His Brown Sugar

Chapter 1

Theo

I almost crumple the paper in my hands. It’s 6:00 am, and this is what I receive first. 

The family lawyer trembles as he avoids my gaze. He knows what I do when provoked. Getting fired will be the least of his problems. 

If my eyes could kill, he’s already dead. I threw daggers at him the moment he entered my office. 

Knowing that this isn’t his fault doesn’t lessen my anger. He glances at me from time to time, as if saying not to shoot the messenger. 

“Great!” Instead of crumpling the paper, I slap it on my mahogany desk. Frustration rushes into my veins, making me irrational. 

“What the hell is this, Trent?” I snap at him. 

“A letter from your grandmother, sir,” he answers. 

“I know this is a fucking letter from my grandmother. What the hell is this?” I enunciate every word. 

“Sir…” The lawyer licks his lips nervously. “A letter stating that you need to get married before your thirtieth birthday so you can inherit the company.” 

A muscle ticks in my jaw, and blood rushes to my face. 

Of course, I’m fucking aware what this letter fucking means. I just... I take a deep breath to calm down. 

My eyes survey the letter once more, and they stick to my brother’s name. 

Arthur. 

I can’t have him inherit this company, or all my hard work will go to waste. Also, why the hell do I have to get married for the inheritance anyway?

I, Theodore, made this company rise to this height. We’re at the top because of me. The company’s name spread far and wide because of me. 

Forbes named me the new Wolf of Wall Street. People call me the poster boy of the new generation of successful men. 

Why the hell do I have to go through this bullshit? Sadly, it’s an order from my grandmother—the matriarch of the Rothchild family—the be-all-and-end-all of the family. 

Whatever she says is the law. 

“I can’t believe my grandmother is doing this,” I whisper. 

“Sir.” Trent straightens his back and stares at me. It looks like the mention of my grandmother gave him confidence. 

I glare at him. 

“What?” I ask, annoyed. 

“Sir, I suggest that you heed your grandmother’s orders. She’s very stubborn. If she wants to do something, she’ll do it however she wants it,” he hesitates to say. 

He sighs, “She’s going to give the company to Arthur if you refuse. She places great importance on family.”

I frown. 

“The madam worries about you and,” he clears his throat while he shifts uncomfortably in his seat, “your personal affairs.”

His left knee trembles and he grips it hard to stop it. 

“Dish it out,” I snarl at him. “Say it.” 

“She’s worried that you’re focusing so much on your career and you have no time to make a family.” His bloodless face shows how incapable he is in handling his position as a lawyer for my family. 

Perhaps I should reassess his skills and knowledge to see if he still fits the criteria. But first things first. 

“It’s none of her business,” I growl in annoyance. Why is my relationship with anyone my grandma’s concern? 

Women come and go in my life. They’re just temporary and only satisfy my desires. 

The women I associate with are those greedy gold-diggers aiming to be the next Mrs. Rothchild. I find them easier to handle. 

A diamond or a bank card is enough to pay for “emotional” damages upon break up. But I doubt there are any emotions involved. 

They all crave the same things: fame, money, and power. Such combinations make people heady with greed. 

“Do you know how it’s like to be a Rothchild?” I ask sarcastically. 

I don’t have any faith in relationships. Null. No one has come close to my heart. 

“Sir? I... probably since I’ve worked in your family for almost a decade now. But I’m not one, so I don’t know the exact situation,” he says.

“You can’t trust anyone. People always want something from you, and as soon as they get it, if at all, they disappear without a trace,” I say, tapping my fingers on the table.

He stays silent; the shaking of his leg intensifies.

“My grandma doesn’t know this, or she pretends the opposite,” I say to him. Then I stand up and circle my table, walking in front of him. 

“Trent, I trust you know I’m the one running this company, right?” There’s a veiled threat in my voice. “I don’t want this conversation of ours to reach the ears of others.”

He nods vehemently. 

“I’m the one who signs your hefty paycheck. You make what, more than a million dollars a year?” I raise my brows. 

“You have three children, congratulations on that,” I continue, not bothering to wait for his response. “You also have three mistresses, despite your potbelly.”

His eyes widen, and he turns paler. 

“You’re doing your best to provide for them; that’s admirable.” I tap his shoulder. “You should know what to do.” 

I loosen my collar as I gesture for him to leave. The lawyer walks out with trembling legs. 

“Fuck,” I curse and throw my tie away. It’s suffocating. The four walls of my office seem to close in on me. 

There are so many things running in my head; I don’t know where to begin to address things. 

I sigh for the umpteenth time; no solution comes to my mind. Perhaps I need to shake my brain awake. 

A cup of Americano will do it perfectly. I press the buzzer for Layla, my secretary in charge of my day-to-day office life. 

“Sir?” The person on the other line says in a husky voice. I stop for a moment; did Layla just wake up? 

7:06 am. 

I ordered her to come early to take care of a contract with another company. 

She’s supposed to come around 8:00 am.

“A cup of Americano, please,” I say to her. Three minutes later, she comes in with a cup of hot coffee. 

It smells great. This is my power booster every morning. 

“Here’s your coffee, sir,” she sounds annoyed. I raise my brows at that. 

“What? I’m angry. You told me to work on the contract as we need it at your first meeting. So I came here around 1:00 am and just slept an hour ago,” she says, full of frustration. 

I almost choke on my coffee. Layla has this habit of speaking her mind, and honestly, I like it. We’ve been working together for a long time, so I’ve  kinda gotten used to it. 

“Sorry about that,” I say. Fuck, sometimes I can be such a slave driver. But I pay them so well, too!

Layla looks at me with a deadpan face. 

“If you don’t need anything else, I’m going out,” she says to me and leaves. 

Her retreating back looks tired; I feel guilty. Maybe I should let her sleep more. 

But how can I finish my work without her help? She’s the most efficient secretary I know. 

A very beautiful one at that.