The only difference is their luck met their opportunity at the right time. We’re just waiting for our time.”

  I smile at her. The years have been hard on her but have not diminished her beauty. She has the same dark hair and light eyes that I do, but there’s an innocence to her that makes it hard for people to believe she’s in her midthirties.

  “You look tired, Momma. Let me go with you tonight and help,” I offer. A full eight-plus hours waiting tables at the diner and then off to clean office buildings at night for some extra cash on the side is enough to make anyone look tired.

  “Thank you, but no. Schoolwork is more important.”

  “But we can get it done now and still go with you,” Mason says. The office building is like an adventure to him. A foreign world where he can run down halls, pretending he’s a corporate bigwig while we clean up after them.

  She moves across the cramped space and absently runs a hand down the back of his hair. “Thank you. I appreciate you both, but you need to get that homework done and get a good night’s sleep. No one can learn when they’re dozing off in class. Besides, we don’t need to spend money on three bus fares. That’s ridiculous.”

  “I get paid tomorrow,” I say. “That makes us that much closer to getting a car so we don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

  She gives me a look I don’t understand and then jumps when a police siren erupts suddenly outside.

  Both Mase and my mom hunch down and the sight of it eats at me.

  No matter how used to the sounds you get, they still jar you each time they pass by these paper-thin walls.

  “Do you think there are sirens like that in California?” Mason asks.

  “There are sirens in all cities, baby,” Mom murmurs but has a soft smile on her face.

  California. Her dream. For her. For us. To save enough money to get us the hell out of here and move to where her brother lives. To the land of possibility, no matter where you’re from, where dreams come true, and where sunshine—without humidity—persists.

  “Yeah, but there seem to be a lot here.”

  “They’re just passing through from one city to the next is all. We should be lucky we hear them. That just means they’re keeping us safe,” she says with a knowing glance my way before moving toward the small dinette in our “kitchen.”

  She busies herself and just as I’m getting fully back into my riveting chapter on the Articles of Confederation, Mason’s laugh causes me to look up.

  I’m met with my mom’s wide smile and face illuminated by the candles burning on the small cake she’s holding as she walks toward me.

  She and Mason start in on singing “Happy Birthday.”

  Emotion swells in my throat and I blink back tears that threaten to spill over. I thought she’d forgotten. Hell, I’d even forgotten most of the day, but when your mother constantly burns the candle at both ends to provide everything she can for you, the last thing you do is expect more from her.

  And this? Her finding time to make me a cake at some point in her crazy day is that more.

  The song finishes. “Happy seventeenth, Holden. Make your wish.”

  I look from her to Mase, close my eyes, and make my wish. I wish that someday I will get us out and to a place where sirens mean ambulances and not crime. Where we can leave windows open to sleep. Where we can have our own bedrooms. Where laundry is dried in a machine and not on a line. Where Mom can sit in the sun while I provide all the things she deserves.

  When I open them and blow the candles out, my mom claps her hands, nothing but love reflected in her eyes when she looks at me. “Let me go get some plates,” she says.

  “What did you wish for?” Mason asks, the promise of cake way more important than homework.

  “I can’t tell you or else it won’t come true,” I say and knock my knee against his.

  “I know what I’d wish for,” he says as dishes clatter in the kitchen.

  “What’s that?” I expect the twelve-year-old in him to say a PlayStation or an iPhone. Things his peers have that we don’t.

  “For us to have the same last name,” he says, eyes down, voice hushed.

  I open my mouth to say something and then close it. How did I not know this bugged him? “Mase. Dude. Just because you’re a Simpson and I’m a Knight doesn’t mean anything. We’re still brothers. Still best friends.”

  He nods. “I know, but Mom’s a Simpson too.”

  I wrap my arm around his shoulder and pull him against my side. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ll be a Simpson from here on out.” What the fuck, right? It’s not like my deadbeat of a father’s name means anything to me. “Who’s going to know any different?”

  “How could you do that?”

