We were all betrayed.
All three of us were scarred by the same fire, the same lie, the same girl.
But that life? It’s long dead. Buried beneath ash and the silence we were forced to shoulder. We don’t talk about it—nottruly. We’ve walled it off, layered it under years of anger, distraction, and women who never even came close to reaching the pieces of us that burned away.
So why does this girl—an elusive fighter, a stranger in theory—feel so damn familiar?
None of this should matter. At least not right now. Ronan disappearing, this girl, the way old memories are clawing their way back to the surface—it’s noise. Dangerous, familiar noise. I shake it off the best I can and turn my focus back to Rowen, grounding myself in the moment wecancontrol.
“What’s the plan?” I ask, my voice low, steady, hoping he has more clarity than I do. “We have no clue where Ronan went. What’s our next move?”
Rowen doesn’t answer right away. His jaw tightens, muscles jumping as if he’s biting back something cutting. Then a low grunt slips out, heavy with irritation—and something deeper beneath it. Disappointment, maybe.
He’s pissed.
Not just because Ronan ditched us without a word, but because once again, we’re left to clean up the mess while our brother chases ghosts. Dean and Bryce’s empire is falling apart piece by piece, and the three of us are supposed to be the ones stepping in, steadying the ground beneath it before it collapses.
But with Ronan off chasing Cupcake—or whoever the fuck she is—we’re down a man.
Rowen mutters something under his breath that I don’t catch, but the tone is clear. He’s annoyed. Resentful even. Not because he doesn’t understand Ronan’s obsession, but because it feels like abandonment. Like we’re standing in the ashes while his twin plays hunt-the-ghost on his own timeline.
Rowen finally turns to face me, his expression stripped clean—blank, emotionless. Whatever he’s feeling, it’s buried beneath that icy exterior he wears like armor. His voice matches it, flat and cool. “Ronan’s on his own tonight. Let’s hope he gets whatever the hell he’s working through out of his system.”
It’s the closest thing to letting go that Rowen ever manages with his twin, but the tension in his jaw tells me he’s anything but relaxed. The silence between us stretches for a beat, the weight of Ronan’s absence settling heavy in the space he left behind.
Still, Rowen doesn’t waste time dwelling. He shifts gears with clinical efficiency, moving on to the next step like it’s just another box on a checklist. “We hit Stanley’s dealerships next,” he says. “Start there. Figure out why this guy mattered so damn much to Dean and Bryce—and why they’re suddenly scrambling like rats on a sinking ship.”
It’s the right call. Clean. Logical. This is how Rowen operates when everything starts to unravel—secure what you can, control the rest. I nod my agreement, and we head to where his car is parked.
He grabs a duffel from the back, slams the door shut harder than necessary, and climbs into the passenger seat of mine without looking back. I don’t ask if he’s good. We’re way past that kind of surface-level check-in.
I pull out of the lot, tires gripping the road with purpose, the engine humming low and steady beneath us.
Once we’re back on the road, Rowen pulls out his phone and dials his dad’s number. He doesn’t say a word to me, just puts it on speaker and drops it into the cupholder between us. It’s deliberate. His way of making sure I hear everything as it happens. No filtering. No interpretation. Just facts, straight from the source. That’s how Rowen handles things when the world starts to tilt out of balance.
The line clicks, and Dean answers with a clipped, “Yeah?”
Rowen doesn’t waste time; he gets straight to the point. “What was Stanley’s connection to the business?” His tone is flat. Not accusatory. Not emotional. Just controlled ice. “You want me to clean up this mess, but I don’t even know what—or who—I’m supposed to be cleaning.”
There’s a pause on the other end. A heavy one. I can practically hear Dean weighing his words, calculating how much to reveal. He’s always respected Rowen’s directness, even if he hates being forced to give up control. The silence stretches just long enough to confirm he’s considering a lie—then drops it.
“He’s a new partner,” Dean finally says. “We’ve been testing a route through the dealerships. Stuffing certain units in the trunks during transport. Girls, mostly.”
My stomach turns, but I keep my eyes forward on the road. I don’t need to look at Rowen to know he’s pissed. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. But I catch the slightest shift—his jaw tightens, and there’s a flash in his eyes, fast and sharp like a flinch that doesn’t quite make it to the surface.
Rowen speaks calmly, but there’s steel behind every word. “You keep me and my brothers in the dark again, I won’t be the one cleaning up. I’ll be the one tearing it down.” He doesn’t wait for a response. “We’re checking his properties. I’ll report back when we’re finished.”
Dean mutters a terse, “Fine,” before the line goes dead.
Rowen ends the call and stays frozen for a beat. His hand closes around the phone, knuckles bleaching white, his grip so tight I almost expect the screen to shatter. The tension rolling off him feels volatile—like a bomb ticking down to detonation.
Finally, he glances at me, his voice low but heavy with meaning. “They’re getting deeper into the skin trade.”
I nod slowly, already feeling the burn in my chest. “Yeah. We need to finalize the plan. Before we lose control of what’s left.”
Rowen doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. We both know it’s not just about damage control anymore.
Someone out there is moving faster than we are—taking these bastards down before we even get close. Whoever they are, they’ve already stripped away layers we’re only just starting to uncover.
