Page 47 of Dr. Stone
The man loved what he did, and the role he played in our family, and I didn’t want him to think I was disinterested in what he’d orchestrated at the request of my parents.
“Go on,” I urged him.
“Without going further into the menu, as I know it is not your primary concern, I will convey one last thing. Your mother requested that you dress…appropriately.”
I inhaled, trying to contain my irritation. “I know, Edwin,” I clapped him on the arm. “She always does, and that’s why I had my clothes pressed and delivered this afternoon.”
“Excellent, sir,” he said with a nod.
“I’ll run up and change for fear that I might dare insult the family and staff,” I winked, then jogged up the marble staircase to my old room, which took up most of the second floor.
I stepped into the familiar space, smiling at how it managed to be both a museum of opulence and a slice of comfort. Floor-to-ceiling glass replaced walls on nearly every side, except for the section that divided my room from Dorian’s and the hallway I’d just come through.
I dropped my duffle on the king-sized bed and trotted over to the shower to quickly freshen up and join the fam for happy hour on Mom’s immaculate terrace.
The quick five-minute shower was enough to settle my nerves and burn off the raw energy clinging to me. I needed it before stepping into the curated chaos of drinks and small talk on the terrace, perched high above the cliffs like the house itself owned the entire shoreline and the ocean beyond it.
The scent of bergamot from the garden hit first, sharp and sweet, and it blew in the breeze under the setting of the Montecito sun. I followed the muted hum of conversation to the west terrace, the stone steps still warm beneath my polished shoes. The horizon bled into a pink-gold wash, resembling the kind of sky Ashley Mitchell would capture in one of her whimsical sunset paintings.
Dad sat like a patriarch and emperor, relaxed but commanding in a crisp linen shirt, one arm resting across the back of his chair with a crystal tumbler in hand. He had that unmistakable stillness about him, the kind of aura that made the most powerful men lean in and listen to whatever he had to say.
Mom was opposite him, composed and elegant in a pale silk dress, legs crossed, a coupe glass balanced in her hand. Her smile was the same one I’d grown up with—faint, practiced, and perfectly polished.
And then there was Dorian, seated at Dad’s right side, lounging on the outdoor seating like he owned the entire fucking coastline. He was my younger brother by a handful of years, but anyone who didn’t know him would think he was the elder child because of his posture and attitude.
“We were just taking bets on whether or not you’d show,” Dorian said, raising his glass lazily.
“Looks like you lost, buddy,” I said, sitting down to my mother’s right and joining the family. “I would advise you not tobet on me not showing up. You know I’ll let your smug ass down every time.”
“That’ll be enough of childish talk, sons,” my mother interjected, smartly not allowing us to escalate our nitpicking. “How were things at the office today, darling,” Mom said, sipping her drink.
“Nice. I’m exhausted, but nice.”
“I had them make you your drink,” Dorian said. “Mezcal old-fashioned, heavy orange peel, one block. That’s still your poison, right? Or did that Southern California hospital finally have its way with you?”
“Just because I didn’t run off to Madrid to take on the Aurelian Signature line doesn’t mean I’m easily persuaded to find a new favorite drink, my man,” I said, laughing and taking a sip.
“Dorian was just telling me that Titus has ordered more jets fromAurelian Iberiato add to his fleet,” my dad said.
I allowed the liquor to slowly burn down my throat to prevent any sudden irritation about our long-time family friend, Titus Hawk. Titus was closer with Dorian because they were both business tycoons in their own right.
My brother had taken the reins of the European division of our family’s empire and created Aurelin Iberia. It was more than just some satellite office in Madrid now, with Dorian at the helm. He’d turned it into the crown jewel of our father’s empire, overseeing an operation that oversaw the bespoke aviation sector catering to the ultra-wealthy across Europe, the Middle East, and North Africa.
“Not surprising,” I finally said.
“He’s purchasing a collection of Gulfstream jets with Hermes interiors and custom onboard suites,” my brother added.
“Of course, one for each continent where he regularly touches down,” I said.
Which Andie will most likely be enjoying if I manage to lose her to this man.
“You seem upset about that,” my mother said, most likely catching my irritation at Titus’s name.
“No,” I shook it off. “I’m happy for you, Dorian. You finally got Hawk in with the family’s gold.”
My dad’s lips curved slightly, “Dorian handled the negotiations personally, wrapping them up and shaking hands over Vega Sicilia wine in a private hangar outside Barcelona.”
Dorian’s ego was the size of Everest, nodding as if he were in the room with a hundred global elites, and they were eating out of his hand.
