Page 82 of Twisted Shot
“Of course I’m here,” she says, as if she’s reading his mind. “I’m on the board.”
He forces a nod.Right. Of course she is.
He should’ve known. She never misses these kinds of events. This is her natural habitat—velvet drapes, polished crystal, conversations threaded with subtext.
His eyes dart past her automatically, scanning the crowd for the familiar sight of salt-and-pepper hair and that towering frame in a perfectly tailored tux. Searching for the hooked nose and those razor-sharp eyes that never miss a damn thing.
Not here.
She catches his frantic sweep of the room and her smile turns knowing. "Your father sends his regrets. Business, you know how it is."
Relief floods him so fast it leaves him lightheaded. Christ, he didn’t realize how tense he was until he wasn’t.
“Ah, but I made it.”
Theo hears him before he sees him. His shoulders tighten and stomach knots like he’s thirteenyears old again.
He turns slowly, not because he’s afraid, but because bracing for impact is muscle memory now.
His oldest brother Conrad stands a few feet away in an onyx black tux, drink in one hand, arrogance in the other. He looks exactly the same. Just…shinier. Polished like a showroom car. His suit probably costs more than most people’s rent, and his smile is the same smirk—the one that never quite reaches his eyes.
“Conrad,” Theo says tightly.
Conrad’s gaze flicks over him dismissively. He lifts his drink, takes a measured sip, then adds, almost lazily, “It’s rare to see you without a stick in your hand. Still got all your teeth, brother?”
Theo swallows hard.
His mother is watching them, sipping her white wine like this is normal.
Like this is fine.
She titters. “It’s so rare I get to see two of my sons at once. You’re all so busy.”
“Yes, mother, some of us are busy running companies. Porky here is busy slamming people into walls like a gorilla,” Conrad sneers.
Hearing his obnoxiously cruel childhood nickname bandied about so casually in front of his teammates brings blood rushing to his face, thundering through his ears. Like pressure building behind a dam. His old instincts, old humiliations, roar through him.
He hates him. God, hehateshim.
Not in the familial way people say they hate their siblings.
In the real way.
“Honestly, Conrad,” his mother says, sipping her wine, “must you always be so dramatic? Let your brother enjoy his...hobby.”
Behind him, Carter—absolute saint that he is—must sense the temperature drop and slides in with a joke about dessert. Tall offers a dry one-liner. Someone laughs. The moment glides on for everyone but Theo.
“Relax,” Conrad says, stepping in closer, his voice dripping with condescension. “You always get so tense when I’m around. It’s like you think I’m gonna make you read something out loud.”
Theo’s grip tightens around his glass.
Conrad leans in. Drops his voice just for him. “Still got that stammer? Or did another gorilla finally knock it out of you?”
Theo says nothing, lifting his eyes to meet his brother’s taunting gaze.
It would be so easy to shove him away. Say something sharp. Loud. Final.
But Theo’s been playing a different game for years. One that doesn’t give Conrad the satisfaction.
