“Yours or Jackson’s?” I smirk.
“Ha, ha. I said I’m sorry, get over it.”
“Night, man.”
The cab drives away, tires hissing over asphalt. I’m left standing in the kind of quiet that doesn’t soothe—it strangles.
The walk from the curb to my building is a crawl through cement. My shoes scuff against the concrete. The night air stings and the city is pretending it didn’t just watch my life fall apart.
I let myself into the lobby, each footstep echoing off polished tile. The elevator dings too cheerfully. My reflection in the brushed steel doors is of some tired, worn out shell of a human. I don’t recognize this barely stitched together version of me.
Inside my apartment, the stillness is worse. The loft is cold. Open. Sterile. A showroom staged to look like a life.
I toss my keys into the bowl by the door. Pour a drink. Bourbon. Neat. It scorches the back of my throat, but not in a good way.
The record player groans to life.Killswitch Engage.The guitar hits, followed by a guttural scream, the vocals punching to the chest, loud and violent.
I collapse onto the couch and close my eyes.
All I see is Chloe. Her tangled hair. Her bare back. Jackson’s face twisted in that smug grin.
Them, together.
My stomach flips. I grip the throw pillow and hug it tight, but it smells like her shampoo.
Now I want to burn everything she ever touched.
My phone buzzes. I check it. ESPN.
Of course it’s not her.
I scroll anyway. Not because I expect a message, but because some broken part of me wants one. Is that so wrong?
I toss my phone to the coffee table. It hits with a dullcrack. The shattered screen reflects back at me. Then it buzzes again.
I snatch it up. Jackson?
Let’s be adults, Nolan. I respect your work. This was...unfortunate timing. That’s all.
Unfortunate timing?
My pulse thunders. Here is, minimizing it. Rewriting it.
He wants me to let it slide. To make it easy at Big Stream. Because if I don’t, his spot in Thatcher’s world gets shaky. And he knows it.
Jackson wants grace. But all I’ve got are bullets.
You don’t respect shit.
Take your unfortunate timing and shove it up your Nepo Baby ass.
Three dots blink. Pause. Blink again.
Then—
The audacity. The passive-aggressive corporate sociopathy of a fucking emoji. It’s the equivalence of a shrug.
I almost launch my phone across the room.
