The armored Town Car pulled away from the curb of the Burn Cigar Club. Inside, the air was cool, smelling faintly of leather and high-grade sanitizer. Kevin Skin sat perfectly upright; his hands—usually so steady on legal briefs—gripped the handles of his leather briefcase with a white-knuckled, possessive intensity. The case felt heavier than it truly was, its contents controlling his entire future. He had been tasked with transporting the dossier given to the Kane family by the Westbrooks. If anything went wrong, he would make an enemy of two of the most powerful families in Omak.
In the front passenger seat, the broad, suit-clad back of the private security personnel dominated the view. The man remained nearly silent, save for the low-frequency static hum from his earbud and the rhythmic, coded updates he spoke into a collar mic.
"Lead vehicle... checkpoint two. All clear. Rear guard, maintain distance," the guard muttered.
Kevin took a shallow breath and pulled out his phone. He dialed the secured line for the law firm of Sterling and Weiser, a number he had never called before. When he had been given this assignment, he was told only to call if it was a "billion-dollar deal." The connection encrypted, the screen showing a rotating biometric lock icon before Arthur Sterling himself picked up.
"This better be important," Mr. Sterling said, his voice low and dangerous. "Speak!"
Kevin could feel his palms sweating. He wiped them quickly against the sides of his thighs, trying to keep his voice from trembling. "I attended a meeting between Mr. Kane and Mr. Warwick Westbrook."
Arthur Sterling's pen stopped mid-scratch at the mention of the names. Westbrook. Everyone knew that name; the Westbrooks worked in tandem with the government, selling military-grade weapons technology around the world. "Explain."
"Sir, it would be prudent of us to start preparing for a merger and marriage contract. Between the Kane daughter and the Westbrook son." Kevin felt his heart rate spike during the ensuing silence. No words were spoken, but he could hear the steady, calculating breathing of Mr. Sterling. Finally, a low, gravelly rumble built in Sterling's chest until it broke into a full-bodied laugh that seemed to fill the line.
"Arrange a meeting. I will make a personal visit to Mr. Kane. Good work." Before Kevin could respond, the line went dead.
He turned his attention back to the window, watching as the cityscape dissolved, replaced by a winding private road that began the steep ascent up "The Hill." The world became quieter until the road was choked by massive, two-story high hedges that appeared more like ancient fortified walls than landscaping. This was Billionaires Row.
At the primary security booth, the ritual was exhaustive. IDs were taken, scanned, and cross-referenced. When they reached Kevin's car, the guard remained skeptical.
"Mr. Kane is accepting your responsibility on the grounds," the guard finally said after a call to the house. "However, your security remains here. Only you and your driver are permitted past the gate. You are not permitted onto any other property, or to speak to any resident or their guests. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Kevin managed.
Inside the gates, the world was eerily silent. There were no streetlights, and the only vehicles were low-slung, virtually silent electric carts emitting no fumes, each bearing the OakWood Technology Inc. insignia. Kevin realized he was in a world where technology was decades ahead of the public.
They arrived at the Kane estate—a spectacular Victorian structure finished in brilliant white with black iron balconies. As Kevin stepped out, he felt the eyes of a window washer tracking his every move like a sniper. Before he could knock, the door swung open. The house manager, Mr. Jameson, stood there like a stone wall, his assessing eyes grazing over the unfamiliar man with open hostility.
"Mr. Skin, to see Mr. Conrad Kane. A contract to deliver," Kevin said, attempting a confident tone. He spoke with the practiced arrogance of someone who worked for wealth but clearly possessed none of his own.
"Mr. Kane is not taking guests today. I will be sure to transfer the contract to his hands." Mr. Jameson took his duties seriously and had no intention of letting a stranger enter the estate.
"Mr. Leonardo Kane, whom I work for, tasked me to deliver the contract to Mr. Conrad Kane," Kevin insisted.
"You will not get within an inch of Mr. Conrad Kane," Mr. Jameson replied coldly.
"I'll need to contact my office. Just give me one moment." Kevin stepped to the side, texting the senior partner at his firm for guidance. The reply came back almost instantly: What is the gentleman's name at the door?
"Could I get your name, please?" Kevin asked, looking up from his phone.
"Mr. James Jameson."
After a flurry of messages to confirm the manager's identity, Kevin begrudgingly surrendered. He handed over the wax-sealed envelope and the silver tablet. Mr. Jameson accepted them and stepped back, the heavy teak door closing with a final, echoing thud. Kevin stood on the porch, realizing he wasn't "in"—he was merely a delivery boy. The air even smelled different here—like lavender, subtle but undeniable. With slumped shoulders, he prepared to leave.
Mere minutes away, the atmosphere at the Westbrook estate was a sharp contrast. Warwick Westbrook entered his home with Shane Mailscrum hot on his heels. The welcoming smell of pine made him feel at ease; the built-in diffuser maintained the home's trademark scent. Warwick kicked off his shoes, slipping into his house slippers as he crossed the foyer.
His daughter-in-law, Aubrey, was on the plush rug playing with Hunter, Gunner's young son. Her bare feet kneaded the thick fibers of the Persian rug, her toes disappearing into the intricate silk patterns. She rose to greet them, but her nose wrinkled as she recoiled from the scent of Warwick's clothes.
"Grampy!" Hunter said cheerfully, waving at his grandfather.
Warwick's hard expression softened instantly. He leaned forward, smiling at the little boy. "How's Grandpa's boy?"
