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“An heirloom,” Father says, taking the cup from her. “It was a gift from my uncle—the old King of East End—when Michael was born.”

Verity shifts the cup, revealing an engraved monogram:

MAC.

I’m familiar with the trickle of white-hot anger that seeps into my veins, which is why Coach Reed really should have chosen someone else to give that aged whiskey to.

I have it uncorked in record time, turning away from the scene as I tip it back.

“MAC… is that…?” Pace breathes.

“MCA, actually.” I swallow the whiskey like fire. “Michael Claudius Ashby.”

“It’s an heirloom,” Lex says, but I hear the tension in his voice. “Giving gifts like this is common. One generation to the next.”

I take a sharp, ineffectual breath, my muscles wound so tightly that it’s an ache. “He’s staking his claim, and you know it.”

“Chill out,” Pace whispers, watching Verity accept the gift with a bland smile. “This’ll be over soon.”

“Now,” Father announces, raising his voice for the room, “let’s celebrate with some cake!”

The doors in the back of the room open at the same time as everyone’s excited applause. I glance around the crowd with thunder in my ears, soaking in everyone’s tepid expressions. Through the whooshing waves of my pulse, I realize that not one of them wants to be here. We’re figurines, stuffed into Father’s toy dollhouse.

“Wick?” Lex says, and I can feel he’s gripping my shoulder, shaking me. “Go easy on that bottle. You look like you’re going to hurl.”

I don’t look at him because I’m too busy staring at the cake being rolled in. Trudie Stein wouldweepwith envy. It’s square, decorated in a drab blue, and all five tiers are covered with delicately piped lattice around the sides. It probably took a whole team of poor schmucks days to pull it off, their wrists cramping as they painstakingly created the lacework. The edges are adorned with cascading cream-colored roses, the tips of each petal brushed with glittering gold leaf.

I take it all in with a single glance because the moment I see the top tier, that trickle of anger in my veins goes supernova.

It’s topped with a crown, which has already been monogrammed with initials.

MAR.

“What thefuck.” Pace’s words emerge raw and frayed, and I can practically hear his stomach dropping like a lead balloon. Lex probably has something to say about it too. As frozen as he is, he’s put it together as quickly as we have. But Verity looks lost—so fucking confused—like she’s trying to understand how there are already initials on her baby’s goddamn cake, and why they’rethese.

As if Father could welcome his own blood and not call the squalling little shit Michael.

Part of me expects to feel Lex’s hand on my arm again, dragging me back, but it’s not there. None of them stop me or stand in my way as I stride up to the monstrosity.

In one swift, violent motion, I shove the top tier from the cake.

It lands on the parquet floor with a sickening sound that’s accompanied by a sea of gasps.

“Michael Rufus Ashby?” I hurl the words directly into my father’s rapidly hardening face. “Notfuckinghappening!”

“Whitaker!” he roars, snatching my wrist in a bruising grip. “Get a hold of him!” He says that last part to his security, Thad marching up with one of his toy soldiers to drag me from the wreckage. It’s unnecessary, I’m whirling away from the scene before they can spin me, all too happy to disappear into the ceremonial room. I think if I caught one glimpse of the look on my brothers’ faces—onhers—I wouldn’t be able to stop at desserts.

I’d have to raze the whole goddamn room to the ground.

Behind me, I hear Father ordering the caterers to salvage the cake and serve what’s left. “Please, enjoy the rest of the evening,” he tells the guests, his voice growing closer.

I know when I hear the door slam behind me that we’re alone.

“You have lost your godforsaken mind!” he hisses, stiff with fury when I turn to him. “Explain yourself!”

“Over my dead fucking body,” I roar, thrusting a finger toward the door, “are they going to name that kid Michael Rufus Ashby!”

“You think that can’t be arranged?” he roars back, the temple in his forehead bulging grotesquely. “Don’t pretend like you give a shit about my grandson. You’ve made your position about fatherhood infinitely clear.”