Page 103 of A Cold Hard Truth

“Do you really want me to repeat it?”

Sebastian’s cheeks heated, and he stared at the last swirl of orange juice in his glass. “No.”

“Careless,” Rhys said under his breath, and Sebastian didn’t argue with him.

Would it really have been the worst thing in the world for Daniella to leak those pictures? He’d probably lose his job, but the whole thing was pretty nepotistic in the first place. His position on the board was practically ornamental, and everything would run without him. Sebastian knew he wasn’t relevant. That he was replaceable.

“Unfortunately, there’s nothing in your divorce paperwork about your wife losing her alimony if she tries to sell revenge porn shots of you, which to be honest was extremely poor planning on your part.”

“I didn’t think about it,” he said. “Besides, it’s not the fifties. Men…people…it’s just sex.”

Shameful that he couldn’t even say it out loud. Further proof Remington deserved someone better than him. Remington deserved someone confident and proud. Someone he could show off, who didn’t have a past like Sebastian’s hanging over their heads.

“I deleted the pictures,” Rhys said. “You’re welcome.”

“What?”

“An old friend from college owns the paper she tried to sell the pictures to,” Rhys went on to explain. “He called me up and gave me the heads up.”

Sebastian squeezed his eyes closed. The single drink he’d drank already roiled around in his stomach, threatening to come back up.

“You look sick. Do you want to know the rest?”

Sebastian rubbed the bridge of his nose and nodded.

“I had her offer blackballed across all the papers in the state.”

“You can do that?” Sebastian forced himself to open his eyes and focus on his brother at the other end of the table.

“Money talks.”

“Right.”

“You should know that, though.” Rhys tilted his head to the side. “Your little jaunt into philanthropy got you a boyfriend, didn’t it?”

“Remington isn’t my boyfriend, and I didn’t buy him,” Sebastian protested. The implication was absurd and offensive. If anything, his donation to the museum had jeopardized his chance to be with Remington, not enhanced it.

“He does know, doesn’t he?”

“He knows.”

“I’m honestly surprised he even needed St. George money to float the department,” Rhys mused, refilling his coffee and taking a sip.

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.” Rhys shook his head and gave Sebastian a quick smile. “I suppose museum funding is hard to come by if you’re not independently wealthy.”

“We’re not,” Sebastian said.

“Family money is earned, Sebastian. Have you not paid your dues for it?”

“I’m replaceable,” he hissed, slamming his hands down on the edge of the table. “In everything, Rhys. I’m second at best, disposable at worst. You’re the heir to this name, not me. You’re the fraternity president. You’re the one father loves the most. You’re the one who is constantly unaffected by the weight of our obligations. My wife even went to you when she finished with me.”

The admissions tasted like acid in his throat, and he washed them down with a swallow of vodka straight from the decanter.

“You have such a diluted view of yourself,” Rhys said.

“And yours is inflated.”