His sons! His wife! His … bizarre stable of whores! But mostly: his sons! Where on Earth was he going to marry another impregnated heiress with twins and a father too dead to compete?!

His wallowing was cut short by a mutter far too close to his ear to be proper. Kurva! He bristled and straightened his back, head whipping around to cast a death glare at the finely dressed young woman before the words and proximity registered. Oh. Probably one of his whores.

“None,” he answered, with a disgusted curl of his lip.

Wait. His whole life revolved around the lie of fornicating with that Carrington strumpet.

“There, at least,” he 'corrected', frowning.

The frown deepened, and his brow furrowed.

“You no longer work for me,” he decided peevishly, then and there as the workplace in question smoldered.