Damon stares at me for a long moment, then shoves back from the table. “You know what? Fuck this. I’m going out. I’m going to find someone who actually appreciates my time.”
He’s already heading for the exit before any of us can respond.
“He’s scared,” Breck says after Damon’s gone. “You see that, right?”
“Scared of what?” Enzo’s voice is flat.
“Losing us. Remy’s brilliant. We’re all drawn to her. He sees himself getting pushed out.”
“That doesn’t excuse his behavior,” I tell my brothers.
“No. It doesn’t.” Breck finishes his drink. “But it explains it.”
Enzo and Breck exchange a look, then they stand simultaneously.
Breck gestures toward the exit. “We should probably follow him.”
“Go.” I wave them off. “Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”
Then they leave, and I’m alone at a table with four half-finished steaks and four glasses of whiskey.
Normally, I’d be with them. Normally, a night like this would end with all of us at some club, Damon working his way through women who find his charm more appealing than I ever have. It’s what we do—blow off steam, keep things simple and uncomplicated.
But tonight, I’d rather be anywhere else.
I signal for the check.
Twenty minutes later, I’m at the hotel. I bypass my own floor and hit the button for Remy’s.
I tell myself I’m here to ensure her safety. To make sure she got settled okay. To thank her for saving our asses today with that presentation error. All reasonable, professional reasons.
But that’s not actually why I’m here.
My knuckles are an inch from the door when I stop.
What the fuck am I doing?
I’m standing outside her room at ten o’clock at night with no plan and no good reason to be here.
I lower my hand.
This is a bad idea. All of it.
CHAPTER 5
Enzo
The building is too quiet at midnight. The hum of servers and the occasional click of the security system cycling through its checks are the only sounds.
I like it this way. No meetings, no performance reviews, and no Ansel hovering over my shoulder asking if I’ve reviewed the quarterly projections. Me, my code, and the problem I’ve been chasing for three days straight.
The authentication backdoor Remy found keeps nagging at me. Not because she found it—though that stings—but because I wrote the original protocol five years ago. Someone took my work and weaponized it, and I can’t figure out who or when.
My phone buzzes.
Ansel:You still at the office?
Me:Where else would I be?
