Page 87 of These Summer Storms

“I hadeverythingwhen I met you,” she said. “Do you realize who I could have married? What kind of life I could have had? I could have married a Saudi prince! But no, I chose you.”

He’d never wanted to marry her. She’d been pretty and tempting, wild in the way rich girls at prep school could be—in that prepared-to-post-pics-to-the-feed kind of way, risking only so far. Sex that didn’t muss hair or makeup, drugs procured from the best physicians on the Upper East Side, never going below Fourteenth Street without Daddy’s driver, let alone taking the subway to Brooklyn.

But now, Sila couldn’t afford to be wild.

It wasn’t his fault, but she loathed him for it anyway.

Maybe she’d loathed him from the start, from the moment she’d left a pregnancy test on the marble bathroom countertop in his apartment in Back Bay. And—as he stood there, blood rushing in his ears, ready to call the family doctor and get things discreetly taken care of (was there a way to do it without the press finding out? Without hisfatherfinding out?)—she’d appeared behind him in the mirror, bright smile on her face and said,When should we tell everyone?

They were going to be New York City royalty, she’d told him, before putting an appointment at Harry Winston on their shared calendar. Nine weeks later, the prenup was signed and Sila was walking down the aisle (custom Vera Wang).

She’d always been the one in charge. Even now, even when she said, “Everyone thought I was the lucky one. Marrying into Storm. No one realizedyouwere the lucky one. You were some rich kid when I met you. And now? I’m the reason you’re going to be CEO. I’m the one who made you something your father thought was worth investing in.”

He didn’t have to ask what she meant. Franklin had never considered Sam a serious person. He’d never been smart enough for his father. Never clever enough. Never a good enough athlete, or speaker, or manager, or fucking driver. Sam had never had the right friends. Wasn’t dependable like Greta, or sharp like Alice, or a delight like Emily.

If he closed his eyes, he could see Franklin’s disappointment in myriad locations. The headmaster’s office at Dalton (solved with a large check). In a meeting with the dean of students at Harvard (another large check). At the Tiverton police department late one night the summer before his junior year (okay, they were all large checks). In Franklin’s office in the main house, when his father had informed Sam in no uncertain terms that he was going to marry Sila because she was pregnant and no Storm child would be born without protection (that might have been the largest check of all—the one that came written into the prenup).

Five and a half months after that, Saoirse was born (private room at Lenox Hill), and Franklin was pulling Sam aside (another private room at Lenox Hill) to tell him in no uncertain terms that this was his future. Time to get his head on straight.

It should be said that Sam didn’t need the note from his father. He’d taken one look at that baby and known the truth—he would do what he could to make the marriage work.

Because it had always been about the kids.

To help, Franklin had opened his wallet more times than Sam could count, happily (not really happily, butwillingly) paying for Sam and Sila’s extravagant lifestyle, to supplement the boredom of Sam’s mediocre work at Storm. Franklin kept Sila in style, Saoirse and Oliver in school, and Sam in entertainment.

Until nine months earlier, when Franklin stopped signing checks.The well’s dry, kiddo.Kiddo. Like Sam wasn’t thirty-seven and a father of two.

Until two months earlier, when his father had called him into his office here, on the island, and finished the job.

“Well, Sila. I’m sorry to tell you, but your plan has gone to shit. I’m not going to be CEO.”

She turned sharply. “What?”

“He fired me.”

She was frozen, her lips barely moving as she asked, “When?”

“The Fourth of July.”Time for you to figure out life without me, Sam.

It had been a long time since he’d seen Sila shocked, and he liked it more than he should have. “You didn’t tell me.”

“Can you believe it?”

Her eyes narrowed to slits at his sarcastic reply. “Fuck you, Sam. You fucking joke. What am I supposed to do with that? You havekids.”

He supposed he deserved that. It didn’t matter what he did—he was never enough for Franklin, or Sila, or anyone else. He was name or money or the nepo baby who worked at the company. But nothing more. Even now, Franklin had figured out a way to shut Sam up.

Strangely, Sam hadn’t been surprised that Franklin had put limits on his ability to talk. If there was one thing Franklin had always hated, it was Sam talking. Everyone else was fine—Greta was always helpful and Emily was always cute and Alice was the one who’d gotten out.

Alice, who’d somehow never lost their father’s respect. Not when shestudied art in college. Not when she refused to go to business school. Not when she fuckingblew up Storm.

Even then, as Franklin railed at her, isolated her, insulted her, he’d never stopped respecting her. And he’d never once turned his attention to Sam. Not even after their father exiled her, and Sam came as close as he ever would to screaming,Put me in, Coach!

Of course, if he had, it would have been a disappointment; Franklin had already tapped Jack as his new favorite. A better son than Sam had ever been. Able to predict Franklin’s needs, solve his problems, and run his empire. Even now, after he was gone.

And Sam, what good was he?

He looked to the fog bell, his final task. His father couldn’t have made it clearer that this was what he saw in Sam—not a legacy. Not the next CEO of Storm Inc.