Fuck.
“No. Just sitting here being quietly thankful for all of my blessings,” she evenly says.
Her reply leaves a distinct scent in the room. Smells like bullshit and broken dreams.
“If we can continue,” Sam says, his voice possessing a warning that I ignore for a protracted moment where Ember and I engage in a visualfuck you.
I almost smile.
Almost.
I shift my attention back to the company attorney and find myself entrenched in another game of warfare. A muscle ticks along his strong, tight jaw, and his narrowed gaze is drenched in suspicion. The older man has never liked me, and the feeling is entirely mutual. Unlike her father, Sam has always sought to protect Ember, shelter her. For that, I resent the fuck out of him. Not because I want the role he’s assumed.
No.
It’s because he stands between me and my self-appointed victim.
“To my stepson, Asad Grayson Prince, I bequeath the rest and residue of my estate, including but not limited to real estate in Los Angeles, Miami, New York, London, England, and Paris, France, sixty billion in assets, forty-six percent ownership, and the position of CEO of House of Cross and all of the Cross Corporation entities. If he does not survive me, his brother and my stepson Kareem Malcolm Prince will receive his inheritance.”
A roar invades my head, thundering and deafening me to everything but the bloodthirsty howl ofmine.
Finally fucking allmine.
For all intents and purposes, I own eighty-five percent of HoC. Forty-six percent belongs to me outright, but with Marcus granting me voting proxy of Ember’s thirty-nine, no one—not even my mother or brother—can defy me. Marcus didn’t screw me. He screwed his daughter, but not me. A sensation too hot, too blinding, too primal to be labeled mere joy soars through me like a meteor crashing into earth. All the lies, the scheming, the years of submitting myself have proven worth it.
House of Cross is mine now. Mine to take in any direction I want. Mine to shape how I decide. Mine to shatter right downto the corrupt, bitter roots and erect in my reflection. No more Marcus Cross. Just Asad Prince.
I glance at Michelle, and her eyes glitter with pride and triumph. Even though I could give two shits about how my mother feels about me, the tightening of my chest makes a liar out of me. In my thirty years, I can easily count the number of times Michelle looked at me with delight etched into her features and brightening her gaze.
Every single one of them had been when I inflicted some kind of torture on Ember.
My mother raised a sadistic sociopath, and she’s gotdamn tickled pink.
“I hereby nominate, constitute, and appoint House of Cross’s legal counsel and my lifelong friend, Samuel Chavis, to act as the executor of this, my Last Will and Testament. In the event that Samuel Chavis declines to act or precedes me in death, I nominate and appoint my stepson Asad Prince to act in his place.” Sam pauses, and I can’t tell if he’s having a moment of mourning for his friend… or silently calling him a bitch-ass muthafucka. Maybe both. “That’s it. If any of you have any questions about the details of this will, you have my contact information. If you don’t mind, I’d like to have the room and speak to Ember in private, please.”
It’s not a question or suggestion; it’s an order. Though a sneer curls Michelle’s lips, she stands from her chair. I don’t need to possess telepathy to know she wants to tell Sam fuck him and she’s not going anywhere. But as loose as she is with the mouth, Michelle doesn’t have a death wish. And Sam would wrap his hand around her throat and wouldn’t let go until she pissed on herself. And if she counted on me to save her, well, meeting her husband in the afterlife would dispel that belief.
Wisely, she remains quiet and stalks for the study door, Kareem on her heels. As they pass Ember, my brother’s steps falter, and he pauses in front of our stepsister. His fingers flex near his thigh, straightening, then curling in a fist.
As if he longs to touch her but is afraid to. Instead of laying a hand on her, he leans over and whispers something in her ear that’s too low for me to catch. Ember nods and grants him a small, strained smile.
That’s more than she’s ever offered me.
An equally unholy and dark possessiveness swims behind my rib cage, slamming against it like tsunami waves desperate to swallow and destroy everything in their path. My body locks, and I force myself to remain still and not charge across the room, throw my younger brother to the floor, and stomp a mud puddle in his ass. Thankfully for him, he straightens and follows our mother out the door.
“Prince,” Sam says, voice hard, ice-cold.
“You just read that will, Sam.” I drag my gaze from the direction my brother disappeared in and return it to the older man. “I own all this shit… including you. I’m not Michelle or that fuck ass Marcus. You tread lightly with me, and I won’t pay a visit to your youngest up there at Stanford. Florence Moore Hall, right?”
Red rushes into his face, staining his patrician cheekbones. Deep lines etch his forehead and bracket his mouth. Shit, he better calm down. If his old ass strokes, I’m just going to roll his big ass under the desk and keep it moving. Fuck I look like.
Sam slaps both palms down on the desktop and leans forward, pinning me with a glittering, narrowed stare. “Muthafucka, did you just threaten my family?”
I chuckle, pushing off the wall.
“Nah, not me. Just a friendly reminder of who I am and what I’m capable of.” I see my death in his dark eyes, and that shit don’t move me. “I’ll leave you to your meeting now.”
Best he remember that and not lose sight. As soon as that will was read, all this became mine.