That one landed too hard. I stood slowly. “That’s enough.”
Timothy’s lip curled, but he backed off, posture stiff. “Of course, sir. Just doing my duty.”
He turned toward the door, but paused just before leaving. “Calhoun wanted me to remind you—you’ve got the Brookhaven Foundation’s rep calling at three. They want confirmation on the end-of-summer gala. You’re still hosting it here?”
“Yes.”
“Big night,” Timothy said, tone dubious. “Hope it’s worth it.”
He left with a satisfied little click of his shoes, like he’d won something. I sank back into the chair, hands curling into fists against the polished arms.
Timothy was a thorn in my side—disgruntled, petty, always looking for a fight. He hadn’t gotten over being passed up for the manager role, and it showed in every pointed comment, everysidelong glare. But I knew men like him. They dug their own graves one misstep at a time.
Let him feel smug today. Let him think he’d won a round. Because this wasn’t just a battle. I was playing for the whole damn war.
The Brookhaven Ridge Fundraising Gala was meant to be my first solo event under the club’s name. My chance to show I could run this place, shape it into something more than a relic of my father’s empire.
But already, it felt like another trap. Endless expectations. Lists upon lists. Names I had to impress. Faces I had to charm. Legacy donors with sharp smiles and sharper knives. And worst of all—my father would be watching. So would Calhoun. Every choice I made would be dissected and criticized under a microscope of tradition.
Failure wasn’t an option. But success didn’t feel like freedom either. It felt like another cage. Just a prettier one.
And in the middle of all that chaos was Sin. Brilliant. Rebellious. Uncontainable. A fire I couldn’t help but reach for, even though I knew it would burn me alive.
He didn’t fit here. Not with the brass and the crystal and the white enamel enforced smiles. And maybe that’s why I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Because he reminded me of who I could’ve been. If I were braver. If I were free.
If I were anyone but me.
My phone buzzed against the mahogany desk, cutting through the spiral of thoughts clawing at the edge of my focus. I shook my head, trying to clear the fog, and answered without checking the screen.
“Theo Astor.”
“Theodore, darling. How are you?” My mother’s voice was warm and polished, the kind of gentleness that could disarm a storm or stab you in the back without you noticing.
“I’m fine, Mom. Just buried in work—planning things for the gala and keeping the club from falling apart.”
“That sounds brilliant. I’ve been meaning to ask—have you chosen a venue yet?”
“I have,” I said, glancing at the open spreadsheet on my screen. “I was going to call you later once I finished going over the financials.”
“You work too hard, sweetheart. Just like your father.”
That old comparison twisted in my chest. For some unfathomable reason, she still adored him, even though he was barely more than a ghost in her life. Maybe it was easier to love the idea of a man than the man himself. Still, she never waited around for him. She made a life, built her own world, while he was off building empires for everyone but us.
I envied her for that.
“How about dinner tonight?” she enquired. “Just you and me. Your father’s flying to D.C. for some board meeting. It’s been too long since you’ve been to the house, Theodore. People will start to talk.”
“I’m not sure I can?—”
“I’m not taking no for an answer, Theodore.” Her tone was soft, but edged with something sharp. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve been avoiding me. Us. We have an image to maintain after all.”
The words hit harder than I expected, lingering like the sting of unsaid things. I hadn’t meant to avoid her. But lately, the idea of walking back into that house—with all its polished floors and cold silences—felt like swallowing broken glass.
“Don’t worry,” I exhaled. “I’ll be there.”
“Perfect.” I could hear her smile. “I’ll have Gillian make your favorite.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
