"Tell me again why your whiskey collection looks like a billionaire's trophy case," Michael said, holding his glass up to the fading light. The amber liquid glowed like molten fire.
"Because I am a billionaire," Travis replied evenly, leaning back in his chair, glass in hand.
Christian laughed under his breath. "Walked right into that one, Mike."
"Whatever," Michael muttered, setting his drink down a little harder than necessary. "Still saying it's ridiculous. That's a twenty-year Glenfiddich in your hand. People guard those in safes. You just leave it sitting here in the open like some decorative piece."
"That's the point," Mason cut in smoothly, lounging across the couch, his tie already loosened. "It screams power. You walk into Travis's office and see half a million dollars' worth of whiskey, you know he's not a man to play with."
Christian raised a brow. "Or you assume he's overcompensating for something."
