Tristan wondered if he could talk Eden into letting him take her name; assuming, that is, that he could summon the final step necessary to seal his fate.
“You’re going on holiday with them,” Rupesh pointed out, crooking a single dark brow. “You’re already part of the family.”
“No, I’m not.” Not yet. Tristan rubbed his temple, glancing over the figures again. The capital required to make this deal work was steep, not to mention that the existing magical infrastructure was riddled with problems. Still, the potential to cash in was higher for this portfolio than it was for any of the thirteen other medeian projects he’d valued that day. James would like it, even if the rest of the board didn’t, and the name on the building wasn’t his for nothing.
Tristan filed the project under maybe, adding, “I’m not just going to inherit this company, Rup. If I want it, I have to work for it. You might consider doing the same,” he advised, looking up to adjust his glasses, and Rupesh rolled his eyes.
“Just finish, then,” Rupesh suggested. “Eden’s been posting pictures of her get-ready routine all morning.”
Eden Wessex, daughter of billionaire investor James Wessex, was a pretty heiress and therefore a ready-built product, capable of making capital out of intangibles like beauty and influence alone. It had been Tristan himself who’d advised the Wessex board to consider investing in Lightning, the magical version of a mortal social media app. Eden had been the face of the company ever since.
“Right, thanks,” Tristan said, clearing his throat. He was probably missing messages from her as they spoke. “I’ll be done soon. Is that all?”
“You know I can’t leave until you do, mate.” Rupesh winked at him. “Can’t very well leave before the golden boy, can I?”
“Right, well, you’re doing yourself no favors, then,” Tristan said, gesturing to the door. Two more, he thought, glancing at the paperwork. Well, one. One of them was clearly unsuitable. “Run along, Rup. And do something about that coffee stain.”
“What?” Rupesh asked, glancing down, and Tristan looked up from the file.
“Been letting your illusions get stale,” he noted, pointing to the mark at the bottom of Rupesh’s tie. “You can’t spend five hundred quid on a designer belt and then rummage your stain spells out of a bin.” Though, even as he said it, Tristan knew it was a very Rupesh quality to do precisely that. Some people cared only about what others could see, and Rupesh in particular was unaware of the extent to which Tristan saw through him.
“God, you’re a pain, you know that?” Rupesh said, rolling his eyes. “No one else is paying attention to whether my charms have worn through or not.”
“That you know of.” For Tristan, there was little else to pay attention to.
“Just another reason to loathe you, mate,” Rupesh said, grinning. “Anyway, finish up, Tris. Do us all a favor and go be picturesque by the sea so the rest of us can take it easy for a few days, would you?”
“Trying,” Tristan assured him, and then the door shut, leaving him alone at last.
He tossed one pitch aside, picking up the promising one. The figures looked reliable. Not a lot of capital required upfront, which meant—
The door opened, and Tristan groaned.
“For the last time, Rupesh—”
“Not quite Rupesh,” came a deep voice in reply, and Tristan looked up, eyeing the stranger in the room. He was a tall, dark-skinned man in a nondescript tweed suit, and he was glancing around at the vaulted ceilings of Tristan’s office.
“Well,” the man observed, letting the door fall shut as he meandered inside. “This is a far cry from where you started, isn’t it?”
Anyone who knew where Tristan had started was trouble, and he braced himself, souring.
“If you’re a—” He bit down on the word friend, grinding it between his teeth. “An associate of my father’s—”
“Not quite that,” the man assured him. “Though we all know about Adrian Caine in some capacity, don’t we?”
We. Tristan fought a grimace.
“I’m not a Caine here,” he said. It was still the name on his desk, but people here would likely never make the connection. The wealthy cared little for the filth underfoot if it was cleaned up from time to time and mostly left out of sight. “There’s nothing I can do for you.”
“I’m not asking for anything,” the man said, pausing for a moment. “Though, I do have to wonder how you came upon this particular path. After all, you were heir to your own empire of sorts, weren’t you?” he asked, and Tristan said nothing. “I’m not sure how the only Caine son came to play for the Wessex fortune.”