by Shen, L. J.
“Eight weeks in. Still early, but we wanted to let you know.”
I kept my expression blank, cracking my knuckles under the table.
Their timing couldn’t have been worse.
Mother darted from her seat with an ear-piercing squeak, throwing her arms over the happy couple to smother them with kisses, hugs, and praises.
Aisling went on and on about how being an aunt was a dream come true, which would have alarmed me about her life goals if it wasn’t for the fact she was about to finish med school and start her residency at Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston. Athair shook Hunter’s hand like they’d signed a lucrative deal.
In a way, they had.
Gerald Fitzpatrick made it perfectly clear he expected heirs from his sons. Spawns to continue the Fitzpatrick legacy. I was the first in line, the eldest Fitzpatrick, and therefore was burdened with the mission not only to produce successors but to also ensure one of them was a male who would take the reins of Royal Pipelines, regardless of his love for business and/or capabilities.
If I hadn’t had children, the title, power, and fortune would all be given to the offspring next in line to the throne. Hunter’s kid, to be exact.
Athair—father in Irish Gaelic—gave his daughter-in-law an awkward pat on the back. He was big—in height, width, and personality—with a shock of silver hair, onyx eyes, and pale skin.
“Great job there, sweetheart. Best news we’ve had all year.”
I checked my pulse discreetly under the table.
It was under control. Barely.
Everyone’s heads turned to me. Ever since my father stepped down and appointed me as the CEO of Royal Pipelines less than a year ago, I’d been bumped up to the leader of the pack and took the seat at the head of the table during our weekend dinners.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Mother played with her pearl necklace, smiling tightly.
I raised my tumbler of brandy. “To more Fitzpatricks.”
“And to the men who make them.” Athair downed his liquor in one go. I met his jab with a frosty smirk. I was thirty-eight—eleven years Hunter’s senior—unmarried, and childless.
Marriage was very low on my to-do list, somewhere under amputating one of my limbs with a butter knife and bungee jumping sans a rope. Children weren’t an idea I was fond of. They were loud, the boring kind of dirty, and needy. I had been postponing the inevitable. Marrying had always been the plan because producing heirs and paying my dues to the Fitzpatrick lineage wasn’t something I’d dreamed of worming out of.
Having a family was a part of a bigger plan. A vision. I wanted to build an empire far bigger than the one I’d inherited. A dynasty that stretched across much more than the oil tycoons we currently were.
However, I had every intention of doing it in my late forties and with stipulations that would make most women run for the hills and throw themselves off said hills for good measure.
Which was why marriage had been off the table.
Until this week, when my friend and lawyer, Devon Whitehall, urged me to get hitched to douse some of the flames directed at Royal Pipelines and myself.
“Well, Athair,” I said tonelessly, “I’m happy Hunter exceeded your expectations in the heir-producing department.” The writing was on the wall, smeared in my brother’s semen from that time he dragged us all through PR hell with his sex tape.
“You know, Kill, sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.” Sailor shot me a piercing glare, taking a sip of her virgin Bloody Mary.
“If you were a selective conversationalist, you wouldn’t marry a man who thinks fart jokes are the height of comedy,” I fired back.
“Farts are the height of comedy.” Hunter, who was only half-evolved as a human, jabbed a finger in the air. “It’s science.”
Most days, I doubted he was literate. Still, he was my brother, so I had a basic obligation to tolerate him.
“Congratulations would have been sufficient.” Sailor poked the air with her fork.
“Bite me.” I downed my brandy, slamming the glass on the table.
“Dear!” Mother gasped.
“You know there’s a term for people like you, Kill,” Sailor grinned.
“Cunts?” Hunter deadpanned, pressing two fingers to his lips and dropping an invisible mic to the floor. One of the help poured two fresh fingers of brandy into my empty tumbler. Then three. Then four. I did not motion for her to stop until the alcohol nearly sloshed over.
“Language!” Mother threw another random word in the air.
“Yup. I speak at least two fluently—English and profanity.” Hunter cackled.
