Chapter 4

The returned Heir

Alastair Artair Aarhil sat in his office, staring through the glass walls at the morning sky as streaks of orange bled across the horizon.

It was his first day back in the city, and word of his return had already spread. After all, he was the heir to Aarhil Group Corporation.

Fortunately for him, very few people actually knew what he looked like beyond his family and closest friends.

And hopefully… she would remember him too.

The office doors swung open.

A broad man stepped inside, standing at least six-foot-one, draped in a black suit that probably cost more than most people’s yearly salaries.

He was a sharp contrast to Alastair’s cream slacks and casual long-sleeved Sunspel shirt.

“Well, well, well” the man drawled darkly. “Look what the cat finally dragged in.”

“Get. Out,” Alastair said, amusement leaking through his thick accent despite the years he’d spent away from home.

“Now is that any way to greet your oldest friend, buddy?”

Alastair laughed softly, the sound warm and effortless, rolling off him and into the chilly morning air.

“Hero, you haven’t changed one bit.” He mused, standing up and making it to the other side of the desk and pulling the larger man in for a hug.

“And here I thought I’d become as sunny and warm as you, Aar.”

“Oh, goody. The beastling’s back.” Another voice slithered into the room.

“Ahhh… go away, Laird. No one wants you here.”

Laird stepped inside, his deep voice smooth as dark liquor. “I beg to differ.”

Alastair crossed the room in two long strides, stopping right in front of him. “Laurent”

“Aarhil” Laird responds.

“So you’re not dead yet,” Alastair mutters. “Pity.”

Laird glances toward Hero. “Still as sunny and warm as ever, I see.”

“I’ll say.”

The three men chuckled.

“It’s good to see you again, Laird.”

“Back at you, Aar.”

“Great,” Alastair sighs. “Now that the formalities are out of the way, what’s this banquet Grandfather suddenly wants me attending?”

“Straight to business?” Hero groans. “At least feed us first. I’m famished.”

“You’re always starving,” Laird replies dryly.

“A bit parched too,” Hero adds.

Pointing toward Hero, Laird whispers rather loudly, “If anything, he eats more now.”

“Explains why he’s so massive,” Alastair agrees.

Hero lets out an offended sound, his huge frame slumping dramatically into the sofa while the others laughed heartily.

Two soft knocks interrupted their moment. The room immediately quietened. “Yes, come in.” Alastair responded, already knowing who it was.

Abandoning the serving cart outside, an elegant older woman dressed in a pink summer dress beneath a crisp white apron walked in. She stood at the doorway, studying the three men with narrowed eyes.

All of them rose to attention. “Good morning, Mrs. Sinclair,” they greeted in unison.

Her stern expression melted almost instantly.

“Well now,” she cooed. “Little Tair is all grown up.” Looking at them all, “My, my… aren’t you boys handsome?” She adds, giving a satisfied nod like she’d just inspected something of great importance and found it incredibly satisfying.

“Still standing, the lot of you,” she smiles, hands resting firmly on her hips. “I was beginning to think the city had finally swallowed you whole.”

Hero grins. “Nothing could swallow me, Mrs. Sinclair. I’m practically indigestible.”

“That’s not something to be proud of,” Laird mutters under his breath.

Alastair exhales a quiet laugh, but his gaze stays glued on her. “You haven’t changed either. Just as drop dead gorgeous as ever Babs.”

“Naturally.” She flips her hair, “someone in this city has to remain beautiful. Gotta keep y'all on your toes.” With a sly smile, she adds. “Don’t let Monty hear you, otherwise you might have to catch the quickest flight back.”

“Pfft…Monty loves him. He wouldn’t even bat an eyelash if he hit on you all year.” Hero pouts. “He always gets away with the good stuff.”

Monty Sinclair had been hopelessly devoted to Babette since they were teenagers. Forty-five years later, he still followed her around their bakeries like she might vanish if he looked away too long. The entire city knew it too.

The Sinclairs never had children of their own, so somewhere along the years, they’d quietly claimed the boys instead. Not that any of them had ever complained. Especially Hero, what with the way they fed his unquenchable appetite.

And of course, the Sinclairs weren’t particularly poor either. They owned the most renowned bakeries in the city. Top of the pastry chain.

Babs didn’t have to deliver their breakfast but she always insisted on doing it herself so as to see them before their day became full. And today, all three of them were together again after years of being apart.

“You” Babs replies sharply after further scrutiny, though her eyes appear softer than before. “You’ve grown too thin for my liking.” She points at Alastair with mild accusation.

“I’ve been abroad,” he says, his voice taking on a defensive note. Like a child being chided for not taking his medication.

“A useless excuse,” she waves it off. “Sit. All of you. Before I decide to lecture you properly.” Her heels padding softly on the carpeted floor as she commands.

Hero doesn’t need to be told twice. He plops back into his chair with a relieved sigh, like a man returning from war rather than a morning meeting that hadn’t even started yet.

Laird remains standing a moment longer, watching Mrs. Sinclair carefully as she begins moving to the table outside. She shoots him a warning glare. He flops down into the nearest couch fast.

Once she steps back out into the corridor, Hero leans forward. “So,” he starts, lowering his voice slightly, “banquet.”

Alastair’s expression shifts subtly, but still noticeable. “Yes,” he answers. His face darkens just a fraction. “Grandfather’s idea.”

Laird folds his arms. “That never means it’s just dinner, especially with your grandpa.”

“It never is,” Alastair agrees, though the thought of the old man brings warmth to his heart.

Hero scratches the back of his neck. “So what’s the angle? Business alliance? Political nonsense? Another one of those ‘introduce the heir to the wolves’ situations?”

Alastair doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes drifted back toward the window, where the city moved beneath the morning light, unaware of the quiet machinery behind its wealth.

“Something like that,” he said at last.

A pregnant pause settles between them. Hero tilts his head in thought. “And her?” He finally asks. The question lands differently.