Chasing After Mists

Not the First

Spring

My hand reached for my coffee cup, feeling a bit of warmth that radiated on the surface even if I've bought it half an hour ago. The other remained on the steering wheel, a grip quite tighter than usual. It's not entirely necessary as my car had stopped a couple of minutes ago, yet there wasn't the slightest urge for me to move from my seat.

I know what my older brother would say, 'Maybe you haven't got the courage for it.' I wouldn't have agreed if I didn't, and he knows that. It's just typical of his high and mighty being to hold me down. . . since he's been doing that since he was born. 'Be like your brother,' they always said. 'Sit, stand, talk, like your brother.'

I wonder what they would say now when they find out that he's been asking for help in the deals that were supposed to be his to handle. . ., especially our father.

The files he'd given me last night are placed on the seat beside me, neatly arranged with a white paperclip I might lose anytime. A job to do when I'm supposed to be in London, England today, on my way to enjoy the holidays as Easter is a week away. Not that I've cared for the holiday, it's simply a luxury to get to have time for myself from time to time. Being second-in-line to the real estate development business isn't exactly the topmost easygoing job in the world. Alexander, my brother, sees to that as he'd been most preoccupied with his girlfriend, leaving me in the battle frontlines most of the time.

Once more, I read the files I've already memorised the night before. I've never entered a battle empty-handed and most certainly never came back in tears.

It's giving me quite the headache, actually. Try, he said. Try to win the impossible deal. Credits will go to him even if I win this entire thing as my father and the rest of the world favours him better but the entire conflict was never between the two of us. I couldn't care less if the business was handed down to him, what I do care about is the rights to say how many times I've saved his arse. In result, I took a flight back to America, northern part on the west, almost bridging the borders of Canada when he'd called.

It might be one of the biggest deals I could ever attempt to grab. Land full of nothing but greens and landscapes, stretching far to about 249 091 acres. Only a few structures were built including a house somewhere in the forest and a small office for the nearby fields and orchards that only covered less than a percent while the rest of the land property untouched. Estate developers from all corners had tried in the endless endeavour of smooth talking and going home defeated. It's a big fish to catch, after all.

Taylor Swift could have built an entire state in there if she had wanted to, or, well, could have had a fortune with selling even half of it and still could have lived comfortably for the rest of her life. Yet, the environmentalist somehow resisted all temptations and flashes of wealth that she'd rather keep her property a nature reserve.

Apart from my brother, she was another part of the headache. Taylor Swift, twenty-seven years old, with a habit of turning down every single offer that comes to her even if it meant living without having to work in a lifetime. An environmentalist, an advocate of organic gardening, animal rights, and of course, recycling. She spends most of her days within her reserve, said to despise the cities nearby. She was also said to be quite charming and from the words of my brother, 'not the type to drop your defences on.'

I've no idea what Xander meant by that when he'd briefed me yesterday.

When he'd caught me staring at the pictures, he snapped his fingers with his free hand as the other was holding a glass of brandy. "Focus, lad. Not only is she a name that declines every other deal, she'd also upheld a name for declining suitors. Including the president's son."