Page 23 of Dr. Stone (Billionaires’ Club #9)

TWENTY-ONE

Jace

Over the last three days, saying I’d had a chance to catch my breath would be a flat-out lie.

I spent forty-eight of those hours working back-to-back ER shifts on-call with barely a wink of sleep.

The next twenty-four I used trying to recover, only to jump into a twelve-hour workday full of patient appointments, surgery scheduling, and post-op rounds at the hospital.

I just wanted to go home, take out my boat, which I hadn’t seen in weeks, and find my bearings. I still might do that if I could get out of staying too long at my parents’ house tonight.

Unfortunately, my brother Dorian, whom I hardly had a relationship with, was visiting before flying off with my parents to the grand opening of Titus’s exclusive hotel resort in Costa Rica later tonight.

So, we were all here, gathered together to pretend we were some picture-perfect family for a couple of hours.

Typically, I could handle these kinds of dysfunctional get-togethers without breaking a sweat, but with exhaustion from work and thinking about my girl flying off on Titus’s private jet as his guest of honor? My patience and my mood were shot to hell.

God only knew what tonight would bring.

The iron gates opened with quiet precision, revealing the sun-kissed sprawl of my parents’ Montecito estate.

I eased the Aston up the long, palm-lined drive, looking beyond the vibrant green manicured lawns to the ocean sparkling beyond the cliffs like a dazzling sapphire.

Everything here was perfectly manicured, controlled, curated, and untouchable.

All of it was the personification of Mr. and Mrs. Everett and Victoria Stone.

My parents’ house appeared ahead like some coastal fortress out of a dream. It was covered in whitewashed stone, weathered wood accents, and towering glass that reflected the sky.

My mother had designed every inch of it, down to the imported Italian gravel beneath my tires, and my father had signed the deed in a tux on the night they closed their first billion-dollar acquisition.

This place perfectly embodied the empire my parents built—Aurelian Stone stress kills more people than anything else.”

I chuckled, turning to walk through the polished stone atrium with him, “Listen to you, telling me what I just told four of my patients today.”

“You need to live by those words, not just preach them, son,” he said. “Your family is on the terrace taking refreshments before dinner is served.”

“What’s for dinner tonight? Dorian’s here, so I’m sure it’s some fancy meal up to par with his fine-dining lifestyle in Madrid.”

“Chef Laurent has prepared a seven-course menu this evening. Your mother requested to begin with sea urchin custard and Oscietra caviar, followed by?—”

“Skip to the main course, Edwin. We don’t have all day,” I teased. I inwardly rolled my eyes that this was sometimes my life, hence the reason I tried to keep my distance from it as best I could.

“Of course. The wagyu beef has been flown in from Miyazaki, your father’s preference while entertaining his sons this evening, of course.” He eyed me, and I could tell he wanted to continue announcing all the courses.

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 to bet 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 from Aurelian Iberia to 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.