He also used the word “fuck” as a unit measurement (as fuck), engaged in grotesque carnage of the English language (“be seein’ ya,” “me thinks”) and up until marrying Sailor, had provided the family with enough scandals to outdo the Kennedys.
I, however, avoided sacrilege of any kind, held babies at public events (reluctantly), and had always been on the straight and narrow. I was the perfect son, CEO, and Fitzpatrick.
With one flaw—I wasn’t a family man.
This made the media have monthly field days. They dubbed me Cold Cillian, highlighted the fact I enjoyed fast cars and wasn’t a member of any charities, and kept running the same story where I rejected an offer to be on the cover of a financial magazine, sitting next to other world billionaires, because none of them, other than Bezos, was anywhere near my tax bracket.
“Close, honey.” Sailor patted Hunter’s hand. “Sociopaths. We call people like your brother sociopaths.”
“That makes so much sense.” Hunter snapped his fingers. “He really breathes new death into the room.”
“Now, now.” Jane Fitzpatrick, aka Mother Dearest, tried to calm the discussion. “We’re all very excited about the new addition to the family. My very first grandchild.” She clasped her hands, looking dreamily into the distance. “Hopefully one of many.”
So rich, for someone who had the maternal instinct of a squid.
“Don’t worry, Ma, I intend to impregnate my wife as many times as she’ll let me.” Hunter winked at his ginger bride.
My brother was the poster child for TMI. And possibly pubic lice.
The only thing stopping me from throwing up in my mouth at this point was that he wasn’t worth wasting food over.
“Gosh, I’m so jealous, Sail! I can’t wait to be a mother.” Ash balanced her chin on her fist, letting out a wistful sigh.
“You’ll make a wonderful mom.” Sailor reached over the table to squeeze her hand.
“To your imaginary kids with your brother-in-law.” Hunter threw a sautéed bite of potato into his mouth, chewing. Ash went crimson. For the first time since dinner began, I was faintly amused. My sister nurtured a hopeless obsession with Sam Brennan, Sailor’s older brother and a guy who worked for me on retainer.
The fact she was a wallflower and he was a modern-day Don Corleone didn’t faze her in the least.
“What about you, mo òrga?” Athair turned to me. My nickname meant My Golden in Irish Gaelic. I was the proverbial modern Midas, who turned everything he touched into gold. Shaped and molded in his hands. Although, judging by the fact I’d given him nothing but bad press ever since I inherited the CEO position, I wasn’t sure the moniker was fitting anymore.
It wasn’t about my performance. There wasn’t a soul in Royal Pipelines who could surpass me in skill, knowledge, and instincts. But I was a soulless, impersonal man. The opposite of the patriarch people wanted to see at the head of a company that killed rainforests and robbed Mother Nature of her natural resources on a daily basis.
“What about me?” I cut my salmon into even, minuscule pieces. My OCD was more prominent when I was under pressure. Doing something ritually gave me a sense of control.
“When will you give me grandchildren?”
“I suggest you direct this question at my wife.”
“You don’t have a wife.”
“Guess I won�
�t be having children anytime soon, either. Unless you’re impartial to ill-conceived bastards.”
“Over my dead body,” my father hissed.
Don’t tempt me, old man.
“When are you announcing the pregnancy publicly?” Athair turned to Hunter, losing interest in the subject of my hypothetical offspring.
“Not before the end of the second trimester,” Sailor supplied, laying a protective hand over her stomach. “My OB-GYN warned me the first trimester is the rockiest. Plus, it’s bad luck.”
“But a good headline for Royal Pipelines.” Father stroked his chin, contemplating. “Especially after the Green Living demonstration and the idiot who managed to break both her legs. The press was all over that story.”
I was tired of hearing about it. Like Royal Pipelines had anything to do with the fact a dimwit had decided to climb up my grandfather’s statue on the busiest square in Boston with a megaphone and fell.
Athair helped himself to a third serving of honey-baked salmon, his three chins vibrating as he spoke.
