Fake Dark Vows

1

CHAPTER 1

Brandon

My phone vibrates on my desk, my mom’s face smiling at me like a cameo portrait inside a precious locket. She’s wearing her favorite pearls in the image, her hair swept back Audrey-Hepburn style, her smile revealing perfect white teeth. I can almost imagine her hissing under her breath, “Answer the damn phone, Brandon,” while the photographer catches her still sharp cheekbones in exactly the right light.

I reject the call.

Again.

I hit redial on the landline telephone on my desk and get straight through to Julia, my personal assistant. “Has my mother tried calling today?”

“Wrong question.”

“How many times?” I try.

“Ooh, at least a dozen, maybe more. I lost count shortly after I arrived.” I can hear her chuckling to herself as I cut her off.

I swivel my leather seat and stare out of the penthouse window at the winking glass of the Chrysler Building in the sunlight. My mother wants to discuss my father’s birthday arrangements even though she’ll already have everything in hand with zero input from either me or my brother. It will be the same scenario as last year, and every other birthday before that: she’ll run through the itinerary that she emailed to me a week ago, and wait for me to say, “I’ll be there, Mom.”

She knows I can’t refuse. It’s the big seven-oh, and she’ll want everything to be perfect, because there’s no room for anything less in Ruby Weiss’s life. The decorations will be themed, the food will be gourmet, and the games will be competitive—just how my father likes it—and we’ll all be expected to perform like circus animals, raising the bar a little higher with each turn.

I skim-read the email. A week on Ruby Island, the private island in the Keys my father bought for my mom to celebrate their fortieth wedding anniversary, dress casual, cocktails served at six, all arguments to be conducted behind closed doors.

Centuries ago, they’d have given me and my brother Damon pistols, instructed us to choose our seconds and meet at dawn to settle it like men. Winner takes all. Quicker and easier than the relentless tournaments we’ve been forced to endure all our lives in the name of competitiveness.

When my phone vibrates again, I close my eyes and inhale deeply. I stand, slide my suit jacket from the concealed closet in my office, and shrug it on, retrieving my phone as I pass my desk. Might as well take advantage of the fine spring weather and walk to my next meeting while I avoid her calls.

A glance at the Caller ID tells me that my mom has been shunted down the line—this is not a regular occurrence in Ruby Weiss’s life. No doubt it will be noted in her silk-covered journal to be discussed with me when I finally pick up.

I hit the green button. “Sam.”

I’m already exiting my office. Julia, my PA, glances up from her own conversation, eyes wide. She covers her cell phone with her hand, too late to hide the personal call.

“Eleven-thirty meeting,” I say.

“Will you be back?”

I can’t avoid my mother all day, and the anticipated conversation is already causing a headache to brew behind my eyes like I’ve been reading small print for hours. “Depends.”

Julia’s smile is fleeting and doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She’s immaculate in a dark-gray shift dress, her hair tied back on top in a coordinating bow, the kind a child of kindergarten age might wear. We’ve worked together for five years and in all that time, I’ve never seen her make a personal call, even discreetly, during office hours.

Her gaze drifts to the phone in my hand. Sam is still hanging on, but he can wait.

“My mother,” I say, the lie slipping off my tongue easily. “I’ll keep you posted.”

My office is on the top floor of the tower that my father had commissioned when he made his first billion. I step into the elevator and glance back at Julia as the doors glide silently closed. She has her back to me, cell raised to her ear.

I follow suit. “You’ve got thirty seconds,” I say to Sam.

“There might be a problem at the source.”

I follow the levels on the display in front of me. “What kind of problem?”

“SEC is paying a little too much attention for my liking,” Sam says.

“Do I need to step back?”

“No.” Pause. “No, I can sort it.”

“That’s what I pay you for.”

I end the call. The elevator stops smoothly, and the doors swish open.

One of my father’s old associates is waiting to ride it back up, and I greet him with a wide smile and well-practiced handshake, firm enough to project confidence and control of the situation. Too limp, and you can kiss goodbye to any future business transactions; too heavy-handed and it implies a level of intimidation. It isn’t something they teach at Harvard—it’s a Weiss family thing. My father is a pro.

“Brandon, you’ll be at the family celebrations.”

“Of course.” I incline my head and keep the smile fixed in place like the dutiful eldest son.

“See you there. My wife and I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Of course they wouldn’t. It will provide a conversation starter for weeks after the event. “Did you hear about Harry Weiss’s birthday festivities? We were there by personal invitation.”

I turn away to cross the sleek marble-floored lobby and collide with a child.

The infant barely reaches my thighs—I know this because as she lands on her backside, her sticky fingerprints are left behind as evidence on my suit pants. The mouth opens, the chubby cheeks grow pink, and siren-strength wails fill the otherwise silent lobby.

A young woman comes running over clutching a plastic container filled with sandwiches, sliced salad vegetables, and a rosy, red apple. She hoists the child onto her hip, dropping the container in the process.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, bouncing the child up and down, oblivious to the sound emitting from her. Her gaze immediately drops to the fingerprints on my pants, and she wrinkles her nose. “It’ll wipe off. It’s only watermelon juice. She was eating a slice of watermelon on the way here.”

Sarah, the receptionist, joins us. She blinks slowly, her mouth a round ‘O’ of horror. “I’ll fetch some tissues.” She scurries back to the front desk.

“I’m on my way to a meeting.” I’m still staring at the stains—there’s no way they’re wiping off with a tissue.

“It was an accident.” The woman strokes the child’s blonde curls and rubs noses with her until the tears dry up and the siren-shrieks morph into the occasional juddering sob. When she looks at me again, her eyes are accusing. “You should’ve been watching where you were going.”

“You do realize this is a private office building, right?” I say.

Sarah is busy dealing with a client while the stains on my pants are drying up.

The woman with the child rolls her eyes around the high-ceilinged, glass and chrome lobby with its white leather couches and carefully chosen artwork. “My mistake, I thought this was preschool, but I can see now that it’s far too clean and stuffy.”

“Stuffy?” I don’t even know why I’m getting drawn into this conversation. This is my building. I should be able to come and go without fear of sticky fingers and bawling kids.

“Yes, I bet there’s zero fun to be had in this building.”

A retort teeters on the tip of my tongue, the kind I might’ve spouted as a fourteen-year-old with raging hormones and giant footsteps to fill. Instead, I clench my fists and jut my jaw, the façade that works with everyone else in my life.

Sarah’s gaze flits back and forth between the client and our conversation as if realizing she might’ve prioritized the wrong person.

The young woman’s shoulders slump as the child rests her head on her chest and peers at me from beneath long wet eyelashes. “I’m sorry. Look, I’ll pay for your pants to be dry-cleaned if it will help.”

“Not really,” I say. “I’m already late.”

I see the hurt in her eyes and ignore it anyway. I don’t know why the incident has me so rattled. Scratch that. I do know why it has me so rattled—it has nothing to do with the fingerprints that are already starting to fade, and everything to do with the young woman whose honey-blonde hair, if released from the ponytail secured at the nape of her neck, would curl the same way as Kelly’s.

I go to walk around them and hesitate, bending to retrieve the plastic container from the floor. “You dropped this,” I say, handing it over.

“Thank you. It’s for my dad. It’s his lunch; he forgot it this morning. He’s careless like that. My mom always said that he’d forget his head if it wasn’t⁠—”

“Your dad works here?” I cut her off.