Four Brothers and a Bride

ASHTON

Gris looks at me like I’ve just asked him to knock a hole through the side of the building.

"Pardon sir? Did you just say you want... plants?"

I scrub a hand over my forehead. "I didn’t stutter, Gris. Get to it."

"Plants," he repeats slowly, more so to himself as his eyes dart around my office space. I lean back in my chair and meet his stare without blinking.

"Yes. Plants. I don’t care if they’re real or fake. I just want them colorful enough to liven the space."

The words feel strange coming out of my mouth. If someone had told me six months ago that I would be asking Gris to clutter my office with greenery, I would have laughed them out of the room.

My office has always been minimalistic with clean and precise décor. For as long as I can recall, I’ve never had anything unnecessary or distracting taking up space in here.

The walls are smooth white panels broken only by two pieces of abstract art. My desk sits in the center like a command station. The couch rests against the far wall in a pale buttery yellow that once seemed like a daring choice for me.

Before now, everything felt...okay. Now, I catch a glimpse of Demi every damn place I look. Hard as I try, the office now feels like a museum of ghosts, and every memory of her leaves a burn in my chest that I can’t shake.

Gris studies me carefully.

"Okay." He pauses for a moment longer, probably waiting for me to explain the sudden change in personality. When it becomes clear that I will not offer any explanation, he nods once and pulls out his tablet.

"Alright. How many?"

"As many as it takes."

His stylus stops moving. "Ok sir, I think..."

"I just need you to fill the empty spaces, Gris. Look around. There’s so much...emptiness. It’s depressing."

"But you’ve always loved it this way. You hate clutter"

"Well, not anymore. " I sweep a hand at the empty corners. "I want everything to be completely redone: the painting for starters. I want that couch gone and replaced with something more business formal and less couch comfy."

I watch him type the instructions while I steer him to every corner, giving vague descriptions of the sort of décor that though crazy, would make me feel less miserable in my office. As I do, the exercise slowly chips away the strange tightness in my chest that has become my constant companion these days.

Maybe after Gris is done, I’d hate the place but right now, I’ll take that over memories of my past that hit so vividly that I can almost smell her.

My face crumples at the sight of the couch. I stab a finger in its direction. "Get rid of it first."

"What do you want instead?"

"A black leather one." Gris notes that down without questioning it. Good.

"And the desk," I add, jerking a chin at it.

"What about it?"

I rest my hands on the surface of the desk, feeling the smooth wood beneath my palms. Every inch of it carries memories but the most persistent one right now is of Demi’s fingers tracing circles along the grain of the wood while she tried to distract me from whatever I was working on.

I pull my hands back. "I want it replaced too."

Gris huffs out a frustrated breath. "That desk was custom built, Ashton. Three months of design work."

"I know that. Get me something else that takes a day to build."

He catches the granite edge in my tone and refrains from protesting. When he finishes taking notes, he looks up and gives me a gentle pat on the shoulder that I only realize three breaths later.

"You will be fine," he hums without inflection. It stings that it is not phrased as a question but a declaration.

"I’m fine, Gris." I echo back, trying and failing to force a believable smile. Even to my own ears. The words sound hollow. Gris closes his tablet and heads for the door.

Halfway there I stop him. "Gris."

He turns sharply, eager to serve.

"Don’t report any of this to Dean."

Instantly, I watch his expression shift. His mouth hangs open for a second or two.

"I don’t...Ashton, I no longer report to your father."

I frown. "Please don’t address him as my father."

"I’m sorry." He edges closer. "I only meant to clarify that I resigned from Dean’s employ a while back."

"You what? You never mentioned it."

He shrugs slightly. "You had other things on your mind and I didn’t think it’d go a long way to repair the trust I broke."

I stare at him. "But why? Dean’s salary packages are ridiculous." I know Asher did mention with a satisfied grin that the man pays loyalty like a king rewarding his generals.

Gris looks almost uncomfortable as I continue to probe him. "If you weren’t sure things could go back to the way they were before I discovered you worked for Dean, why did you leave his employ?"

He meets my gaze steadily. "My friendship with you has been the highlight of my job. I used to think it was the sufficient pay on both fronts but I was wrong. You never treated me like a mere assistant."

"But that’s exactly what I treated you like..."

"I was mentally prepared for worse, Ashton. I was prepped to work under the "violent" quad, remember. Maybe because I expected hell, your gruff exterior came off as kindness to me. I don’t know but whatever it was, it made me hate that I was lying to you and reporting to Dean behind your back. Suddenly, the money didn’t matter as much and now, I am not willing to lose your friendship for good by continuing to work under Dean."

