My confirmation I’ll play along.
“I do what I need to for our family,” I answer throatily. “And our family’s interests align. If taking your daughter as a wife means solidifying that deal, then that’s what’ll happen.”
Malcolm gives a satisfactory nod. “Then it sounds like we’re all on the same page. Of course, we’ll want to make it official sooner than later. Get the ball rolling.”
So this is it. This is my use now.
Not as the heir. That ship sailed long before I was ever born.
Not as the golden child. I was never that either. That was always Lochlan.
As the spare, my purpose is clear: forge an alliance between my family and the family of a weapons dealer. Spend the rest of my life tethered to the old ball and chain—some woman I’ve never formally met.
A wife I never asked for.
But loyalty is everything. Dad taught me that from an early age. The family comes first. If this is what he says I’m needed for, then I’ll do it.
It’s not as if most marriages are built on real love anyway. Half the couples in the clan can barely stand each other. Many are arranged. So long as we can tolerate each other and she’s easy on the eyes, I’ll make it work.
I’ve dealt with worse assignments than this.
I meet Malcolm’s gaze and extend my hand across the table.
“You’ve got a deal.”
And just like that, my life’s no longer my own.
TWO
Simone
Shopping is therapy,and today, I’m in desperate need of healing.
Bergdorf Goodman on Fifth Avenue is my sanctuary—a gleaming temple of designer labels, crystal chandeliers, and sales associates who know my name without asking.
Chantal and I have been here for the better part of two hours, drifting through racks of silk and cashmere like we have all the time in the world.
And we do.
I run my fingers over a Prada halter dress in deep emerald, the fabric soft as butter. It’s perfect for the mixer Chantal’s throwing at her gallery next week. I deserve to spoil myself a little, especially after the week I’ve had.
Langston Global Impact, our philanthropic arm, was just dragged through the mud by some ambitious journalist who accused us of funneling millions of donations into private accounts. The scandal could’ve been devastating.
But I staged a high-profile audit, held a press conference with full transparency, and pinned the whole thing on a rogue board member who’d been skimming funds for years. The company came out clean.
Daddy was grateful.
So yes, I’m treating myself. Onhisdime, of course.
“Sim, you have to try that on,” Chantal says from her perch on a velvet ottoman, champagne flute in hand.
Chantal Banks has been my best friend since college—NYU, freshman year—when we bonded over being the only two Black girls in our public relations seminar who showed up in head-to-toe designer on the first day.
She’s the daughter of a New York senator, which means she grew up in the same rarefied air I did: private schools, charity galas, and Daddy’s limitless credit card burning a hole in our pockets at all times.
Now she owns her own art gallery in SoHo and treats dating like a competitive sport. Her type? Older men on Wall Street. Gray hair, recently divorced, and deep pockets.
She’s short, curvy, and thick, with gorgeous cherubic features and skin so dark and flawless it practically glows.