  “Simple. Just say that’s my last name. It’s not like people check. Would that make you feel better?” I remember what it felt like at that age to be lost and confused. To not have a dad and to need more of an identity. But I thought I was doing that for him. Clearly, I’m not. If doing this is all it takes to give him that security, that identity, not a problem.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Before we have cake, there’s one more thing,” Mom says, moving back across the small space with her hands behind her back.

  “Holden said he’s a Simpson now,” Mase blurts out.

  My mom eyes me and raises an eyebrow. “He did, did he?”

  “I did.” I nod, leaving no room for interpretation. Mase sits a bit taller beside me. “What do you mean there’s one more thing? The cake is more than enough.”

  Her eyes well with pride as she holds out a present to me. “Happy birthday.”

  “Mom. We can’t aff—”

  “Hush.” Her smile is as sentimental as her voice. “Open it.”

  It takes me a few seconds to remove the paper and open the generic brown box, but when I do, it doesn’t matter how hard I try to act cool, the tears fucking come. Especially when I’m looking at something I’ve wanted desperately for years but have never asked for.

  Our money is meant to go to bills.

  It’s for saving for a car so my mom doesn’t have to get on the bus after work in the middle of the night when it’s not exactly safe.

  It isn’t for a laptop computer. I stare at the refurbished MacBook through blurred tears, wanting it so badly but knowing how selfish it would be to keep it. To put my wants above the needs of our family.

  In disbelief, I shake my head. Schools on the other side of the river assign laptops to all of their students for the entirety of the school year. It’s not even a privilege, but rather the norm. But not at the school I go to. At mine, your only chance to use a school laptop is to go to the computer lab and do your homework there.

  But I’m never able to because I have to watch Mase after school.

  So I turn in handwritten homework—a modern-day scarlet letter that tells everyone my family is too poor to own a computer.

  I blink the tears away and look up to my mom. “So what if it’ll take a little longer to buy a car.” She shrugs, a smile toying at the corners of her mouth.

  “I can’t accept this, Mom.” Those are the hardest words I think I’ve ever had to say. “We’ve been saving for a car for forever and—”

  “Shush. I won’t hear any of that.” She puts her hand on my arm and squeezes. “I’ll gladly leave early to get a bus ride. What’s most important is that you have every chance, every advantage I can give you, for you not to be like me.”

  I hang my head as guilt and excitement wash through me. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

  “It’s hard wanting to give you the world and only being able to give you a sliver. You’ll understand that someday. This is some of the sliver.”

  “Thank you.” I choke the words out.

  “No need to thank me. You do more than enough for our family, Holden. School, watching Mase for me, helping me, working…” She shakes her head. “Thank you for being such a good kid. I’m so very proud of you.”

  Her words mean more to me than the computer and that says a whole hell of a lot.

  Overwhelmed by the turn of tonight’s events, all I can do is nod and stare through eyes blurred with tears at my gateway to the world.

  At my chance to be something more.

  TEN

  Rowan

  Fires.

  I’ve done nothing all week but put them out. Little ones. Big ones. Smoldering ones that had the potential to become out-of-control wildfires. If it wasn’t one thing at the office, it was another. And if it wasn’t another, it was calming the nerves of employees who were silently freaking out about this “transition.”

  It doesn’t help that random people with stern faces and crisp suits have been behind the closed doors of the conference room for the better part of the week. Hell, every time one of them walks down the hall past my office, I stop what I’m doing and worry they are going to ask me questions I don’t know the answers to. Questions that prove or disprove my worthiness to this company.

  It doesn’t help that Holden has barely appeared all week. He uprooted Rhett from his office—my brother still hasn’t stopped bitching about that—but hasn’t been here to use it. And when he does make his presence known, he has the phone to his ear or is behind the closed doors with the rest of the people he brought in.

  To say anxiety is at an all-time high is an understatement, regardless of how much we managers try to smooth over those nerves.

  As for me? I’m still wading in an ocean of uncertainty. The days that have passed have done little to abate my hostility and disbelief while fueling my skepticism on how exactly this is all going to work.

  While I’d searched for information on Holden Knight after the auction, I renewed my efforts this past week. To my dismay, I haven’t found anything about him, his company, or his past that I can use to further fuel my dislike.

