6

Alexander

The duffel bag sits on my bed like a judgment, canvas and zippers mocking everything I used to be.

I stare at it, arms crossed, jaw locked tight enough to crack molars. This piece of shit luggage—probably bought by some assistant who got fired three scandals ago—represents the spectacular crater my life has become.

It’s the first time in approximately forever that I’ve had to pack my own clothes. No personal shoppers, no wardrobe consultants, no army of people paid ridiculous money to know the difference between Tom Ford and toilet paper. Just me, two hands, and a pile of designer fabric that suddenly feels like expensive evidence of my failures.

Six months, Alexander. Prove you’re not a complete waste of DNA or stay in Tuscany permanently.

My father’s words loop in my brain like a death sentence disguised as motivation.

And now I’m being relocated to some corporate-owned purgatory like a deposed dictator under house arrest. Babysat—actually fucking babysat—by the one woman who still occupies way too much real estate in my subconscious. The same woman I once had pressed against a penthouse window, her breath fogging the glass while I whispered every filthy thing I planned to do to her body.

Josephine Huntington.

Of course it’s her.

Because rock bottom apparently comes with a VIP section reserved specifically for maximum psychological torture.

I grab a wrinkled shirt—probably clean, definitely expensive—and shove it into the duffel. My phone buzzes against a stack of takeout containers that serve as my current filing system. Lucinda’s face fills the screen, all dark curls and knowing eyes that see through my bullshit like X-ray vision.

“Jesus, Lex. Is this what financial exile looks like?” She takes in the disaster zone that is my bedroom with the clinical assessment of someone who’s spent years cataloging my poor choices.

“Exile typically includes room service.” I collapse onto the edge of my unmade bed, surrounded by the archaeological layers of my privileged existence. “This is more like… supervised poverty with a side of family disappointment.”

She smirks, but it’s wrapped in affection. “Please tell me you packed actual underwear this time.”

“I figured I’d embrace the commando lifestyle. Keep things interesting for my new roommate.”

Lucinda’s eyes narrow with sisterly concern and morbid curiosity. “So it’s true? You really hooked up with the Bratva princess and got yourself excommunicated from the family fortune?”

I lean back on my elbows, staring at ceiling stains that probably have their own ZIP code. “Guilty on both counts. Valesquez filled you in on the gory details, didn’t he? No penthouse, no platinum cards, no trust fund. I’m basically homeless with good cheekbones.”

“And now you’re living with Josephine Huntington?” Her tone carries that particular blend of wariness and fascination reserved for natural disasters and reality TV. “The Josephine Huntington?”

I groan like someone just told me I have to attend my own funeral. “That’s the one.”

Lucinda’s eyebrows climb toward her hairline. “The same woman you completely ghosted after your little hotel rendezvous?”

“Lucy,” I warn, but there’s no heat behind it. “Besides, the ghosting was mutual. We both decided silence was the better part of valor.”

She shrugs with the casual brutality only siblings can deliver. “I’m just saying, karma apparently wears designer heels and holds grudges.”

I scrub a hand over my face, feeling every one of my twenty-eight years plus interest. “It’s temporary. Six months of keeping my head down, playing the reformed playboy, and maybe—maybe—Dad lets me back into the kingdom.”

“Or maybe,” she says with that wisdom that makes me forget she’s my baby sister, “this is the universe’s way of telling you to grow the hell up.”

That one hits harder than a freight train loaded with uncomfortable truths.

Lucinda’s expression softens like she can see me mentally bleeding. “You’ve been lucky, Lex. Too lucky for too long. Maybe this time you’re supposed to earn something real instead of inheriting it.”

Earn something real.

The phrase sits in my chest like a challenge I don’t know how to accept. How do you prove you’re more than your father’s disappointment or your brother’s screwup shadow? My achievements were never enough to outshine Valesquez, never sufficient to make me visible in ways that mattered.

Not even to myself.

So it became easier to play the role—the reckless heir, the walking scandal, the son who converts family money into tabloid headlines and empty conquests. At least that way they notice me, even if it’s for all the wrong reasons.

I hate that being seen requires being wrong, but visibility is visibility, right?

“Alright, enough therapy,” I tell her, my voice rushed and rough. “Good luck finding yourself in whatever middle-of-nowhere town you’ve decided represents our mother’s ghost.”

I love Lucy, but sometimes her insights cut too close to bone. She doesn’t remember Mom—too young when cancer claimed her—so she’s convinced that moving to some rural nowhere will somehow bridge that gap. We haven’t seen each other in over a year.

God, I miss her.

Lucy signs off with a wink and an expertly delivered middle finger, leaving me alone with my half-packed evidence of failure.

I arrive at the corporate apartment building with my duffel slung over my shoulder like some college dropout reporting for community service. The lobby screams “tax-deductible housing solution”—all sterile marble and plants that probably cost more than most people’s cars.

Perfect aesthetic match for her.

I knock on her door with the confidence of a man who definitely doesn’t belong here.

The door swings open, and there she is.

Josephine fucking Huntington.

Her dark hair is pulled into a sleek ponytail that probably required engineering consultation. She’s wearing a black blazer over leggings that should be illegal in several states, the fabric clinging to curves that have starred in more of my inappropriate thoughts than I care to admit.

The blazer’s top buttons are undone just enough to suggest she’s human under all that professional armor, revealing a hint of cleavage that temporarily short-circuits my brain’s higher functions.

She looks like the world’s most attractive probation officer, and I’m already planning to violate every condition of my parole.

“You’re late.” Her eyes sweep over me with the disdain of someone who regrets sharing the same planet.

I shift my weight, letting that familiar smirk play at my lips. “Had to properly mourn the death of my black card. Funeral services were beautiful.”

Her arms cross, pulling the blazer tight across her chest in a way that’s probably meant to be intimidating but mostly just makes me want to test the structural integrity of corporate-approved furniture.

“Do not make this more difficult than it already is.”

“Too late, sweetheart,” I say, stepping into her perfectly sterile sanctuary with all the swagger of a condemned man walking to his execution. “You opened the door, and suddenly everything about this situation just got incredibly hard.”

Her glare could probably be weaponized by the military.