My Brother’s Game

At a concert, I went wild, shouting at the top idol on stage, “Tony Townsend, spray on my face!”

That night, my brother had me pinned against the ancestral altar, a ruler pressing down on the back of my neck.

“Lift your head. Tell me, what did you want that idol to do to you?”

Later, he shoved me down onto the mattress, his fingertips grinding against my swollen lips.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?”

The lights were blinding, and the screams were deafening at Tony’s concert. My childhood friend was up on stage, holding a giant water gun, laughing like a maniac as he sprayed the crowd.

On impulse, I shouted at the top of my lungs, “Tony, spray me! Spray my face!”

The moment the words left my mouth, the arena fell into a weird silence. Even the music seemed to glitch for half a beat.

I was feeling proud of how bold I sounded, until the back of my neck prickled, like I’d been targeted by some predator.

Slowly, I turned my head and met a pair of chilling eyes.

Leon?

What was my brother doing here?

He was sitting one row behind me, looking sharp in a tailored suit. His face was set in stone, eyes dark and cold.

My heart lurched, and the fan sign I’d been holding slipped from my hand and hit the ground with a sharp smack.

He lifted his gaze slightly, his voice low. “Half an hour. Get home.”

Though the concert wasn’t even over, I slipped out.

My chest was tight, and my mind was racing, already trying to come up with some excuse to feed him later.

However, I didn’t even get the chance. My phone went off like crazy, notification after notification popping up.

[Maxwell Corporation’s second heir, Harry Maxwell, openly flirts with male idol at concert, begging to get sprayed in the face!]

[Maxwell Corporation stock price drops 2.7% after scandal involving the second heir!]

My hand shook so hard that I almost dropped my phone.

Damn clickbait. Who the heck came up with these headlines?

I sat in the car, staring out at the city lights streaking by, Adam’s apple bobbing.

Leon and I’s relationship was complicated. On paper, it was a perfect adopted golden child versus the playboy heir.

I was the real playboy, while he was the fake saint.

Dad had been completely taken in by him. On his deathbed, he handed over the Maxwell Corporation and me, twelve years old at the time, into Leon’s care.

Everyone said my brother was the perfect heir. However, I knew better. Behind that polite, gentlemanly mask was a ruthless lone wolf.

I stood outside Leon’s study, my hand hovering over the door handle, hesitating to push it.

Finally, I sucked in a breath and twisted the knob. The familiar scent of cedarwood hit me immediately.

The air felt chill and restrained, just like him.

“Huh? He’s not here?”

Seriously?

He told me to come back, and then he wasn’t even home.

I flopped down onto his leather couch, pulled out my phone, and glared at the trending topics still dragging my name through the mud.

I raked a hand through my hair, and out of nowhere, Tony’s smug face flashed in my head.

Backstage today, he had leaned in with that irritating grin, saying, “Harry, ever thought about whether your parents’ car crash was really an accident?

“Leon’s just an adopted son. Why would he inherit the Maxwell fortune?”

The word “accident” stabbed into my skull, making my temples pound.

Could my parents’ crash have been planned?

No. Leon told me himself it was an accident.

I shot to my feet and stalked over to Leon’s bookshelf, running my fingers across the rows of thick binders until I stopped at one labeled: October 21, 2016.

The date of my parents’ crash.

“Don’t you want to know the truth?” Tony’s words rang in my ears again.

As I pulled the file free, a bundle of photographs slipped out, scattering across the floor.

I froze.