CHAPTER FIVE
555 Words
KIERAN
“ Your head’s in the clouds again, Trustie,” Ethan teased, jabbing the tip of his sword lightly into my chest.
Trustie. That nickname followed me like a shadow — earned back in high school, during the reckless days of dealing and excess, long before rehab. The trust fund was my cage and my curse.
“Yo, bro! Get your head in the game!” Ethan shouted, shoving me hard enough to send me sprawling backwards.
I hit the floor with a grunt but couldn’t help cracking a laugh. “You’re an asshole!” I coughed, snatching up my sword.
The study door slammed open. My father stormed in, eyes flashing with icy fury.
“Uh-oh, what’d you do now, Trust-Fund?” Ethan whispered, giving my shoulder a supportive squeeze.
“Kauffman, leave us,” my father ordered sharply.
Ethan nodded, murmured, “Good luck, De La Vega,” and slipped out, closing the door behind him.
Father’s glare cut right through me.
“Don’t start, Father,” I muttered, trying to keep my voice steady.
“You know you have no choice,” he said coldly.
I sighed, frustration coiling tight in my chest. “Why am I getting married exactly?”
“By my analysis, our company’s profits are up 75% this year alone. We don’t need financial help,” I explained, arms crossed.
“One can never have too much money,” he grunted.
Troll.
“But that’s not it,” he admitted, his voice dropping.
“Then tell me,” I urged, the edge in my tone unmistakable.
“I’m getting old. The family business isn’t fully trusting you,” he said bluntly.
“I have a business degree. I’ve been clean for six years. What more do they want?” I snapped.
“They want assurance. A legitimate heir,” he said.
“I’ll retire by year-end. If you’re not married by then, the CEO seat goes to your cousin, Xanthe.”
“Xanthe? That i***t? He wouldn’t know what to do with the job!” I scoffed.
“He’s an i***t with a responsible track record,” Father said, spitting the words like venom. “Your record? Anything but responsible.”
“Okay, so the family wants me married — to keep me from knocking up some dumb bimbo,” I muttered, pacing as his glare burned holes into my back.
Then, like a spark lighting a fuse, an idea hit me.
“They want me married. Nobody said I can’t choose the wife.” I smirked, eyes locked on his.
“That’s not your choice!” he roared, stamping the floor.
I closed the distance between us, every step a warning. Smiling thin and sharp, I said, “Father... you’re obsessed with keeping the business in the family, aren’t you? I bet you want that legacy to stay pure.”
His eyes narrowed. “What are you getting at, boy?”
“Simple.” I shrugged. “I choose the wife. Marry her. And we both win.”
He raised an eyebrow, sceptical. “What makes you think I—or the family—will trust your judgment?”
I laughed, leaning in close, whispering in his ear, “You’ll just have to.”
With that, I turned and walked out, leaving the silence heavy behind me.
- Writer
