Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
The mention of Laura, Rodger’s wife, makes my jaw clench. By all modern conventions, my brother’s assets should have gone to his spouse, but that’s not the Tripp way. My father made it clear before he passed that he expected Rodger to secure the safe continuation of our family empire.
That meant ensuring a Tripp was in control, not a spouse.
As Rodger’s eldest and only child, Mark was next in line, but the executor of the trust, Darren, is a friend of mine from boarding school. Our phone call last night left no doubt that I’m still in line to inherit my brother’s assets and control of the company.
Sounds like Rodger didn’t leave much to his twenty-four-year-old son.
Though, so far, I can’t say I blame him. It was obvious from the moment my plane touched down this morning that Mark is more concerned about what he stands to gain from his father’s death than what he’s lost. There didn’t seem to be much love between the two of them—another reason I feel comfortable kicking Mark off the boat without ceremony. If he were a normal, grieving son, I would have more compassion.
I’m an asshole, but I’m not a monster, not unless someone has proven they deserve it. And so far, Mark’s proving to be the latest selfish, money-hungry bastard in a long line of the same.
He’s going to lose his fucking mind when he learns how little he stands to inherit. He already knows some of the details, but the full picture is even more bleak…for him, anyway.
The full conditions of the trust won’t be revealed until the official reading of the will, but Darren has already begun the transition of my brother’s assets into my name, including the deed to the mansion and the yacht, Rodger’s fleet of lobster boats, and a vacation home in the Outer Banks in South Carolina.
I want a McMansion in a community likely to be swept off the map by the next hurricane like I want to be standing in the cold ocean air with my nephew instead of down in bed with my sexy cat burglar.
But we don’t always get what we want, at least not without a fight.
Speaking of a fight…
“I hope your mother knows I have no intention of removing her from the family home,” I say, flicking on the lights near the outdoor living area. “No matter who Rodger left Brookhaven to on paper, she’s welcome to live there as long as she likes.”
“She’ll appreciate that,” Mark says, with a nod. Anger flares in his gaze as he adds, “She would have appreciated my dad not being a fucking asshole, more, though. We all would have.”
I motion toward the sage cushions covering the couch and chairs. “Feel free to look around for your phone.”
“Why do you think he did it?” Mark asks, making no move to start searching for his lost cell. “Why did he leave so much to you? Do you think he just forgot to modify the trust or something? I mean, no offense, you’re obviously a great businessman, but you don’t live here and you never wanted to be part of the family business. I’ve been busting my ass every day on a lobster boat, proving I could work my way up from the bottom, just like Dad did with Grandpa. I’ve put in the hard work. I deserve to be in charge now that he’s gone.”
I hold back a sigh. His father isn’t even in his grave and he’s turning on him.
But that’s the Tripp family for you—mercenary to the end. It’s one of the many reasons I don’t intend to have children.
“It’s late, Mark,” I say. “I suggest you find your phone and go home. Get some rest, and we can discuss this after we know the full conditions of the trust.”
His features tighten, his brow furrowing above his pale blue eyes. They’re my father’s eyes, but not nearly as clever or cold. “I think we should talk about it before then, Weaver. I have a right to know what you’re going to do. It’s my future on the line. Mine and my family’s.”
“Your family is my family,” I remind him. “And despite what you may think, I have the best interests of that family front of mind.”
“I’m not a child,” he says, his tone pitching toward a whine again, making my jaw clench. “I can handle this. I can fill my father’s shoes. I know I can. I can be the new CEO of Tripp Seafood. I deserve to be.”
There’s that word again, “deserve.”
People are so eager to declare what they “deserve,” when none of us deserve anything but the chance to walk the earth in peace, without another person interfering in our lives. But of course, very few people are granted even that opportunity.
In parts of the world, men Mark’s age are trafficked into human slavery to harvest cocoa. In others, they’re forced to comb trash heaps for scraps and live in squalor in the shadow of luxury skyscrapers. In still others, they grow up fighting rival gangs for resources or sacrificing their lives to pointless wars in the name of a God they were never given the chance not to believe in.