Tom left the mansion with a sour expression after his wife informed him Winn wouldn't be joining them. Perfect. Another wasted evening of small talk and my wife's endless fawning over her golden boy of a son.
He tugged at the cuffs of his blazer, muttering a curse under his breath as he slipped into his car. The driver gave him a wary glance in the rearview mirror—Tom's moods were poison, and everyone who worked with him knew better than to poke the bear.
Honestly, he couldn't give a damn whether Winn showed up for dinner or not. Winn could go fuck himself with his pristine empire. All Tom cared about was one thing: the inheritance.
The Orchard's family's vast wealth, tied up in layers of trusts and companies, was a tantalizing prize, one that Tom had spent years circling.
The thought of Winn standing between him and what he considered rightfully his made Tom's stomach burn with rage.
He had been pretending for so long, it was starting to feel permanent. Every smile at the family dinner table, every fake toast to "legacy" and "honor," every forced word of respect toward his in-laws had left a sour taste in his mouth.
He had been waiting—counting the years—for the old fart, his father-in-law, to finally keel over and die, only to find out there was a clause in the will. A fucking clause. Winn's marital status, of all things, held the key to unlocking billions.
What the fuck does his marriage have to do with anything? Tom seethed. That money was empire-level wealth. Money that could buy a third-world country and rename it after himself if he wanted.
That kind of money was the reason he had married into the family in the first place. He hadn't signed up for a lifetime of playing obedient husband while watching the golden boy run off with the crown.
A few minutes later, his driver rolled up to the bar. Tom stepped out, running a hand through his thinning hair, his temper a storm brewing beneath his skin.
The place reeked of expensive whiskey, cigar smoke, and desperate men pretending their lives weren't collapsing around them.
He spotted Raphael at a secluded VIP table tucked into the corner. He was broad-shouldered, slick in his Italian suit, with eyes that never seemed to blink long enough to give away what he was thinking.
"Hey, Tom," Raphael said, standing just enough to clasp his hand. "You look mad."
"Of course, I look mad," Tom snapped, sliding into the booth. "The little shit didn't show up tonight."
"There will be other days," Raphael said smoothly, filling Tom's glass.
"I need his mother to back me up," Tom muttered. "The boy's a simp. Does whatever his mother says." He rolled his eyes, grinding his molars. "So—have you been able to take a look in the will?"
Raphael's calm always irritated Tom.
"It was hard, I won't lie. The security put in place to keep the Orchard family will away from prying eyes is ridiculous. Layers on layers. Encryption, false copies, locked vaults. Hell, even the president doesn't have that much security on his personal files."
"Yeah, yeah, spare me the tech sermon," Tom snapped, waving his hand. His patience was as thin as the ice in his glass. "Did you read it or not?"
"Yes," Raphael said, finally locking eyes with him. "And your father-in-law was on to you before he died."
Tom's head jerked back. His heart gave a thud against his ribs, an instinctive panic crawling up his spine. "What do you mean?"
"According to him," Raphael drawled, leaning back lazily into the booth, "you were only about the money. A greedy bastard. His words, not mine." He sipped his drink slowly, savoring the moment before delivering the dagger. "So he left everything to Winn."
"That fucking old asshole!" Tom exploded, slamming his palm against the table hard enough to rattle the glasses. A few heads turned in their direction. "He didn't leave anything to Sylvia?"
Raphael shrugged, cool as ice, as if this wasn't the kind of news that could destroy a man. "Winn has to make that decision himself. The old man trusted him, believed Winn is a good man, one who would treat his sister fairly."
Tom's whole body was vibrating with rage now. "I can't believe this! All these years—pretending to be the perfect husband, the perfect son-in-law. All of it, down the fucking drain despite the humiliation. Nothing to my wife either?!"
He had bent himself into knots, eaten their scraps, played the dutiful man for decades—only to end up with empty hands.
Raphael shrugged. "Tom, I really think it's time for you to let it go."
"Let it go?" Tom barked. His hands flew up in the air, almost knocking his glass over. "Let it go? Forty years of my goddamn life down the drain. Are you serious right now?" His chest heaved, anger and humiliation pressing down on him.
"It's over," Raphael said firmly, his calmness only stoking Tom's fury. "Winn will get everything. You're not young anymore, Tom. Just… go be with the woman you always wanted to be with. Live a happy life. It's not like you're poor yourself. Isn't that enough?"
"What if something happens to Winn?" Tom asked suddenly, cutting through Raphael's lecture.
Raphael's eyes narrowed. "You want to hurt your own son? For money?" Raphael was no saint—his dealings were shady, his morals bendable—but even he had lines he didn't cross. He studied Tom, half-expecting him to backpedal.
"The bastard isn't my son. Never was." His eyes glistened with decades of bitterness finally breaking free. "I just pretended I didn't know. Anna cheated on me in the beginning of our marriage. I couldn't say a word. My eyes were set on the family fortune."
Tom pressed on, fueled now by liquor and fury.
"All this time, I thought if I played the perfect son-in-law, if I swallowed my pride, if I kept my goddamn mouth shut—I had a retirement plan. I took their condescension. Their humiliation. I ate their scraps and smiled through it. And for what? Bullshit."