"Cigars, Warwick? Really?" Aubrey asked. She felt he was too old to indulge in such things. "Cigars are the last thing you need."
Warwick's brow lowered, his features drawing together in a silent, stubborn protest. Here it comes, he thought, already bracing for the inevitable lecture. The green sludge.
"I'll change before I spoil the upholstery," he joked, lifting his hands in surrender, trying to deflect.
Aubrey wasn't deterred. She brushed her brown hair behind her shoulders, her eyes fixed on him with maternal authority. "I'm going to make you a healthy green smoothie, and you're going to drink all of it," she told him strictly.
Warwick's nose scrunched in genuine distaste at the confirmation of his fears. He opened his mouth to argue, but seeing the determined set of her jaw, he simply sighed. "Where is he?" he asked, his tone shifting back to the business at hand as he looked for an escape.
Aubrey pointed down the hall toward the office. "Bye-bye," Warwick said softly to his grandson before heading off.
Shane watched as the older gentleman interacted with his daughter-in-law and grandson. It was weird to see a man that tanked companies for sport be so fluffy.
Warwick knocked once and entered to find Orlando Westbrook behind a desk carved from dark walnut.
Warwick's gaze drifted to the large family photo behind the desk. His eyes caught his late wife's smile—vibrant and preserved in a way that felt almost sharp. He couldn't hold the look for more than a heartbeat before the weight of it forced him to look away. His focus snapped back to his son, his expression hardening into a protective mask. Orlando closed his laptop.
"This requires a lawyer?" he noted, glancing at Mailscrum.
"It will," Warwick replied, sitting down. Mailscrum presented the tablet, and the moment it touched the desk, Warwick waved the man away. Orlando scanned his thumb, and the dossier for Vivian Kane flickered to life as the office door clicked shut behind Mailscrum.
"Why the rush, Dad?" Orlando asked, his brow furrowing. The family was still adjusting to its newest member; it didn't seem like the time to add another person—especially one with such a challenging background.
"Gunner is twenty-seven. He has a son. He needs a wife from a family that won't be put off by the threat of a pre-existing male heir," Warwick stated firmly. "The Kanes have the status and a daughter with a poor public image. We both have secrets we're trying to hide. This is a good pairing for our family."
Orlando leaned back in his wingback chair, his mind swirling with accusations. He dropped the tablet and crossed his arms. "She's a poor investment. Damaged goods?"
"Gunner is our last chance to benefit from his marriage. Natalia is a wash. What do you intend for him to do, marry a dairy farmer?"
"She married the man she loves; I won't fault her for that." The muscle in Orlando's jaw pulsed, a rhythmic tick that betrayed the frustration he was trying to keep behind his teeth. "They're my children; I won't dictate their lives."
Warwick let out a short, dry sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "She's your favorite," he interrupted. "Gunner will do as he's told. That's why I intend to train him to become the CEO after you. You're getting old. I'm sure Aubrey would love you to be home more often."
Orlando wasn't fooled. His father was using the CEO position to force his hand. "I've made it clear that Natalia should take over," Orlando insisted. "She knows the company."
"I doubt her determination and competency. She married for love, not for the betterment of the family. Unlike us, who made the proper choices."
Orlando lifted the tablet again. His skepticism wavered as he saw Vivian's credentials: MIT, double major in Business and Economics, all by age twenty-one. She was a genius, not just a socialite. Scratching his beard, he looked up at his father's smug face. "What?"
"Your bias is showing," Warwick poked.
"They are both my children, and I treat them fairly. You favor Gunner because he's a boy and overlook Natalia at every turn."
"My bias has kept us on top of this hill for fifty years," Warwick said, rising from his chair. "Rumors are spreading. We must always protect our legacy."
Warwick turned and left the room, ready to take a quick rest before Aubrey tried to have him drink some green sludge. Aubrey slipped into the office a moment later, her bare feet making no sound on the heavy rugs. She walked behind Orlando, resting her palms on his neck and softly massaging away the tension.
"Do you disagree?" she asked softly, looking at the dossier over his shoulder. Her fingers moved toward the extravagant diamond necklace at her throat, her thumb absentmindedly tracing the cold stones.
"I don't know her," Orlando sighed. "Aubrey... do you think I favor one child over the other?"
"I think you love them both equally," she whispered, kissing his cheek. "But I don't think you like them in equal measure."
Orlando remained lost in his thoughts, the silence of the room feeling heavier now that the voices had ceased. He barely noticed the faint click of the door as Aubrey retreated, leaving him alone with the ghosts of his father's expectations.
The rest of the evening disappeared into the quiet, rhythmic demands of the estate. It wasn't until a few hours later, once the house had settled into its midnight lull and the family obligations had finally paused, that Aubrey found a moment of true solitude.
As she stepped into the moon-washed corridor of the West Wing, the soft, nurturing warmth had sharpened. With the household at rest, she finally had the headspace to focus on making plans for the future. She pulled her phone from her pocket, pressing one on her speed dial.
"Gunner," she said as the line connected. She had done a little digging. Tibby had been forwarding photos that her daughter, Darla, was sending from the party on Beckford's Island as they were happening.
As she scrolled through the live feed of images, she saw the brown-haired beauty, Vivian, was there as well. Her imagination began to wander. In this world, children were given a sliver of freedom to choose, but as long as they chose from the "curated selection," the parents were satisfied. And Vivian, it seemed, was now on the menu.