  The problem is I’ve found quite the opposite. The more I’ve read and researched, the more I admire the man who made himself into a multimillionaire out of nothing. From unspecified humble beginnings to self-taught computer programming to creating software for the banking sector that he then sold for a ridiculous amount of money.

  The fact that I’ve come to admire that about him pisses me off. I don’t want to respect what he’s made out of himself.

  And then there are my peripheral searches on him. His social circles. The charities he’s donated to. The women who have been seen on his arm. His life in Silicon Valley.

  He’s never been married despite the various beauties that have been photographed with him at events. Flawless women with curves and grace. I’ve even dug into the rumors captioned beneath their pictures only to find nothing salacious or out of the ordinary that I could use to my advantage.

  The question still remains. Why us? Why now? Why an industry that is uncharted territory for him?

  “Miss Rothschild?”

  I look up to find a woman standing in my doorway. Her presence in this office has been a constant as she has followed Holden like a shadow, but she has yet to be introduced to any of us. She’s petite with beautiful silvery-gray hair in a pixie cut, a cream-colored pantsuit, and an efficient smile.

  “Yes?”

  She nods curtly. “I’m Audrey, Mr. Knight’s personal secretary. He’d like a moment of your time.”

  No “nice to meet you.” No “I’ve seen you around the office.” Just a summons to go see the King Asshole.

  Lovely.

  “Nice to meet you too,” I say with a tinge of sarcasm. “I wasn’t aware he was in the office.”

  “He has a habit of being everywhere and nowhere all at once. You’ll get used to it.”

  Unfortunately. “Sure. Yes.” I glance at my desk and then back up. “Let me finish what I’m doing, and I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  She lifts her eyebrows. “Now, please.”

  Seriously?

  I grit my teeth as I stand and make my way down the hall to my brother’s old office.

  When I walk in, my feet falter. He’s rearranged the furniture.

  A subtle hint, no doubt, that change is coming. Or just a plain, old-fashioned power play.

  And there Holden is, sitting behind the lavish desk, head down with the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up. He’s scribbling something on the pad in front of him while I silently seethe from being ordered like my only purpose is to be at his beck and call.

  I wait.

  And then I wait some more.

  He clearly knows I’m here as Audrey shut the door when I walked in. Is this yet another power play to let me know where I stand? To let me know who’s boss?

  Fuck that.

  “Nice of you to finally show up to work,” I say.

  Holden sets his pen down, leans back in his chair, and his gaze all but bores right through me when our eyes meet. He purses his lips and nods very slowly. “So that’s how you want this to go, Sunshine?”

  I shrug, ignoring his little nickname for me. Aren’t we a ray of sunshine? “If you plan on ordering me around, then expect to be treated accordingly.”

  He chuckles. It’s a low rumble in the quiet room. “This is where you’re under the impression that we’re on equal footing. We’re not, Rowan. Rest assured, we are not.”

  I take a step forward, run my finger over the credenza against the wall, and don’t acknowledge his remark. “It was a nice touch taking this office. Petty to say the least.”

  “From your comments the first night we met, I’d think you’d appreciate Rhett being put in his place.”

  “Things have changed considerably since then,” I say.

  “Not from where I stand. Rhett’s still Rhett, you’re still you, and everybody wants to be me.”

  “And the company is still going to be yours.”

  “Glad we have that clear,” he murmurs as he tracks my movement about the room. A room I’ve been in countless times before but that suddenly feels so very different. “You’re a complicated one to figure out.”

  “Depends on your definition of complicated.”

  “You dislike your brother and yet you stand here defending him.”

  “As family does. Do you not have any siblings?” I ask, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “Do you—”

  “Then there’s Chad. I can’t quite figure out what your relationship is with him, but it’s more than clear by how many times he goes in and out of your office all day that it’s a close one.”

  Ah, so he is watching and assessing after all. No doubt Audrey might have a hand in that too. What he doesn’t know is that I refuse to talk to Rhett right now. His betrayal still sits front and center for me, so Chad has been given the unfortunate task of being the go-between.