The air in my chest tightens. "So, you’ve left Dean."

"Yes."

"I wager he didn’t take that well."

"Actually, he didn’t but only because he feels you’re still shutting him out and he would have loved for me to continue being his eyes and ears around you. When I told him how much friction we were having because of my affiliation to him, he was very understanding."

For a moment I do not trust myself to speak. I simply walk toward him and pull him in for a hug. Gris’ body stiffens at first, over the surprising gesture. Then he pats my back in that awkward way men do when they are not sure how emotional the moment is supposed to be.

I keep my face turned away from him because my burning eyes are dangerously close to tears.

"You will be fine," he assures me again.

I nod against his shoulder. When we separate, I rub my eyes quickly and clear my throat.

"Get to work," I tell him with a grim stare.

He smiles faintly and leaves.

I sit back down at my desk and stare at the blank computer screen. For the first time in months, I feel something close to relief. Gris chose me, not Dean, not money. Me. It feels good to know that someone deemed me that important, especially after my relationship with Demi post-accident hollowed out my confidence and worth in that regard.

I take a slow breath and open the first file of the day. The next time I look up from my Mac, it’s to note the low drone of chatter that typically sails in during lunch break. I flick my wrist and gasp at the time. Shit. I’ve got lunch plans with my brothers (Asher’s call) and I am about thirty minutes late.

I shut everything down and dash out.

My brothers are already seated when I arrive at the restaurant. Even Ashley who is often fashionably late is already enjoying the soft dip of the couch on the rooftop of one of the city’s new hotels. White stone tiles reflect the sunlight and long vines hang from the open beams above us.

Ashley raises a glass when he sees me. "Look who decided to join us."

I slide into the empty chair. "Traffic was crazy."

"Liar," Ashal rebuts sharply but his eyes are crinkled in a smile.

The waiters arrive with more drinks and food. Asher ordered a grilled sea bass with lemon butter and roasted vegetables. Ashley is eating a truffle mushroom risotto that looks like something out of a food magazine. Ashal has gone for a thick wagyu steak with garlic mashed potatoes.

My own order appears a moment later; seared salmon with avocado salad and a glass of red wine. We start eating before anyone says anything serious. Then Asher clears his throat.

"I thought you guys might want to know what father spoke to me about after pulling me from the game room that fateful night."

The table goes quiet, save for silent chewing. But all eyes are fixated on Asher’s smug face. Of course, we all want to know. We just didn’t count on Asher waiting for us to beg him for the details. I thought him spilling everything the moment he left Father’s study was a given.

"Just get to it, will you?

He eyes me before he sets his fork down. "It turns out Josh did exactly what we feared."

I feel my jaw tighten. "And what exactly did he do?"

"Typical nuisance of a pauper plunged into wealth. He got drunk at a bar started talking too much about company matters to impress a girl."

Ashal swears under his breath. "Let me guess. She was no ordinary girl?"

She was working for a reporter," Asher affirms. "It was a setup. They knew they’d be hard-pressed to get information out of me so they targeted the careless bastard."

"What is this information?" I ask with eyes narrowed to slits.

Asher looks at each of us. "A sensitive, not so legal deal that significantly helped springboard the Rollins Group to where it is today. Though the company knifes into the sky literally, one whistle blown can damage the hilt of concrete, set us back a decade at least."

The table falls silent.

Ashal growls. "Why would father entrust such a sensitive secret to Josh of all people? Why did he keep it from you?"

Asher’s sighs deeply. "I don’t care what his reasons for those are. I’m glad Josh finally proved his incompetence. Father can stop rubbing the blood tie in our faces now." He clenches and unclenches his fingers the way he does when he’s tinkering with a problem he isn’t ready to share. "Brett caught the blackmailer though."

"Who is it?"

"Some run of the mill reporter fishing for a big payday rather than to crack a huge story. Unfortunately, torturing him is out of the question." He waits a beat before affirming our suspicions. "He already sold the story."

Ashley grimaces. "To who?"

Asher takes a sip of wine. "The Spellmans."

For a moment nobody speaks. The Spellman Group is the only company large enough to threaten the Rollins empire. Ashley whistles softly.

"How bad is it?"

Asher bobs his head at me. "Father met with Mr. Spellman yesterday. Mr. Spellman claims he has no intention of destroying us. He only bought the story to have some leverage over us, like we do over his own company."

I swirl the wine in my glass and take a sip. Something unfurls in my gut. I don’t like where this is going. The Spellmans also have secrets we could expose. If both sides start releasing information, both companies collapse but the patriarchs are too smart to risk that chance. That is why I am certain they’ll need to come up with an arrangement that ensures neither ever betrays the other.

