I moved to the door and tapped my knuckles against the glass.
No response.
I knocked again. “Coen, come on.”
Nothing.
I tried the door, but it was locked. “You know this thin glass can’t stop me. Unlock it, or I’ll break it down.” I slid my hands into my pockets as I waited for him to respond to my threat. We both knew I wasn’t bluffing. I’d never been the kind of man to unleash empty threats.
He finally turned the knob, and there was an audible click.
I pushed the door open and watched him walk back to his desk. A large bottle of smooth whiskey was sitting on the surface—the top discarded on the floor. There was no glass because he was drinking it straight from the bottle. He fell into the leather chair and got a grip around the neck of the bottle, just as a child held on to a security blanket.
He wouldn’t look at me.
I sat in one of the armchairs facing his desk. I crossed my legs and stared at him in silence.
He still refused my look.
My hands rested together in my lap, and I brainstormed my first words. I could be an asshole and say I told you so, but that would make me look like scum. I’d assumed a moment like this would make me feel good, to see karma strike as a form of revenge, but witnessing my brother’s sadness changed my tune. All I felt was pity. “I’m sorry, man.”
“No, you aren’t.” He grabbed the bottle and took a drink. “You must have done cartwheels in your office when you heard.”
“Have you ever seen me do a cartwheel?” I asked sarcastically.
He drank from his bottle again.
“You gonna offer me some?” I nodded to the bottle in his grip.
“This is all I have—and I’m not sharing.”
“Such a gentleman…”
“If you came here to gloat, just go. This is your victory, and you can enjoy it as much as you want—on your own time.”
I’d never seen my brother so solemn, so downright depressed. Even when Father died, he wasn’t this hopelessly sad. “Coen, I get no enjoyment out of this.”
“Bullshit.” He finally raised his gaze and looked at me, resembling a ghost. He appeared ethereal, nonexistent. He was just a shadow of the man he used to be—and he still wore his wedding ring. “You warned me about her. You hated me for what I did to you. Then you told me you never wanted to spend another day with me after Mother is gone. So, yes, I know you’re enjoying this.”
“The only thing I’m enjoying is Simone’s absence. Now I never have to deal with her again.”
He shook his head. “She owns half of my half. I know she’s going to show her face here every single day, crowing about her victory like I have absolutely no feelings.” He dragged his hand down his face in self-hatred. “Fuck, I’m so stupid.”
“She’s not going to do that.”
“Trust me, she is. She was after this company from the beginning…and now she got what she wanted.”
“You’re right, she does want the company. But she’ll never have it.”
“I didn’t sign a prenup, Slate.” His eyes moved downward in shame. “She owns half of all my things.”
“Actually, you did. You both did.”
Coen turned in his chair so he could get a better look at me. With his hand still gripping the bottle, he watched me with pure bewilderment.
“A few weeks ago, we were in the conference room. I told you I commissioned a new destination in Jackson Hole. You two signed off on it. But instead of signing off on that site, you actually signed a prenup that my lawyer drafted for you.”
His eyes widened slightly, unable to process what I’d just said. “What?”
“It said she’s not entitled to half of your assets, including the company, unless you’ve been married for at least five years. Pretty standard agreement. You both signed it. I was the witness. It was drafted by my lawyer, so it’s concrete.”
“But we both didn’t know what we were signing.”
I shrugged. “Technically. But the judge will rule in our favor—when we pay him off.”
Coen finally released the bottle of whiskey he was holding and sat back in his chair, flabbergasted by the turn of events. “Holy shit…”
“You think I would let that woman ruin your life?” I held his gaze and felt the resentment shoot through my veins. I didn’t want to spit on him while he was down, but this moment gave me all the revenge I’d craved. I had his back even when he didn’t have mine—and I came out as the hero. My brother would never be able to question my loyalty or goodness ever again. I was the better man—and we both knew it.
Coen stared at me, speechless.
I didn’t blame him for having nothing to say. He looked like an ungrateful fool, a man who didn’t deserve an older brother like me. Even after he’d betrayed me, I’d still saved his ass—which was more than he could ever say.