Page 10 of Vance

The drive to my apartment is a blur of gray streets and traffic lights I barely register. My mind is a frantic storm, replaying Vance’s every word and gesture. His protection is gone. The phrase echoes in the confined space of my car, a death knell for the fragile security I’d built. Roman was a monster, but he was a predictable monster who saw my ambition and work ethic as assets. Vance, on the other hand… I don’t know how he sees me. And that uncertainty is a thousand times more terrifying.

My fingers drift to my throat again, the phantom sensation of his touch lingering on my skin. He enjoyed my discomfort, fed on it. The dinner invitation, the casual dismissal of my refusal, and the switch to a meeting in his office were a masterclass in psychological warfare, designed to remind me of my place. And my place, according to Vance Ashford, is wherever he decides it is.

And tomorrow, when I walk into his office, the only man Vance Ashford feared will be six feet under. There won’t be anyone left to tell him no. There won’t be anyone left to stand between me and whatever game he’s decided to play.

The city bleeds gold beneath us, the sun’s rays beaming between the adjacent buildings, as the elevator climbs toward my mother’s penthouse—our childhood home and our family’s kingdom in the clouds. To the city, we are mourning our patriarch, Roman Ashford. Fuck, I think Baldwin might have even shed a fake tear during his funeral. But up here? There is no grieving. Not from us. Our father wasn’t the kind of man you mourn. He was the kind you fought brutally to survive.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime. My brothers file out first. Xander stalks forward like he’s marching into hell. The twins, Baldwin and Beckett, are both unusually quiet and practically attached at the hip. As usual. Kaden strides from the cab, rolling his shoulders like he expects a fight, which, when Roman was alive, would have been par for the course.

Mom meets us in the foyer, her black, perfectly pressed silk blouse the only soft thing in this apartment, other than her. She kisses each of us in turn. When she pulls back from leaving a chaste kiss on my cheek, I note that, unlike the rest of us, her eyes are rimmed red and slightly bloodshot. She loved Roman, somehow. Maybe because she received what little tenderness he possessed.

But it isn’t her poised appearance that truly catches my attention. It’s the man beside her. “Mr. Hale.” I shake his hand and eye him suspiciously. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Our family attorney gives a polite—but strained—smile. “My condolences, gentlemen. I realize this is… sooner than expected. But your father’s will stipulates immediate review, due to the nature of the inheritance.”

“Of course he does,” Kaden grumbles.

Mom touches my arm, her eyes flitting over each of her sons. “He insisted, Vance. You know how your father was.”

Yeah. Controlling, even from the grave.

We move as a unit—always have, always will—down the hallway toward Roman’s office. Mom stays back in the grand living room. She never liked crossing that threshold. None of us did. Even in death, his presence leaves the air feeling thick when I step through the doorway.

Xander heads straight for the decanter on the sideboard. He pours six generous servings of bourbon—one for each of us. The crystal tumblers clink as he hands them out. Hale lifts a hand and subtly shakes his head. “I’ll pass, thank you.”

“Suit yourself,” Xander says, throwing back half the contents of his glass before settling in one of the leather chairs.

I stand at the floor-to-ceiling window, my attention more on the city beneath us than whatever stipulations Hale has to share. The sun is setting, turning Chicago into a furnace of glass and steel, the lake beyond a dark promise. I own this city. Or my brothers and I will, once the paperwork clears. It’s never been a secret that we were raised in Roman’s image to carry on his legacy. “All right,” I huff, not turning around. My reflection shows a man who looks exactly like his father, the same sharp cheekbones, dark hair going silver at the temples, and mouth made to wield cruelty. “Let’s get this shit over with.”

Hale clears his throat and opens a black portfolio. “These are your father’s words, not mine. ‘I, Roman Ashford, of sound mind…’”

I chuff a laugh. “Debatable.”

Hale tries his best to ignore my comment and continues, “I have established a trust for my beloved wife, Cora, to ensure she is taken care of. I leave it to her, along with the penthouse she graciously filled with sons for me. I am certain my sons will take care of their mother, in the event the trust is somehow not enough.”

I nod once. I should have known he’d take care of Mom. Whatever Roman Ashford was capable of feeling, she was the closest thing he had to love. Twisted, possessive, and entirely on his terms, perhaps, but love all the same. She is the one thing in this world he would never leave unprotected. The trust is likely worth a hundred million, enough to keep her in the lap of luxury until she passes.

Hale flips the page. “To my sons, I leave the entirety of The Ashford Group, worth⁠—”

“We know what it’s worth,” Beckett interrupts, dropping into his chair like he’s bored with the conversation. “Billions. With a fucking B. Unless someone’s been lying to me about how many zeros we have.”

He isn’t wrong. Roman built an empire—cold, merciless, and sprawling across Chicago and beyond—and he’s giving it to us. All of it. I allow myself a small smile, taking a sip of the bourbon. It’s smooth and expensive, the kind most people save for special occasions.

Hale obnoxiously clears his throat to garner our attention. “But there is a condition.” A condition… How very Roman. Those two words draw our gazes back to the suddenly very tense lawyer sitting before us.

“Of course there is.” Kaden sighs with annoyance, swirling his glass. “Well? What is it?”

Hale reads, “It is no secret that my love and obsession for my wife, Cora, was what allowed The Ashford Group to be what it is today. And while I may not be around to see what comes next, I want to ensure each of my sons carries that same hunger forward—not only in business, but in building a legacy of their own. The Ashford name must endure, and it will be their responsibility to see that it does.’”

Kaden groans. “Jesus, just get to the fucking point.”

Hale adjusts his glasses. “Your father required that, to maintain your stakes in the company, each of you must marry before the age of forty and produce an heir by the age of forty-five.”

The room falls silent, save for the sputtering sounds of Baldwin choking on his bourbon. “Fuck, I’m out. I’ll just be poor as shit.”

“Gentlemen,” Hale interjects over our chorus of snickers. “It’s not quite that simple.”

My spine stiffens, and I turn away from the window, really looking at Hale for the first time. He’s sweating slightly, the folder trembling from nerves in his hands. “What the fuck do you mean ‘it’s not that simple’?”