Prologue
Lincoln
“I object.”
Every head in the entire congregation swung toward the double doors I’d flung open.
My vision was fuzzy, no doubt from the two fifths of Scotch I’d used to try to drown out the fact that she was marrying someone else today.
Because a Gable and a Riscoff could never be together.
But that didn’t mean I was going to watch Whitney Gable marry someone else and not say a goddamned word.
“Youasshole. Howdareyou?” Whitney was dressed in white, looking like the perfect bride, aside from the militant look on her face as she stomped down the aisle toward me.
I might have miscalculated in my drunken haze.
“You can’t marry him.” I was pretty sure my words slurred, but I didn’t care.
“I don’t know why you think you get to have an opinion, but get the hell out of here.”
“I can buy and sell him.” More slurring.
Whitney’s eyes burned with anger. “I. Don’t. Care. Becauseyou can’t buy me.”
Two sets of arms grabbed me from behind and dragged me back toward the doors.
“Don’t do this—” My words were cut off as I was shoved down the front steps of the church.
“If you ever look at my sister again, I will fucking kill you myself. I don’t care how much fucking money your family has.” Whitney’s brother loomed over me, and I didn’t doubt his promise, especially not while he was wearing his army dress uniform and green beret.
Next to him was the groom. The man who’d sold Whitney the biggest crock of shit I’d ever heard in my life. I’d told myself there was no way she’d ever go through with it. No way her brother would let her.
I was wrong. He’d let her marry anyone but a Riscoff.
The groom smirked but said nothing, then they both turned and marched up the steps.
If I weren’t so fucking wasted, I’d go back in and try again.
He might be marrying her today, but I wasn’t done with Whitney Gable.
I’d never be done with her.
1
Lincoln
Ten years later – Present day
“Time to shitor get off the pot, boy. You can’t keep her dangling after you forever. I’m not getting any younger, and you need to get started on the next generation. The Riscoff line must continue, and I’m sick of waiting.”
My grandfather offers his unsolicited advice as my phone vibrates with a text on the table between us. We’re having our regular morning meeting on his deck overlooking the gorge and the river.
“This isn’t relevant to the conversation at hand.” I slide my phone off the table and slip it into my pocket. Ignoring the message from the woman I’ve been seeing occasionally for the last few months, I flip open a file with a stack of documents needing Commodore’s signature.
Business comes first. Last. Always. That’s the Riscoff family way.
Any woman who spends time around me knows it, and that these meetings with my grandfather are sacrosanct. I may be the heir apparent to a multibillion-dollar empire, but Commodore still officially holds the reins, and every decision I make has to be signed off on by him. Does it drive me fucking crazy? Yes. Do I have a choice? No, because that’s family tradition. We preserve and protect the legacy at all costs. That’s part of being the Riscoff heir.