Page 6 of Billion Dollar Vow (The Lincoln Brothers #4)

Oliver

“Do you have any leads?” I grip the phone tighter.

“No, sir,” Sam, my private investigator, replies.

I drag a hand over my face and lean forward, burying my head in my arms on the desk. My temples throb. My jaw clenches. “Why is it taking so long?”

“They’ve got some good security on them,” he mutters, like that’s supposed to be an acceptable excuse.

I flop back in my chair, the leather creaking under me, my pulse thumping in the base of my neck. “Try harder,” I snap, hanging up before he can respond.

I march over to the bar cart, shoulders tight, and pour two fingers of whiskey into a glass. The scent hits before the burn does, but it’s a welcome distraction. I’m raising the glass to my lips when my mobile phone buzzes in my pocket.

What the fuck is it now?

I answer without checking. “Yes?” I bark.

“Woah. What’s crawled up your ass?” Harvey, my brother, grumbles.

I close my eyes and exhale through my nose, willing myself to stay calm. It’s not his fault I can’t find the damn mystery artist. “Nothing,” I mutter.

He snorts. “Doesn’t sound like nothing.”

“Just tell me what you want.” I take a slow sip of my drink, letting the whiskey warms its way down my throat.

“Did you still want a lift tonight?”

I freeze.

Shit.

Harvey chuckles, smug as ever. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

I grit my teeth. “Yes. But it’s fine. I’ll meet you there. I’ll head straight from the office.”

“You sure?” he asks, but I’m already mentally rearranging my evening.

“I’m sure. I have to get to this meeting, but I’ll see you later.” I hang up before he can start in on me again and toss back the rest of the drink.

Later, I’m having a drink with my brothers, and the tension is thick enough to slice.

We’re at Top Secret Bar, one of those quiet, luxurious places tucked into a corner of Midtown, a spot only the right people know about.

The booths are a deep brown leather, stitched with precision, and the lighting’s just enough to see the drink in your glass but not so much that anyone could read your expression too clearly.

The four of us take up the corner booth… Me, Evan, Jeremy, and Harvey. Each of us in suits, ties loosened to say we’re off the clock, but not off duty. Gold-rimmed glasses rest on the polished table, not quite ready for another round.

Jeremy nurses a bourbon, always trying to prove he’s got more taste than the rest of us.

He’s the brother who’s about to get married.

Harvey, the youngest Lincoln, is sipping something amber and overpriced, legs stretched out like he owns the room.

Evan, the oldest and grumpiest brother, hasn’t touched his drink yet.

And I’ve already gone through two fingers of whiskey, the burn not doing nearly enough.

Evan breaks the silence first, tone clipped like he’s running a board meeting. “So, for Jeremy’s bachelor party, don’t forget, the plane leaves at 9 a.m. sharp. There’s a private dinner when we land. The chef’s doing a multi-course tasting menu. Then a cigar and whiskey pairing on the terrace.”

Jeremy raises an eyebrow, and Harvey leans back, unimpressed.

“Do we get matching robes too?” Harvey mutters into his glass.

I swirl the ice in mine, not bothering to look up. “Why is Evan in charge?”

Jeremy stiffens slightly, then leans forward. “He’s the oldest.”

I glance up and lock eyes with Evan. He’s already glaring at me, posture military straight, like he’s waiting for someone to challenge him.

“We all should’ve had a say in your bachelor party,” I argue.

“It’s my choice,” Jeremy replies coolly. “When it’s your turn, you can choose who you want.”

“Well, it sure as hell won’t be you.”

Harvey chuckles under his breath, like this is better than whatever show he’s been bingeing. Jeremy hides a smirk behind his glass.

“Petty children,” Evan mumbles, shaking his head, finally picking up his glass.

“You wouldn’t be saying that if you weren’t involved,” I fire back.

His lips thin into that flat line he always gives when he’s done arguing. Discussion closed.

I lean back into the booth, dragging a finger down the side of my glass. “I went past Mom and Dad’s today. Mom was putting the students’ work in the basement.”

Jeremy blinks. “What? Why?”

“They needed more classrooms,” I say. “She lost the display space.”

“Shit,” Harvey says. “She loved that gallery wall.”

“She didn’t say anything?” Jeremy asks.

“She never does. But I could tell. She kept holding this one canvas like she couldn’t decide if she was proud of it or heartbroken.”

A silence settles in again, this time heavier. I glance at the drink in front of me, then back up at my brothers.

“She deserves more than a basement,” I say quietly.

The Warne Gallery flashes in my mind again.

Its high ceilings, white walls, the way the light spills in during the afternoons.

Mom used to take me when I was a kid. I still remember the way her eyes lit up when she talked about it.

Not like she was simply describing a building, but something bigger.

She had plans. And damn it, I want to make them a reality.