It’s been four years since I last walked in the front doors of Mayfair Tower, the Manhattan home of Mayfair Enterprises.
I’d hoped to never do it again, but beggars can’t be choosers. Since most of my bank accounts are still frozen by the British government, I’m living pay check to pay check. And I just quit my job.
Jeff’s office is on the far side of two security checkpoints, so I can’t just stroll in and say, “hey, little brother, how about hiring me?”
Instead, I have to give my name to the security guard, pretending I don’t see three ways I could disarm him and take control of the lobby in five seconds flat.
Maybe the job I should be applying for is chief of security.
After talking to someone on the phone, the guard directs me to a waiting room at one end of the lobby. This has been renovated since I was here last.
Business must be good.
I snort. Of course business is good. My brother was on the cover of national newspapers last week. The stories weren’t about Mayfair Enterprises, but there he was in the background of a picture of the President doing a tour of one of our factories.
Our factories.
I’ve never wanted a piece of this company.
“Mr. Mayfair?” I look up at a tall, pretty blonde in a dark blue suit waiting to escort me to see Jeff.
I’ve never wanted this, but now I need it. And if I’m willing to accept the strings attached, it’ll open up the world for me again.
“Yes,” I say, standing.
She holds out her hand. “I’m Alicia. The other Mr. Mayfair’s executive assistant. Please follow me.”
We shake. Her cool grip is strong and sure. Good for her.
She leads me past security, grabbing me a visitor’s badge on the way. As we walk, she tells me that Jeff’s currently on a conference call, but he’s got lunch in thirty minutes, and would I like a sandwich?
It’s quarter after eight in the morning. “I just had breakfast, but thank you.”
She doesn’t blink. “Mr. Mayfair’s operating on UK time this week.”
“Ah. So a late lunch, then.”
She doesn’t laugh. I swallow a sigh.
When we reach Jeff’s office suite, she directs me to an empty office on the far side of her desk. “You can wait in there.”
“Thanks.” I walk past her, already feeling restless.
“And Mr. Mayfair?”
“Yeah?” I turn back and look at her.
“Your mail is waiting for you in there.”
Jesus. I head in without acknowledging that further. Sure enough, there’s a stack of what looks like annual reports on the desk, and a small pile of envelopes next to them.
Jeff didn’t waste any time in laying the guilt trip.
My phone doesn’t work in here—no surprise there—so I sit down heavily in the leather desk chair and flip through the letters first. Annual statements of accounts I don’t have access to, with red stamps on them confirming that they’re still locked because I’m a bad boy.
Or something like that.
My f*ck
ing father.
The start of a headache pinches between my eyes. I breathe deeply, slowly, locking that shit down. I’m not going to get sucked in. I don’t need that money. The zeroes swim in front of my eyes. Shit, nobody needs that much money.
I just need Jeff to intervene on my behalf with the Brits, get my access to my own damn money, and then it can be another however many years before I need to be slammed in the face with the fact that I’m a terrible son.
“What are you doing here?”
I set down the report I’m reading and look up at my brother. Three years younger than me and infinitely smarter. Fewer qualms about the moral gray areas in life, too. “Apparently having lunch with you.”
Jeff laughs. He’s got my dark hair and eyes, but he’s clean-shaven to my few days of scruff and leaner to my bulky mass. Not that he’s not strong. He spent a few years training as an MMA fighter, but his strength in the ring is his speed, not the weight behind his fists. “Alicia explained I’m on London time?”
“What’s that about?” I get right to it.
“We’re building a nanotechnology research lab in Leeds.”
“That’s different.”
He shrugs. “It’s a test run. I’m trying to convince Mother it’s a good direction to take the company.”
“The British government hasn’t given you any problems?”
“Because of you?” He gives me a look of surprise, as if to say, you think you’re that important?
“I’m still having some difficulties with them. Frozen bank accounts, a lot of red tape.”
“The Company didn’t bail you out?”
I laugh. “I wasn’t a CIA operative.”
“Sure. Of course not.”
Not while I’d been in London, anyway. But I had been recruited by the CIA after I left the Navy—after my very short stint here at Mayfair Enterprises had failed miserably—and I’d been trained…Farm-adjacent, let’s call it. “Anyway, no, my former employer hasn’t provided any assistance with restoring my access to my accounts. And I’m still on a travel ban.”
Jeff frowns. “Really?”