Not Born To Inherit

Chapter One The string lights were doing their job. The quartet was doing its job. Roman Brooks was the only person under this tent not doing his. He held a glass of something he had no intention of drinking and watched two hundred people network under the banner of pediatric cancer research. Phones came out for every third handshake. He had seen this exact party before — different charity, same faces, same lighting. A waiter appeared beside him, tray steady, smile strained. “Mr. Brooks, your father is asking for you. He is by the stage.” “Tell him I am mingling,” Roman said. “He said if you are not there in five minutes—” “Got it the first time.” He set the glass down and walked in the opposite direction. He was not going near Julian tonight. He was not going near any of it — the small talk, the photographers hunting for a shot of the heir looking respectable, the whispers that followed him room to room. That is the adopted one. Wonder if he will actually run the company someday. He slipped away from the side of the tent, past the edge of the light, where the noise faded to a whisper. Five minutes. That was all he wanted. Five minutes where nobody was watching him perform. That was when he saw her. She knelt by a steel sculpture at the edge of the lawn, sleeves shoved up, tablet balanced on one knee, muttering at a cable she was fitting into the base. She had not clocked him. She was not dressed for the party either — jeans, a fitted black top, hair brushed back like she had actual work to do tonight. Which, clearly, she did. Roman found that a lot more interesting than anything happening behind him. “You are supposed to be enjoying yourself, not working,” he said, leaning against a nearby column. “That is what the open bar is for.” She did not look up. “I am not a guest.” “Could have fooled me. You look better than half the people in there.” That got her attention. She looked up — sharp, not impressed, sizing him up fast and clearly not liking the total. “Are you the one who has been bothering the catering staff all night?” “Excuse me?” “Guy in a navy jacket. Cornering servers, grabbing trays out of their hands, telling them they are doing it wrong.” She stood, wiping her palms on her jeans, and he got the full picture now — tall, unbothered, patience running low. “If that is you, I would like you to leave me alone.” “That is not me.” “Convenient answer.” “It is the true one.” He almost laughed. Nobody talked to him like this — like a stranger who might be a problem instead of the man whose name was printed on the invitation. “I do not even know which jacket you mean.” “Then step back. You are standing on my cable run.” He looked down. He was. He stepped off it, more amused than annoyed. “Better?” “Marginally.” She dropped back into a crouch, checking the connection, grumbling under her breath about the lighting crew running late. Roman did not leave. That was not like him. Usually by now he would have walked away toward someone easier — someone who smiled on cue, laughed at the right moments, wanted something from him and said so. She did not want anything from him. She barely wanted him standing there. “So what is this?” he asked, nodding at the sculpture. “Modern art, or a fire hazard?” “Kinetic light installation. Activates at nine, when the auction starts.” She did not look up. “Assuming nobody sabotages it first by acting like the whole lawn belongs to them.” “Harsh.” “Accurate.” She stood again and actually looked at him this time — the tailored jacket, the watch worth more than her car, the way he took up space like the garden had been arranged around him. Something changed in her face. Recognition, maybe. Or suspicion. “You know what, never mind who you are. Just get off my cable and let me work.” “I already moved.” “Then back off.” “I am not distracting. I am having a conversation.” “A conversation I did not sign up for.” He smiled before he could stop himself. “You are feisty for someone working an unpaid gala.” Her face went tight. “I am not unpaid. And I am not feisty. I am busy, you are in my way, and if you touch that cable one more time, I will not be responsible for what happens.” “I have not touched anything.” “You are leaning on the frame.” He looked down. He was. “You know,” he said, standing upright, still smiling, “most people are a little more careful about how they talk to me.” Something in her expression sharpened, like he had just confirmed a suspicion. “Right. Because you are used to people falling over themselves the second you walk in. Snap your fingers, someone else cleans up the mess. Is that how it works for you?” “That is not—” “I have watched guys like you all night. Barking at people who cannot talk back because their job depends on staying quiet. And now you are standing here, thinking you are charming, thinking I should be flattered you picked me over the women in there in better dresses.” “That is not what I—” “Save it.” Before he could get another word out, her hand caught his cheek — fast, sharp, hard enough to turn his head with it. Silence. Neither of them moved for a second. Roman stood there, cheek burning, ears ringing faint, staring at her like she had just rewritten every rule he thought applied to him. Nobody touched him like that. Nobody dared. His security detail existed for exactly this reason, and not one of them was anywhere near this corner of the garden. She looked almost as shocked as he did — chest rising fast, hand still half-raised, like she could not quite believe what her own arm had just done. “You—” she started. A voice cut through the dark, coming from the path behind them. “Mr. Brooks? There you are. Your father is looking for you — and half the west tent just saw that.” Zuri’s stomach dropped. Mr. Brooks. She turned slowly and looked at the man she had just slapped — really looked at him this time, past the expensive jacket and the easy smile — and felt the floor of the garden tilt under her.