“Ceann beag has been the media’s darling for the past couple of years. Nice, hard-working, approachable. A reformed playboy. Maybe he should be the face of the company for the next few months until the headlines blow over.”
Ceann beag meant little one. Even though Hunter was the middle child, my father had always treated him as the youngest. Perhaps because Ash was wise beyond her years, but more than likely because Hunter had the maturity of a Band-Aid.
I put my utensils down, fighting the twitch in my jaw while slipping my hands under the table to crack my knuckles again.
“You want to put my twenty-seven-year-old brother as the head of Royal Pipelines because he managed to impregnate his wife?” I inquired, my voice calm and even. I’d busted my ass at Royal Pipelines since my early teens, taking my place at the throne at the cost of having no personal life, no social life, and no meaningful relationships. Meanwhile, Hunter was jumping from one mass orgy to the next in California until my dad dragged him by the ear back to Boston to clean up his act.
“Look, Cillian, we’ve been facing a lot of backlash because of the refinery explosion and exploratory Arctic drills,” Athair groused.
Cillian. Not mo òrga.
“The refinery explosion happened under your watch, and my Arctic exploration rigs will likely up our revenue by five billion dollars by 2030,” I pointed out, thumbing the rim of my brandy glass. “In the eight months I’ve been doing this job, our stock has gone up fourteen percent. Not too shabby for a rookie CEO.”
“Not all tyrants make bad kings.” He narrowed his eyes. “Your achievements mean nothing if the people want you dethroned.”
“No one wants me dethroned.” I gave him a pitying look. “The board has my back.”
“Everyone else in the company wants to stab it,” he roared, crashing his fist over the dining table. “The board only cares about the profits, and they’d vote however I wanted them to vote if it came down to it. Don’t get too comfortable.”
Utensils clattered, plates flew, and wine splattered over the tablecloth like blood drops. My pulse was still calm. My face tranquil.
Keep it together.
“You scare your employees, the media loathes you, and to the rest of the public, you’re a mystery. No family of your own. No partner. No kids. No anchor. Don’t think I haven’t spoken to Devon. I happen to be of the same mindset as your lawyer. You need someone to dilute your darkness, and you need her fast. Sort this out, Cillian, and do it fast. The press calls you The Villain. Make them stop.”
Feeling the tic in my jaw, I pursed my lips.
“Are you done being hysterical, Athair?”
My father pushed off the table, rising to his feet with a finger pointed at me.
“I called you mo òrga because I never had to worry about you. You always delivered whatever I needed before I’d even asked for it. The first perfect eldest Fitzpatrick child in generations since your great-great-great-grandfather made his way from Kilkenny to Boston on a rickety boat. But that has changed. You’re pushing forty, and it’s time you settle down. Especially if you want to continue being the face of this company. In case your job is not a strong enough incentive, let me spell it out for you.” He leaned toward me, his eyes leveling mine. “The next in line for the throne is Hunter, and right now, the person after him is your future niece or nephew. Everything you’ve worked for will be handed down to them. Everything. And if you fuck this up, I will make sure to dethrone you, too.”
He stalked out of the dining hall, ripping a portrait of all three of us Fitzpatrick siblings from the wall.
Mother darted up from her seat, running around to her estate manager to no doubt order them to get the portrait reframed and redone.
I smiled serenely, addressing everyone at the table.
“More food for us.”
I spent the rest of the weekend in Monaco.
Just like my loveable idiot of a brother, I, too, had a taste for unconventional sex.
Unlike my loveable idiot of a brother, I knew better than to have it with random women.
I’d made bi-monthly trips to Europe, spending time with carefully selected, discreet women who’d agreed to ironclad arrangements. Sleeping with a woman required more paperwork than buying a spaceship. I’d always been careful, and dealing with a sex scandal on top of the farce that was my public image wasn’t in my plans.
I paid them a mouthwatering rate, tipped them well, was always clean, gracious, and polite, and contributed to the European economy. These escorts weren’t down-on-their luck single mothers or poor girls who came from broken families. They were top-tier university students, aspiring actresses, and aging models of middle- to upper-class families.
