Grabbing a glass from the cupboard, I feel Winter’s eyes on me. I’m used to feeling eyes on me, to feeling observed. It’s the price of being who I am and looking the way I look.

At the risk of sounding like a conceited prick, I know how good looking I am. I also know that the brain perceives symmetry as beauty and my face is as symmetrical as a reflection.

As with love, beauty is a lie. Recognizing it is just a reaction.

Nevertheless, I take care of my body and carry myself like a powerful man with zero fucks to give because that’s who I am, that’s who my father raised. That gets panties wet. That’s not my choice, just their reaction. And let’s not forget I’m a Fox, and the vice president, soon to be president of Fox and Latham, the leading corporate law firm in our country.

I was brought into a legacy. Generations of build-in wealth that, aside from my career, allow me more money than I’ll ever be able to spend in my lifetime.

Never mind the knowledge that it’s not the legacy I was born into.

So being observed wherever I go isn’t new. Winter’s eyes on me, though, feel different. Winter’s eyes I can feel. They move slowly from my calves to my ass, lingering over the curve of my lower back and my Venus dimples, then climb up to my shoulders and neck, leaving a sizzle—one I can only describe as awareness—on my skin in their wake.

If I were a fly on the wall, watching her watch me, I’d be watching her lick her lips right about now.

Grimm judges me, sure. She can’t stand me, that’s no secret. But that doesn’t mean she’s not curious about me. Attracted to me.

Being a lawyer makes me an excellent judge of character, and Winter is as good a character as it comes. Another reason she strums my nerves like they’re strings on a goddamn banjo.

Too perfect for her own good.

She’s not just looking at the man with more money than god, who turns every single head when he enters a room. She doesn’t care what my workout routine is or how much money I have. As far as I can tell, she doesn’t care for the fact that I have everything I want readily available at my fingertips. She’s not impressed in the slightest. She looks at me like she’s trying to see through it, see past it. Like she’s trying to see the man under the layers of privilege and dysfunction he’s wrapped in.

Her biggest frustration about me: I’m making it really hard for her to see who I am. She’s thinking, surely there’s a man under there who cares about something.

Her good nature is keeping her from realizing that maybe there isn’t a man worth seeing at all. Maybe his true legacy is to be worthless, unlovable, to be a nobody. Maybe the real man under there is as shallow as the money, pussy, confidence, and power he’s dripping in.