Page 22 of Perfect Satisfaction
I’ve warned my brothers for years the secret of our familial relationship can’t last. I especially don’t know how it’s going to remain hidden especially since apparently a roomful of solicitors know. When West Moore was alive, I’m certain he had his legal team under his thumb. But now? “I have no idea what’s going to happen.”
“What do you mean?” JB hitches himself on the desk next to me.
“The bastard left me out deliberately because he was a misogynistic prick who believed women were less. No woman was treated any better than the multitude of mistresses he paraded around. Anyone with a vagina was beneath his contempt. As for our mothers? God, he couldn’t stand the fact they dared breed for him. Mine had the audacity to actually be the last married to him.”
Brendan snarks, “And y’all wonder why I stayed out of the family fold for so long. If it wasn’t for the two of you, I’d never have acknowledged the old bastard.”
Sadness swamps over me. “The worst part about all of this? My anger isn’t about the money. It was about how—even after his death—he’s still trying to cultivate antagonism and hatred between the three of us.”
“It didn’t work, love. It won’t work.” JB’s hand reaches up and cups my chin, a gesture so sweet my eyes begin to fill.
That is until Brendan nudges me in the butt with the toe of his boot. My tears dry up and I toss a haughty sneer at him. He shrugs off my poisonous darts—having likely fended off worse from Dani and the kids—before reminding me, “He loses, sweetheart. We win. We’re the ones standing together. I also want to remind you we’ve had our own lawyers review the estate. There isn’t a damn thing precluding me and JB from giving the money away.”
“Then give it to charity.”
Brendan snorts. “Over my baby sister? Get real.”
I deliberately remind him, “That cretin refused to match a charity donation of a mere $50,000 that you all but begged for, Brendan. We all knew—even then—it was chump change for him. Give the damn money to charity but don’t make me one.”
Brendan’s eyes narrow beneath his dark brows—the still dark shade of his hair matching mine. Years ago, Brendan’s nephew Josiah—from his Blake side—suffered a rare form of leukemia. In addition to picking up the cost for all his treatment, Brendan appeared on and won a celebrity edition ofCaketasticon the Food Network to bring attention to the treatment center. After taping, he appeared in this very office, hat in hand, appealing to our skinflint father to match his generosity.
Who, unsurprisingly, rejected him.
“Our father wouldn’t part with his precious money to support a cause so close to his oldest son. Take it and donate a wing in Joey’s honor. As for you—” I whirl and find JB’s face right there.How did it get so close so fast? I wonder woozily. “I’ve worked by your side at this company for years. I endured the same hell you did.”
“Worse, Sula. Remember, you’re a woman,” JB reminds me.
I flap my hand before pushing that particular sore spot. “He wouldn’t listen to you, your ideas. You hustled and increased the contracts to raise our corporate profile by ten percent. He demeaned you even as he parked his ass right where you are now counting his wealth.”
“He did the same to you,” JB retorts, stung.
“I had my own agenda. I wanted to be where the buzz was.”
Brendan snickers. “That’s putting it mildly, Moore.”
JB and I ignore him as we face off with identical eyes—our father’s eyes. “Grow MSW with your ideas and his money. Shove it down his dead throat and make him choke in hell.”
“Sula.” JB’s voice is hushed.
“I believe in you, JB. You’ll grow this company far beyond anything he dreamed.”
Brendan’s feet hit the floor with a thunk. “Then what do you need, Sula?”
JB presses, “How do we give it to you?”
My gaze drops to the tabloid perfectly folded in the middle of JB’s blotter. At a recent red-carpet event, the paparazzi managed to snag a picture of supermodel Liza Hina with her perfect lips pressed against those of the man they speculate is her latest in a long string of lovers—my husband.
It’s too much for one person to handle in one day.
I shove away from the boat-size mahogany desk to wobble to the life-size oil painting near the conference room table. My father commissioned a painting of himself with the sole intent of intimidating the people who stepped foot in his domain. “It wasn’t until I was forced to realize Arek was StellaNova that West’s intimidation worked with me.”
Both men readily agree. Brendan’s voice, as smooth as the drink we’re consuming, notes, “Betcha in our padre’s sick mind, that’s one of a long list of reasons he cut you out.”
Staring up at the dead man whose genes I share with the only two men I respect in the world, I spit out, “I never wanted your money. All I asked for was your help. One time. Just help me be free.”
To West, that didn’t matter. Nor to any of the lawyers who droned on during the incomprehensible proceedings. Eventually I stopped listening partway through when I realized I’d still be fighting this war against Arek on my own.
I just signed my name, shutting up everyone in the room as I ceded to West in death. All I wanted was for it to be done. West refused me the one thing I desperately wanted—my freedom. After all, that never mattered for the women who dared to fall in love with him. What should it matter when his daughter made such a foolish mistake?