Asher literally repeats the same thing I am thinking.

"So, they want a truce."

"In a way." He replies, sliding a glance my way.

"What kind of truce?" I add.

"A marriage alliance."

The words land like a bomb.

"Fuck No." Ashley snarls, sitting up. Ashal tenses next to me. I continue to stare at Asher over the rim of my glass because he still hasn’t taken his eyes off me. Finally, he peels them off to answer Ashley’s barrage of questions.

"Originally, father proposed Josh which seems more than fair. Not only did Josh cause this mess, he’s father’s biological son also. But the Spellmans are picky, as we know. Mira rejected coupling up with Josh.."

Mira. Her name still makes something flutter in my chest but unlike the thrill before, it’s now an unsettling discomfort.

Ashley gives a humorless smile. "Of course, Mira Spellman rejected him. I don’t know which is funnier; the fact that father thought Josh would pass or the fact that Mira thinks she has a choice in which son she gets."

I already know what comes next.

"She wants Ashton," Asher blurts out, leaning back in his seat with a hand under his chin. "I guess their flame still burns bright for her."

I grind my teeth to hold back the bile in my throat. If this is what I think it is, things are about to get even uglier. I am done being the sacrificial lamb for this family. I am emotionally depleted and in no head space to entertain a sham marriage just to keep the peace. My brothers all gauge my silence, inhaling as anger clouds over my eyes. I drop my glass unceremoniously on the table but before I can speak, Asher intervenes.

"Father declined"

The silence that follows is stunned.

"He what?" Ashal and Ashley ask simultaneously.

"You heard that right. He told the Spellmans that none of us are on the marriage menu. Josh is the only son Mira can marry if they really want an alliance."

We all gape at each other, thinking the same thing; Since when does father put our happiness over the business?

Asher leans back in his chair. "I think I can explain his sudden change of character. Brett’s men had seen the four of us having dinner with Dean last week. I’m sure the threat of losing us to Dean influenced his stance with the Spellmans."

Ashal laughs first. "Oh. That explains a lot."

Soon, all of them start laughing. I force a smile and take another sip of wine. The conversation shifts to lighter topics after that. Ashley starts describing some ridiculous influencer campaign he is planning for the fashion house. Then the subject moves to the plans for the weekend.

"The Dunns are bringing the baby to the mansion," Ashal says.

Ashley grins. "I still cannot believe you have a child."

"I still cannot believe it either."

We talk about it for a while before I interrupt. "There is something I’ve been pondering for a few days. I want to share that with you all." Three pairs of eyes turn toward me.

"The memorial project, the one we planned to organize for the victims we have caused pain? You know we shelved that after Lily poisoned Olivia and Madeline." I quickly glance at Ashal. The memory makes him shift uncomfortably in his chair.

"I want to restart it," I continue. "I want to immortalize them however the families want. We promised them closure."

Ashley studies my face carefully. "And Demi’s parents too." he says quietly.

I do not deny the obvious truth. Yes, I am championing this because I hope Demi finds the closure she needs.

"The Bransons’ story deserve a better ending."

The others exchange glances.

"Do what you need to do and we’ll be available to help however we can." Asher quips.

"Thank you." For the first time, I actually savor my wine on my tongue, actually smile genuinely as my brothers talk shop.

Later at night, I sit in bed scrolling through my phone. The last news article about Demi is still the same one from a week ago; a blurry photo of her walking through the airport, coupled with speculation about why she left the city.

I open her social media. There are still no new posts. My chest tightens. Even this small window into her life appears closed.

My finger hovers over Anna’s contact. She would know where Demi is and what’s been happening in her life. I’m sure they speak every day. She is the only one that can assure me that Demi is safe.

But I promised not to ask, for at least 3 months. Groaning, I set the phone down and run a hand over my face. It’s getting harder with each passing day.

Sleep comes gradually and when it does, a horrifying nightmare follows suit. Demi is in a house I do not recognize, scrambling away from an intruder with murderous eyes.

I try to reach for her but my legs will not move. When I yell her name, my lips make no sound.

She lets out a blood-curdling scream when the masked man catches up to her. The sound shatters me. Then the man straddles her, raises a knife and with wide eyes, he prepares to stab her fatally in the stomach. Suddenly, I find myself standing over Demi’s lifeless corpse, holding the knife still dripping with her warm blood.

I wake up with a violent jerk, heart racing, chest heaving with breath. Beads of sweat coat my forehead despite the chill in the room.

For a moment I cannot breathe in the darkness. The image of Demi lying on the floor with dead eyes latched on me flashes through my mind again. I grip the sheets tightly.

Something is wrong.

I can feel it.