Stolen Heir - Sophie Lark Page 0,16

Nessa Griffin.

After a week, I feel quite certain that Nessa will suit my purposes.

So it’s time to make my move.

6

Nessa

I miss my brother. I’m happy that he’s so happy with Aida. And I know it was time for him to get his own place. But our house is so much worse without him at the breakfast table.

For one thing, he used to keep Riona in line.

When I come downstairs, she’s got folders and papers spread out around her in such a wide radius that I have to take my plate to the very corner of the table to eat.

“What are you working on?” I ask her, grabbing a slice of crispy bacon and taking a bite.

We have a chef who makes every meal look like one those TV commercials where you’ve got orange juice, milk, fruit, toast, pancakes, bacon, and sausages all perfectly arranged like normal people actually eat all of that in a sitting.

We’re spoiled. I’m well aware of it. But I’m not going to complain about it. I like having my meals prepared for me. And I love living in a big, bright, modern house on sprawling green grounds with a perfect view of the lake.

The only thing I don’t love is how grouchy my sister is first thing in the morning.

She’s already wearing her business attire, her red hair pulled up in a glass-smooth chignon, and a mug of black coffee in front of her. She’s poring over some brief, making notes with color-coded pencils. When I speak to her, she sets down the red pencil and fixes me with an annoyed stare.

“What?” she says tartly.

“I was just asking what you were working on.”

“I’m not working on anything now. Because you interrupted me,” she says.

“Sorry.” I wince. “What is it, though?”

Riona sighs and fixes me with a look that plainly says she doesn’t think I’m going to understand what she’s about to tell me. I try to look extremely intelligent in return.

My sister would be beautiful if she ever smiled. She’s got skin like marble, gorgeous green eyes, and lips as red as her hair. Unfortunately, she has the temperament of a pit bull. And not a nice pit bull—the kind that’s trained to go right for the throat in every encounter.

“You’re aware that we own an investment firm?” she says.

“Yes.”

No.

“One of the ways we predict trends in publicly traded companies is via geolocation data pulled from smartphone apps. We purchase the data in bulk, then analyze it using algorithms. However, under the new privacy and security laws, some of our past data purchases are being scrutinized. So I’m in charge of liaising with the SEC to make sure . . .”

She breaks off when she sees my expression of complete non-comprehension.

“Never mind,” she says, picking up her pencil again.

“No, that sounds really . . . I mean, it’s super important, so it’s good you’re . . .”

I’m stammering like an idiot.

“It’s fine,” Riona cuts me off. “You don’t have to understand it. It’s my job, not yours.”

She doesn’t say it, but the unspoken addendum is that I don’t have a job in the Griffin empire.

“Well, good talking to you,” I say.

Riona doesn’t respond. She’s already fully immersed in her work again.

I grab one more strip of bacon for the road.

As I’m picking up my backpack, my mother comes into the kitchen. Her blonde bob is brushed so smooth that it almost looks like a wig, though I know it isn’t. She’s wearing a Chanel suit, my grandmother’s diamond ring, and the Patek Philippe watch my father bought her for her last birthday. Which means she’s probably going to a charity board meeting, or accompanying Dad on some business lunch.

My father follows closely after her, dressed in a perfectly-tailored three-piece suit, his horn-rimmed glasses giving him a professorial air. His graying hair is still thick and wavy. He’s handsome and trim. My parents married young—they don’t look fifty, though that was the birthday that earned my mother’s watch.

My mother kisses the air next to my cheek, careful not to smudge her lipstick.

“Off to school?” she says.

“Yeah. Statistics, then Russian Lit.”

“Don’t forget we’re going to dinner with the Fosters tonight.”

I stifle a groan. The Fosters have twin daughters my age, and they’re both equally awful.

“Do I have to come?” I say.

“Of course,” my father says. “You want to see Emma and Olivia, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

No.

“Make sure you’re home by six, then,” my mother says.

I shuffle out to my car, trying to think of something to be cheerful about today.