Prologue
WEST
SUNDAY DINNER
“Mine!”I said, grinning as I snatched the last piece of cornbread from the platter in the center of my grandparents’ table.
“Dude,” Easton groaned. “You’ve already had four.”
“You know he doesn’t eat well during the week,” Jesse, Easton’s girlfriend, chimed in, trying to defend me as Easton shrugged and nodded in agreement.
“I eat just fine,” I muttered, eyeing both of them for talking about me like I wasn’t sitting right there.
“He probably lives on frozen pizza and sour gummy worms,” Easton continued under his breath.
“I have a housekeeper who doubles as my chef,” I corrected, lifting my chin. “Who works in my penthouse. That I will fly to in my helicopter after dinner.”
“Well, la-di-da,” Easton snorted.
Gramps cleared his throat, and just like that, the entire table went silent. Even Max, Jesse’s son, froze mid-bite, like he knew we were about to enter emotional combat territory.
“You sure do own a lot of things,” Gramps said, voice calm and quiet, which somehow made it worse. “For a man who has so little.”
Ouch.
I didn’t flinch, didn’t look up. Just stared down at my plate, trying to think of a fun fact about my mashed potatoes to ease the tension. I loved Gramps, but ever since my two younger brothers fell in love, he’d thought I was sad and lost. He was putting more and more pressure on me to also find The One. But I had no desire to share my life with someone—ever. He knew that.
With his arms folded and his gaze locked on me, Gramps leaned back in his chair. “But you don’t have a clue what it means to have something. Not really.”
Grams gave him a soft look, which was her universal sign for,“Please, dear God, stop talking.”Most of the time, Gramps did as he was told, but he wasn’t done yet.
“You think because you’ve got titles and properties and an army of employees, you’ve got it made. But none of that shit looks back at you, West. None of its waiting at the door when you get home. You say ‘mine’ like it’s a punchline. But the truth? You’ve built a life around making sure nothing actually is.”
“That’s not fair,” Grams whispered, ever the gentle buffer, though she didn’t argue too hard. “He’s done well.”
“He has,” Gramps agreed. “But doing well, and being well, aren’t the same thing.”
“It’s just cornbread,” I said with a grin that felt tighter than usual. “I’m not emotionally attached.”
“It’s not about the cornbread,” Gramps said, quieter now. “I’m just worried about you, son.”
And there it was. The gut punch. No warning, just a straight shot to the ribs.
I didn’t respond. What could I say? He wasn’t wrong.
I had everything. Buildings. Businesses. A penthouse. A chopper. A team of lawyers and enough staff to run a small country. But none of it had ever owned me back.
And I liked it that way.
Gramps never got that. He believed in porch swings and slow dancing in the kitchen and calling someone home. He believed in the kind of love that could wreck you and still be worth it.
But I didn’t need love to live a meaningful life. I could build something bigger. Stronger. Untouchable. I’ve never wanted what they had.
Not since the fire.
Not since I lost the only two people I had ever truly loved.
My parents.
