ADRIEN'S POV
I've imagined several versions of my death. Natural causes. Assassination. Crossfire during something illegal. A boardroom coup that gets physical. The usual contingencies a Laurent heir — or whatever I am — plans for.
But this.
Whatever this is.
My knees buckle and Killian catches me before I hit the floor. "Bro. Don't die on me."
A dry, airless laugh scrapes out of my throat. "My father. That old man. He decided to adopt Beatrice." I look at Killian like he's hallucinating. "Beatrice Kenz. Please tell me you're high on morphine."
Killian shakes his head. "I don't use morphine. Just whiskey."
"That's not something to be proud of, bastard."
He presses his lips together and deposits me onto the couch in my office. Today was supposed to be routine. Meetings. Money. More meetings. More money. Gym. Dinner. Sleep. I brewed my own coffee this morning with a strange, unfamiliar sense of peace.
