Dom shakes his head. “It wasn’t my story to tell. You were in pain, Nico. You lashed out. It was wrong, but I forgave you years ago.” He pauses. “Now you need to forgive yourself.”
I turn away from him, stare at the opaque glass walls. I press a button on my desk, and only the floor-to-ceiling window behind me becomes translucent. I stand up and look down. I can see Manhattan spread out below.
All those tiny lives with their own problems.
But how many of them are facing a board coup and a media circus and the possibility of losing everything they built because some vindictive blonde with a grudge decided to burn it all down?
“Gabriella played this perfectly,” I say. “She sat on that story for years. Waited until I was already bleeding, then twisted the knife.”
“She’s Martin’s sister,” Dom explains. “What didyou expect?”
“I expected her to stay the fuck out of my life after I ended things with her,” I growl.
Dom is quiet for a moment. “The statement you released. Did your secretary help you write it?”
“Bree read it before I sent it. Told me it was PR suicide, but at least I’d go out with my head held high. She was right.” I turn back to face him. “She was also right about something else, too. I can’t spin my way out of the truth. I’m done hiding.”
Dom’s expression becomes knowing. And brotherly in the worst possible way.
“You’re in love with her,” he says. Not a question. “This Bree.”
Fuck.
He can see right through me.
I should probably lie. Deflect with something dismissive, the way I’ve deflected every personal question for the past decade.
But I’m so fucking tired of lying.
“Yes,” I admit.
“Does she know?” he asks.
I think about last night. About the makeup sex that felt more like a prayer than a fuck. About the way she looked at me afterward, like she was trying to decide if I was worth the risk.
“I told her I care about her,” I reply. “She said she cares about me, too, but she doesn’t know if that’s enough.”
Dom nods slowly. “And she’s staying?”
“For now,” I answer.
“Then don’t fuck it up.” He stands, crosses to the window beside me. We’re the same height, but he’s always seemed taller somehow. The golden child. The one who got everything right while I was busy getting everything wrong. “You’ve spent ten years paying forone mistake. Don’t make another by not fighting for her.”
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes. Text from Callahan.
Your parents just arrived. Escorting them up now.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
“Mom and dad?” Dom asks.
I shake my head. “Yes.”
Dom claps a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll be right here.”
The next fifteen minutes are some of the longest of my life.
My mother walks through the door first, and her face crumples the moment she sees me. She’s across the office in three steps, pulling me into her arms like I’m fifteen again and bleeding on the kitchen floor.
