King of Envy: Chapter 9

I had several problems—three, to be exact.

One was the Brotherhood’s reemergence in my life. A week had passed since my meeting with Sean, and we were no closer to tracking down the suspect or figuring out the Brothers’ goals.

Two was my CFO’s monotone drone as he discussed Markovic Holdings’ latest fiscal quarter. He was competent, but his voice could put a bear on cocaine to sleep.

Three…

My jaw ticked.

Jordan and Ayana’s wedding, now scheduled for the end of October.

Six months, I could somewhat deal with. Six months was in the new year, far enough away that I could dismiss it as a near-distant possibility.

Two months was concrete.

Two months made me want to burn the whole fucking church down.

My dismissal popped up in the chat and brought the proceedings to a crashing halt.

The members of my executive team gaped at me. Apparently, they couldn’t conceive of why I wouldn’t want to listen to them discuss earnings and dividends for hours on end.

“But sir, we haven’t…” The CFO faltered at my glare. “Of course. I’ll send the full reports to you right away so you can review them at your leisure.”

I logged off, restless. The thunderstorm outside matched my mood and cast a dreary gray pall over my home office.

At least I wasn’t at my corporate headquarters, suffering constant interruptions. I hated the song and dance of corporate life. The bowing, the scraping, the ass-kissing from yes-men who would leap into an ocean of piranhas if I told them to.

I’d built Markovic Holdings from the ground up after college. At first, the challenge had intoxicated me. The money and status that came with it also provided an additional buffer in case the Brothers went back on their word and sought retribution.

However, after thirteen years of stocks, mergers, and product launches, I was so bored I’d contemplated shooting someone just to liven things up.

Perhaps I should pay Hank a visit and use him as an example. Ayana’s discomfort around him at the Vault hadn’t escaped my notice, but he still held the keys to her career. I couldn’t make my move yet.

When I did, it would be thorough. It was better to take one’s time and do something properly than rush into it—no matter how badly I wanted to smash Ayana’s agent’s face in the minute we returned to New York.

Instead, I settled for opening the dossier on Beaumont again. I had my network looking into the Brotherhood, but the organization had overhauled its operations over the years. Some of my old sources were dead; the others were cast out in the cold.

It was taking longer to get answers than I would’ve liked, but I would get them. Until then, I needed something else to take my mind off the fucking wedding.

I reviewed the Beaumont files for the third time. I’d sifted through the rest of their available records, but I kept coming back to the initial dossier.

I still hadn’t pinpointed what tripped my inner alarms the first time I scanned them. A connection my subconscious seized on, perhaps, or a name my memory stashed in a dusty drawer.

Whatever it was, it was important, and it went beyond Ayana.

After half an hour and no progress, I tossed the dossier aside and poured myself a glass of scotch. Everything I’d consumed since the Vault tasted like shit, but I downed the drink anyway.

My home study was custom-built to my standards: large, secluded, and quiet, with a window overlooking the back courtyard and a maze of halls separating it from the main rooms. It brimmed with furniture and books but few personal effects.

The only nod to my past came in the form of a framed diploma from Thayer. It was where Jordan and I met.

If we’d never met, I wouldn’t be his best man. I would be freed from the torture of watching him and Ayana walk into a room together.

But if we’d never met, I wouldn’t be a CEO; I’d either be trapped with the Brotherhood or dead.

In a way, I owed everything I had to him, but I would give it all up for one thing—one person—in exchange.

If I’d said something about Ayana after I first saw her, would he still have pursued her?

If he hadn’t, would she be by my side instead?

No. I would’ve kept watch from afar, she would’ve gotten engaged to some other bastard along the way, and unburdened by the debts of gratitude or friendship, I would’ve killed him.

Instead, I was trapped in a hellish limbo where I couldn’t act either way. I couldn’t have her, and I couldn’t kill him.

I finished a second glass of scotch and returned to my desk. Loathing turned my blood to acid.

My obsession with Ayana was a double-edged sword. I craved her presence even when it drove me mad; I fixated on her absence even when it consumed my thoughts.

Whether she was near or far, I suffered.

I picked up the Beaumont dossier and read it. Again.

Perhaps it was the alcohol or the desperate need to forget October’s festivities, but the words formed a different shape this time around. Clearer, more distinct.

I skimmed past the agency’s origins and zeroed in on the founder’s bio.

Emmanuelle Beaumont, née Élodie Beaumont. Early fifties, born in a tiny town in France, changed her name to be more “fashionable” after being scouted on vacation in Paris when she was a teen.

Élodie. France. The timeline…

The connections snapped into place as ice chased away the burn from the alcohol.

It could be a coincidence, but like I said, I didn’t believe in coincidences.

I grabbed my phone and messaged Sean.