The Atlas Six (The Atlas, #1)(9)

“It doesn’t matter who else you have.” Reina set her jaw. “You’ll still want me.”

Atlas considered her a moment.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, that’s quite true, isn’t it?”

Ha ha ha, laughed the plants. Ha ha, Mother wins, we win.

“Stop it,” Reina whispered to the branches that had swept down to brush the top of her head with approval, and Atlas rose to his feet with a chuckle, extending a hand which contained a single slip of cardstock.

“Take this,” he said, “and in about four hours, you’ll be transported for orientation.”

“For what?” Reina asked, and he shrugged.

“Better I not have to repeat myself,” he replied. “Best of luck to you, Reina Mori. This will not be your final test.”

Then he was gone, and Reina scowled.

The last thing she needed was a cafe full of plants, and now his coffee sat forgotten on the counter, already going cold.





TRISTAN



Three Hours Ago

“NO,” TRISTAN SAID when the door opened. “Not again. Not now.”

“Mate,” groaned Rupesh, “you’ve been in here for ages.”

“Yes,” Tristan agreed. “Doing my job. Incredible, isn’t it?”

“Hardly,” Rupesh muttered, falling into the vacant chair across from Tristan’s desk. “You’re the future son and heir, Tris. Hardly makes sense for you to work so hard when you’ll only inherit it by default.”

“First of all, this company isn’t the monarchy,” Tristan muttered, not looking up from the figures he’d been working on. He waved a hand, rearranging them. His valuation was slightly off and he adjusted the discount rate, knowing the risk-averse board of investors would want to see a broader range of percentages. “Even if it were, I’m not the heir, I’m just—”

“Just engaged to the boss’s daughter,” Rupesh supplied for him, raising a brow. “You should set the date, you know. It’s been a couple of months, hasn’t it? I’m sure Eden’s getting impatient.”

She was, and she’d been growing less subtle about it by the day. “I’ve been busy,” Tristan said stiffly. “And anyway, this is precisely what I said I didn’t have time for. Out,” he said, gesturing to the door. “I have at least three more valuations to finish before I can leave.”

It was the annual Wessex family holiday and Tristan would be Eden’s escort, as always. This would be Tristan’s fourth year coming along as the eldest Wessex daughter’s plus one, and needless to say, it was not his favorite activity. Watching his step, holding his tongue, all of it was exhausting—but still, it was worth it. It was worth it to be here, to be considered an heir by someone whose name was not the one belonging to his biological father.

Tristan wondered if he could talk Eden into letting him take her name; assuming, that is, that he could summon the final step necessary to seal his fate.

“You’re going on holiday with them,” Rupesh pointed out, crooking a single dark brow. “You’re already part of the family.”

“No, I’m not.” Not yet. Tristan rubbed his temple, glancing over the figures again. The capital required to make this deal work was steep, not to mention that the existing magical infrastructure was riddled with problems. Still, the potential to cash in was higher for this portfolio than it was for any of the thirteen other medeian projects he’d valued that day. James would like it, even if the rest of the board didn’t, and the name on the building wasn’t his for nothing.

Tristan filed the project under maybe, adding, “I’m not just going to inherit this company, Rup. If I want it, I have to work for it. You might consider doing the same,” he advised, looking up to adjust his glasses, and Rupesh rolled his eyes.

“Just finish, then,” Rupesh suggested. “Eden’s been posting pictures of her get-ready routine all morning.”

Eden Wessex, daughter of billionaire investor James Wessex, was a pretty heiress and therefore a ready-built product, capable of making capital out of intangibles like beauty and influence alone. It had been Tristan himself who’d advised the Wessex board to consider investing in Lightning, the magical version of a mortal social media app. Eden had been the face of the company ever since.

“Right, thanks,” Tristan said, clearing his throat. He was probably missing messages from her as they spoke. “I’ll be done soon. Is that all?”

“You know I can’t leave until you do, mate.” Rupesh winked at him. “Can’t very well leave before the golden boy, can I?”

“Right, well, you’re doing yourself no favors, then,” Tristan said, gesturing to the door. Two more, he thought, glancing at the paperwork. Well, one. One of them was clearly unsuitable. “Run along, Rup. And do something about that coffee stain.”

“What?” Rupesh asked, glancing down, and Tristan looked up from the file.

“Been letting your illusions get stale,” he noted, pointing to the mark at the bottom of Rupesh’s tie. “You can’t spend five hundred quid on a designer belt and then rummage your stain spells out of a bin.” Though, even as he said it, Tristan knew it was a very Rupesh quality to do precisely that. Some people cared only about what others could see, and Rupesh in particular was unaware of the extent to which Tristan saw through him.