“Mom! I’m going to check on Mateo!” I shout over my shoulder.
“Be careful, honey!” she calls back from the kitchen, but her voice is a distant hum as I jump on my bike and pedal as fast as I can. His house is about ten blocks away, and my stomach churns with that awful feeling that something’s really wrong.
When I get there, I bang on the door, my hand shaking. There’s no answer, so I ring the bell over and over until the door finally creaks open, revealing Mateo’s face—bruised, swollen, and barely recognizable.
“Lauren, I’m sorry,” he rasps, his voice strained.
I push the door wider, forcing him to step back so I can see the full damage. His eyes are dark purple, swollen shut, and stitches cut across his eyebrow. His right arm is in a cast.
“Mateo ...” I barely whisper. My throat tightens as I take a step toward him, but he backs away, and I freeze.
“I can’t go to the concert. We won’t be able to see each other anymore.” His voice is small, broken.
My mind races, trying to piece together what went wrong. Did I do something? Did Isaysomething? “Whatever I did, I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. Just—tell me what I can do.”
He shakes his head quickly, flinching from the movement. “You didn’t do anything. It’s just ... there are things I can’t fight.”
“I don’t understand.” My voice trembles. Ineedto understand.
He hesitates, then drops his gaze, pointing to his broken arm. “Some people don’t want us to be together. They made sure I got the message.”
Cold dread settles into my bones. “Did ... didSilasdo this?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, but the name burns on my tongue.
Mateo nods once, confirming my worst fear. A chill runs down my spine. This is my fault. Silas did this because of me. I take a step back, suddenly feeling like the world is closing in, like Silas could be lurking around every corner, watching, waiting.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my throat thick with guilt. “I don’t know if it helps, but I was really excited to have someone like you in my life, and I cherished the time we had together.”
Mateo lowers his head, and I can’t tell if it’s from surrender or shame. I hope it’s not shame. This isn’t his fault. It’s mine.Silasis a monster, and I should’ve stopped this before it got this far. “Me too. Happy birthday,” Mateo whispers before closing the door.
I stand there, numb, my heart pounding with anger, guilt, and something darker. I let Silas do this. I let him manipulate my mind and control my life for too long. But now, it’s over.
Without another word, I jump on my bike, pedaling hard into the night. I know where I need to go, and I know this ends today.
Silas
Iwatch her walk away from my desk, and I don’t know what the hell it is about her ass that makes me stare at it all damn day. It’s not the best ass in the world, but there’s something about it that turns me on, makes me want to caress it, lick it, and bite it all at once.
Focus, damn it.
I’ve got this family meeting today with my brothers, and nothing can go wrong. Not because I’m paranoid, but because, ever since the old man made me CEO, my life’s turnedinto a pressure cooker.
My dad’s been playing this little game with us since we were kids. He’d throw us into different sports, and then sit back and tally up who brought home the most trophies. Our childhood was basically a twenty-four-seven Olympics. And when we hit high school? He switched it up and made a game out of who could bag the most offers from top universities. Real casual stuff, right? Well, now that we’re adults, he’s taken the competition underground. It’s like a shadow war—who can run the most profitable office?
Spoiler alert: I’m losing, and I’m losing hard.
My brothers? They’re crushing it.
Luca’s got a twenty percent higher profit margin. Oliver somehow reeled in the Dallas construction market … and Killian? He’s rubbing elbows with all the new Silicon Valley millionaires who write him blank checks. Meanwhile, me? I’m down in the profit dungeon, wondering if my office is allergic to money. And yeah, it’s starting to get to me. My sleep? Wrecked. My brain? Constantly thinking about how to turn this around. My sex life? Well, let’s just say that’s on pause too.
But there’s hope—enter the Compass project. This thing has to work. If it doesn’t, I’m screwed. My brothers will be swimming in success while I’m drowning in spreadsheets. Failure? Not an option …
This morning, I did my usual thing—rolled out of bed at eight, brewed some coffee, and hit the gym by ten. I try to keep my life somewhat together. Normally, I blast U2 during my workouts because, let’s be honest, they’re the GOAT. But today? Every song felt off. Like, “Angel of Harlem”, and bam—suddenly, I’m thinking about Lauren. I had to yank out my earbuds like I was being haunted. U2 ismyband, alright? It’s not fair that she gets to ruin that, too. Is there anything more pathetic than hearing a song and instantly thinking of someone? Probably not. Well, maybe shitting your pants at a wake might top it, but still—it’s a close second.
I spent the rest of the workout skipping through tracks like a damn teenager trying to avoid a breakup playlist. Seems like Bono might’ve had a Lauren too. Figures.
The door swings open, yanking me out of my head, and there she is—Lauren, holding a cup as if she's about to deliver some life-changing potion.
“What’s this?” I ask as she plops it down on my desk.
