The Rivals - Dylan Allen Page 0,70

‘empire’. The Riverses had assets on which the sun never set. The legacy you speak of is one that was built with my grandfather’s bare hands. And now you’re kicking me out so some royals can come and rent this house? Like it’s a fucking hotel?”

“It’s certainly not a home. And I’m done wasting resources to try and make it feel like one just so you have a free place to live. I’ve offered you an option. If you’d rather use your fixed income to rent a place elsewhere, you’re welcome to do it. But, either way, you and Aunt Mai and Eliza will have to be out of here by the time the embassy tenants are moving in.”

“I won’t go,” he says quietly.

“Yes, you will,” I tell him.

“No, I won’t. You’ll have to have me forcibly removed,” he says.

“Fine, if that’s what you want,” I say with a shrug.

“I’ll call the press,” he says, scrambling up to his feet when I start down the hall.

“You do that. I’ll make sure to set my DVR to record your dramatic exit when Channel 11 airs the story.” I give him a two-finger salute and walk around to get back in my car.

“You’ll ruin the family’s reputation,” he calls.

I make my dispassion plain in my expression.

“You’ve done a fine job of that yourself. Let me know what you’d like to do regarding leaving the house. I really have no problem being the bad guy. Everyone already thinks I’m a villain, why not get something in return for the headaches that come with that.”

* * *

I drive down the winding road and watch the estate whiz by. When I was a boy growing up here, I never imagined I would come to think of it as a burden. A reminder of those ugly days after my father’s death and the years I spent being a punching bag for self-important assholes and an ATM to any pretty girl who would give me the time of day.

I approach the private entrance to Rivers Wilde and the tension I’m carrying starts to dissipate.

The gate lifts and I drive into the enclave, established by the Wildes before I was even born. This community, developed on land that was in my family for nearly one hundred years, is one of the most sought after addresses in Houston.

The huge golf course stretches for three miles on one side of Wildewood Parkway. The grand country club rises from behind its gates like a palace. I pause at the forked road and go right to the cluster of sky-scraping residential towers called the Ivy. The glass and brick structures loom over the copse of trees planted around them. As I approach the four-lane circle drive, the guard who sits in the middle of it waves in greeting and the wrought iron gate starts its slow ascent.

“Evening, boss,” Sammy, our valet, greets as he pulls my door open. “Your dinner’s been delivered and is ready to bring up as soon as you call.”

“Thank you.” I grasp his outstretched hand, and he smiles when he feels the money in my hand.

“Will you be needing your car again, or should I park her for the night?”

I glance at sky. It’s clear and blue, but the orange tint of the clouds signals that it’s dusk.

“No, leave her out. I’m going out before dinner,” I tell him and head inside to change. On my way up, I call Remington Wilde. I haven’t spoken to him since that day sixteen years ago. But from what I’ve heard, even from people who don’t like him, he’s a straight shooter. An honest man and a legendary attorney already. He’s grown Wilde Law into one of the largest in the country and has made his name as Assistant Attorney General in the Civil Rights Division at the Department of Justice by the time he turned thirty. He’s back home after his grandfather’s death left him the head of the family. He’s built the Civil Rights Division of Wilde Law incredibly fast. And his firm is representing the class that’s suing us.

“Mr. Wilde’s office,” a crisp, British accented female voice answers after the first ring.

“Is Mr. Wilde there?”

“He’s not available, may I take a message?” she asks immediately. Fucking gatekeepers.

“It’s Hayes Rivers,” I say.

There’s a beat of silence, and she says, “Mr. Rivers, please hold for Mr. Wilde,” and then there’s a beep and Remington comes on the line.

“Who the fuck is this?” he says, just like he did that morning