Three Of A Kind

The Reading

I found out exactly how much three strangers could hate me before any of them said a single word.

The lawyer's office in the east wing of the Castellane estate smelled like leather and old money, the kind of room built to make people feel small before they'd even sat down. Late afternoon light cut low through tall windows, catching dust in the air like the room itself hadn't been touched in years, and somewhere underneath the polish and the mahogany I could still smell faint traces of him. Cedar and old paper. Alistair's study had always smelled like that too, back when I still had somewhere to sit across from him instead of a folder with his name printed at the top like a stranger's.

I'd been in rooms like this a hundred times, always on the right side of the desk, always in control of exactly what I let people see. Today, for the first time in six years, I wasn't sure that was going to be enough.

"Ms. Ashby." Alistair's longtime attorney, Winslow, gestured me toward the chair at the head of the table, not beside it. My heartbeat picked up in a way I refused to acknowledge, my palms damp against the folder I'd brought as if I needed the reminder of what I was here to do. "They're waiting."

I'd known Alistair Castellane for six years. He'd trusted me with contracts worth more than most people's lives, with secrets I still hadn't told a single soul, with the kind of quiet, steady faith no one had ever handed me before without wanting something in return. He'd never once mentioned having sons.

The door opened, and I understood immediately why.

The first one in was tall and controlled in a way that read as armor rather than posture. Dark suit, jaw set like he'd trained himself out of showing anything at all, dark hair pushed back like he hadn't had the patience for it that morning. When his eyes found mine, something in my chest went very still, an awareness I had no business feeling toward a man who hadn't said a single word to me yet. He crossed the room like it belonged to him, which, in a matter of minutes, it might. He didn't offer his hand.

"Roan Castellane," Winslow said, when it became clear Roan wasn't going to introduce himself.

The second one didn't bother hiding his study of me either, but where Roan's gaze was closed off, his was open in a way that felt somehow worse. Patient. Assessing. Pale eyes that moved over me slowly, cataloging, like he was already three moves into a game I hadn't agreed to play and enjoying that I didn't know it yet. "Emory," he said simply, taking the seat directly across from mine, close enough that I felt the weight of his attention settle over my skin like heat, close enough that I had to work not to shift under it.

The third one smiled.

It was the kind of smile that had probably gotten him out of trouble his entire life, easy and a little too knowing, warmth radiating off him even from across the room, and it landed somewhere in me I wasn't prepared to defend. "Barrett," he said, dropping into the chair beside me instead of across from it, close enough that I caught the warmth of him before he'd said another word, close enough that the space between us felt smaller than the room allowed. "And you're the mystery woman our father apparently trusted more than any of us."

The word father did something to the room. Roan's jaw tightened, just barely. Emory's expression didn't change at all, which was somehow worse.

"I'm the estate's administrator," I said, keeping my voice level, keeping every part of myself that wanted to react locked down exactly where it belonged. "Appointed by your father to oversee the terms of his will."

"Funny," Emory said, not looking away from me. "He never mentioned you."

"He never mentioned any of this to me either," I said, and it was the truth. Just not all of it. "Shall we begin, Mr. Winslow?"

Winslow opened the folder in front of him with the unhurried care of a man who had done this too many times to feel the weight of it anymore, and began to read.

"I, Alistair James Castellane, being of sound mind, do hereby establish the following terms for the transfer of controlling interest in Castellane Group. Said interest shall pass to one of my three sons, Roan, Emory, or Barrett, contingent upon the successful completion of a trial period not less than one year in duration, during which all three shall reside together at the Castellane estate. This trial shall consist of three defined evaluations, testing stability, vision, and stewardship of our people, respectively, each administered in turn. Compliance with these terms, and determination of the eventual successor, shall be overseen exclusively by Marlowe Ashby, whose decisions shall be final and not subject to appeal by any party."

I felt three sets of eyes shift onto me at once. I didn't let myself flinch.

"He's giving one of us everything," Roan said, quiet in a way that was somehow louder than shouting, "and giving her the power to decide who."

"He's giving you the chance to earn it," Winslow corrected, and looked at me. "Ms. Ashby's judgment on compliance is final and binding, per the terms of the trust. No party may contest her findings at any stage."

"And if we disagree with her findings?" Emory asked, tone perfectly even, the question aimed at Winslow but his eyes never leaving me.

"Then I imagine," Winslow said, without looking up, "you'll have an interesting year ahead of you."

Barrett laughed, short and disbelieving, and turned to look at me properly for the first time. Really look, in a way that made my skin feel too warm for the room, too warm for a conversation about wills and futures and a dead man's last attempt at control. "So you're the one holding all our futures in your hands. Hardly seems fair to us."

"Life rarely is," I said, and hated how much I meant it.

Roan hadn't stopped looking at me. There was something underneath the coldness in his eyes I couldn't name yet, something that looked almost like recognition, like he was trying to place me and couldn't, and it unsettled me more than his hostility would have.

"Why you?" he asked, finally, directly. The first thing he'd said to me at all. "Why does a woman none of us has ever met get to decide whether we keep everything our family built?"

I had an answer ready. I'd rehearsed it in the car, in the mirror, in every version of this meeting I'd run through in my head over the past three weeks. I never got to use it.

"There's one more provision," Winslow said, glancing up from the folder, almost as an afterthought, the way lawyers save the detail they know will land hardest for last. "To ensure accurate and continuous oversight, the administrator is required to reside at the estate for the full duration of the trial."

The room went very still.

"She's staying here," Barrett said slowly, and I couldn't tell, from his voice alone, whether it was a complaint or the opposite of one. "With us. For a year."

I opened my mouth to say something professional, something composed, something that would put the walls back up before any of them saw how completely the ground had just shifted under me too.

Roan spoke before I could.

"Then I suppose," he said, quiet, watching me like he'd just found the first real crack in something, "we're all going to get to know each other very well."