Low. Rich. Precision-polished with just enough gravel to be interesting. A voice that had grown up in libraries and boardrooms. Old money varnished with restraint.
He looked at me. Just once. But it was deliberate. Measured. Like choosing a painting in a gallery full of noise and chaotic modern art that held no interest. Something in my chest lit up, fast and wicked. Like recognition and provocation collided in a heartbeat.
I dragged a cigarette to my lips. Flicked my Zippo with a practiced snap, my dark eyes locked on his in an unbreakable connection. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just raised his glass—slight, but pointed. And took a slow sip.
It wasn’t a challenge.
It was an invitation.
I smirked and let the smoke curl between us like a question I wasn’t ready to ask. “Didn’t peg you for a Hollow kind of guy,” I rasped, voice roughened from the night.
His gaze didn’t waver. Eyes like weathered glass, calm and unreadable. “And I didn’t peg you for someone who makes an entrance by setting the place on fire.”
His voice had edges and velvet. Like it had been shaped by tutors and threats.
I leaned against the bar, drink in hand, posture casual but coiled. “Stick around. I’ve got more matches.”
He smiled. Not with his mouth—with the smallest twitch of one corner. It didn’t reach his eyes. And somehow, that made it worse… Or better.
He turned slightly, letting the light hit just enough to show the fine lines near his eyes, the sharp angle of his jaw. Mid-thirties, maybe? Beautiful in a way that didn’t ask for permission. Groomed. Composed. Leashed.
He studied me. Not like prey—like a puzzle. Or a threat. Or both. The bartender returned with his drink. He nodded, then looked back at me.
“You’re new.”
“Wow,” I said flatly. “So much for flying under the radar.”
“I’m not here to judge.”
“Then what are you here for?” I tilted my head, the tip of my tongue teasing across my teeth. “Slumming it? Looking for blackmail material?”
His gaze dropped briefly to my glass, then back up to my eyes. “Observation. Curiosity. Maybe a little damage control.”
I raised my glass in a mock toast. “You’re too late. The damage is already done.”
A flicker passed over his expression. Not quite a smile. Not quite concern. Something too complex to name. He looked at me again—closer, like he was filing something away. Then quietly intoned as if he were sharing a secret with me, “You might want to pace yourself. Brookhaven Ridge has long memories.”
I laughed. Harsh and honest. “Good. Let them remember me for somethingreal.”
He set his empty glass down and stood straighter. Like something in him had clicked into place. “I’ll see you around,” he said, smooth as polished mahogany. “Try not to burn this place down before Monday.”
“Can’t promise that,” I murmured around my cigarette, watching him turn.
His coat slid back over his shoulders with the kind of grace people were born into. He didn’t look back, but I did—frequently—long after the door closed behind him.
CHAPTER 3
THEO
My father’s office was a cathedral of leather and old paper. The kind of room where secrets got buried under Persian rugs and oil paintings watched you like judges. Deals were made here that molded lives, built empires, and crushed dreams with the snap of his fingers.
He stood behind his desk, one hand resting on the edge like it belonged to him more than I ever had. The other curled around a crystal decanter, half-filled with a twenty-year-old scotch he never drank for pleasure—only ritual.
“I’ve spoken with the board,” he said, pouring two fingers into a glass—his, not mine. “You’ll begin management training at the club next week.”
No hello. No, how are you? Just a pronouncement, like I was already mid-move on a chessboard I never agreed to play. I might’ve lived a life many envied, but it was nothing more than a gilded façade—a gold-leaf cage wrapped around my throat, tightening with every breath.
It was suffocating. But I could never show weakness. That wasn’t the Astor way. We stood strong. Immovable. We weathered any storm and rose above it—cold, polished, untouchable.
