And that’s why I have to leave.
Because the second someone else starts deciding my life for me, it stops being mine.
Lena deserves a brother, not a man who traded his self-worth for a safer zip code.
I’m right to leave, even if it strips the air from my chest. But as we step outside, I know Rowan is also right.
This isn’t over between us.
21
The Blue Note’s front door swings open on silent hinges, a testament to my own handiwork from weeks ago.
Inside, familiar scents of polished wood, aged whiskey, and the faint trace of smoke that clings to the velvet curtains wrap around me. But beneath it all lies another scent, one I’ve spent the last week trying to scrub from my skin, my clothes, and my memory.
People freeze as I pass, conversations cutting off mid-sentence. Ghost’s polishing cloth pauses on the glass in his hand. Saint and Luca turn on their barstools, their stares tracking me across the room, a mixture of curiosity and caution in their expressions.
I clock in at the terminal behind the bar, punching in my employee number.
“Morning,” I say to no one in particular.
Ghost sets down his glass. “Morning, Ash.”
I turn away. “Thanks.”
I move through the Blue Note, checking locks and cameras with detachment. My black button-down shirt chafes my skin, my dark jeans clean but worn at the knees. No designer labels. Nothing that could be mistaken for a gift.
The black leather at my neck isn’t Rowan’s gift anymore, but a cheap replacement I bought the day after walking out. The clinic-grade guard chafes my skin in a way I’ve forced myself to appreciate. Pain keeps you alert. Keeps you from forgetting.
The security hub sits at the back of the building, its reinforced door requiring both keycard and code. Inside, screens flicker with camera feeds from every angle of the Blue Note.
Orien sits at the central console, his lean frame draped across a chair. He turns at my entrance, dark eyes assessing me in that unnerving way of his. “The prodigal locksmith returns.”
“Just here to do my job.” I move to the monitor bank, logging into the system to check the overnight security logs.
“Brave man.” He swivels his chair toward me. “Given that your boss has been breaking glassware for the last week.”
The monitor displays the alarm history, green check marks indicating all systems are normal. I scroll through without responding.
“Canceled two liquor shipments.” Orien continues, fingers tapping on his thigh. “Rewrote the schedule multiple times. Sent Ghost home when he suggested taking a day off. Ghost never goes home.”
My shoulders tighten. “The Blue Note’s operations aren’t my concern.”
“No?” His head tilts. “What about the Harmon job?”
The name sends a jolt through me. “What about it?”
“It’s been redistributed. Split between two smaller crews.” Orien remains neutral, his stare unwavering. “Riskier approach. Higher chance of exposure.”
“Not my call.” I can’t quite mask the bitterness under the words.
“Not your call,” he repeats. “And here I thought you were integral to the entire operation. So why are you suddenly not on the job?”
My fingers pause on the keyboard. “Ask Rowan.”
He sorts out a laugh. “Naw, I’d rather keep my head on my shoulders, thanks.”
I grunt without comment.
