We finish our run near Zeke’s place. He salutes me goodbye, with a promise that he’ll catch me at the gala for a celebratory shot of tequila.
“I’m buying,” he says.
“You idiot, it’s my company and it’s open bar. I already paid for the drinks.”
“No, really,” he says with a solemn hand pressed against his chest. “I insist.”
I laugh again and shove him aside. Then I lope off towards my place a few blocks away. It’s a beautiful day and a beautiful world and a beautiful life, and fresh air might be the most intoxicating aphrodisiac that God ever invented.
At the penthouse, I find Sage sprawled on the couch playing video games. He pauses when I walk in. “Uh-oh. You’re in a good mood.”
I shrug. “It’s a good day.”
“You’ve been getting this cardio high every time you go running lately. It’s unsettling.”
“Zeke said the exact same thing.” I chuckle as I grab a protein shake from the fridge and start chugging it.
“Well, he’s right. You gonna keep that same energy when you’re smooching the asses of all the VIPs tonight?”
“They’ll be smoochingmyass,” I correct. That undeniable surge ofhell fucking yesrears up in my chest again. It’s insane tothink that this day is here. Years of planning, of maxed out credit cards, of early mornings and late nights—it culminates like this, in just a few hours.
I. Fucking.Win.
I drop my blender bottle in the sink and turn to Sage. “You sure you don’t want to come?”
“To a boring party full of lame-ass rich people seeing who can one-up each other with their boujee vacations and vintage Rolexes? Hard pass.” He unpauses his game. “Besides, Lilah and I are hanging out tonight.”
“Oh, yeah?” I lean against the counter. “You need money?”
“I’m good.” He glances at me with a smirk. “But thanks, Dad.”
I flip him off. He laughs. So do I.
Fuck, it’s a beautiful world.
I head to the shower, still riding the dual high of endorphins and victory. But when I step out and reach for my towel, my phone starts vibrating on the counter. Once, then twice, then a third time in rapid succession.
I dry my hands and check the screen. Three emails from Harold Fitzgerald. The subject lines escalate.
Urgent
URGENT
URGENT - CALL ME NOW!!
I open the most recent one. It’s short, direct, and absolutely not what I want to fucking read right now:
Bastian - Serious concerns have been raised about Project Olympus. We need to meet at the site immediately. This cannot wait until tonight. - HF
Water drips down my body and pools in the channels of the tile at my feet.Serious concerns.What the fuck does that mean? I dial Harold’s number, but it goes straight to voicemail.
Just like that, this beautiful day suddenly feels a lot less beautiful.
I arrive at the Olympus site an hour later, dressed in my tuxedo because there’ll be no time to change before the gala. The bow tie feels like a noose around my neck as I park and get out. Harold’s Mercedes is already parked outside, along with two other cars I don’t recognize.
Even with my hands tucked in pockets, I can feel them starting to shake.
I find them outside the front door of the building—Harold, Taylor Brewer, and two men in suits I’ve never seen before. Harold spots me first. His face is grave.