They traveled first class, lived in lavish apartments, and were picky about their decamillionaire clientele.
I hadn’t used my family’s private jet for my trips to Europe since being appointed CEO. Leaving a carbon footprint of Kuwait to get laid was too wicked, even for my conscience.
Fine. I had no conscience.
But if the media ever found out, my career would be as good as dead, and death was a specialty I’d left for Hunter’s brain cells.
Which was why I was slumming it in first class on a commercial flight, quietly enduring the presence of other humans on my way back to Boston from Monaco.
There weren’t many things I hated more than people. But being trapped with a large number of them on a winged bus and recycled air was one of them.
After settling into my seat on the plane, I leafed through a contract with a new contractor for my Arctic oiling rig, pushing away all thoughts of Hunter’s approaching fatherhood and the Penrose sister who barged into my office last week begging for a loan.
I told her I didn’t recognize her, which drove her mad and drove me into a state of a constant hard-on.
But I remembered Persephone.
Well and clear.
On the surface, Persephone Penrose ticked all the boxes for me: hair like spun gold, cobalt blue eyes, rosebud lips, and a petite frame wrapped in romantic dresses. A declawed, defanged preschool teacher, easier to tame than a kitten.
Wholesome, idealistic, and angelic to the bone.
She wore handmade frocks, watermelon lipstick, her heart on her sleeve, and that lamb-like expression of a Jane Austen character who thought dick was nothing more than a nickname for men named Richard.
Persephone wasn’t wrong with her assumption to come to me. With any other acquaintance of mine, I’d give them the money just to watch them sweat while paying me back.
Only in her case, I didn’t want my life tied with hers.
Didn’t want to see her, hear from her, and endure her presence.
Didn’t want her to owe me.
She’d been infatuated with me before. Feelings did not interest me unless I found a way to exploit them.
“Ouch.” A squishy toy squeaked behind my seat. “Cut it out. Swear t-to God, Tree
, I-I will—”
“You will what? Tell Mommy on me. Snitch.”
Tree? The people sitting behind me named their child Tree? And decided to travel first class with two kids under the age of six?
These parents were the reason serial killers existed. I popped two ibuprofen, washing them down with bourbon. Technically, I wasn’t supposed to drink with the medicine I was taking daily for my condition.
Oh, well. You only live once.
“Quit fussing, Tinder,” the mother snapped behind me.
Tinder.
I officially found parents worse than my brother would be. I was ninety-one percent sure Sailor wouldn’t let Hunter name their child Pinecone or Daylight Savings. The missing nine percent was due to the fact they were nauseatingly blinded by love, so you could never know for sure.
“H-e he always does this!” little Tinder bellowed, managing to kick the back of my seat even though it was about four feet away. “Tree is a s-stinky face.”
“Well, you’re ugly and weird,” Tree retorted.
“I’m not weird. I’m special.”
Both hellions were insufferable, and I was about to break the news to their equally diabolical parents before remembering I couldn’t afford another headline of the Cillian-Fitzpatrick-eats-babies-for-breakfast variety.
CEO of Royal Pipelines shouts at innocent children on flight back from his escorts.
No, thank you.
And just for the record, I’d never consumed human flesh in my life. It was too lean, too unsanitary, and entirely too uncommon.
Mentally tapping my foot until takeoff, I cracked my knuckles.
Once we were in the air, I stood and walked around, making notes on the contract with a red Sharpie.
When I returned to my seat, it was taken.
Not just taken but taken by my archenemy.
The man I’d expected to resurface from the shadows the minute I’d been appointed CEO of Royal Pipelines. Frankly, I was surprised it had taken him so long.
“Arrowsmith. What a terrible surprise.”
He looked up, beaming back at me.
Andrew Arrowsmith was a good-looking bastard, in a local news anchor sort of way. Identikit haircut, bleached white teeth, each the size of a brick, tall frame, and what I was seventy percent sure was a chin dimple transplant. Once upon a time, he was in my social sphere. These days, all we shared was a rivalry going back to our time at Evon.