CHAPTER 1
ALEC
I’ve got king-queen suited, but the card faces keep moving in and out of focus. I blink, refocus, and the numbers steady for a second before blurring again. Something is off tonight, and it’s not the hand.
I take a sip of my whiskey, watching for tells in Damien Langley’s face over the rim of my glass. Nothing. The bastard’s always played with a robot’s emotion, but tonight I’m having an even harder time reading him. Or the other four men seated around the table with us.
“Your move, Beckett.” Finn Bardot leans back in his leather chair, sandy-blond hair catching the amber light from The Retreat’s crystal chandelier. His greenish-blue eyes are lit with mischief. “You’ve been staring at those cards for five minutes. Everything okay over there?”
He’s right. I’ve been holding this hand too long, overthinking what should be a simple decision. There’s this nagging exhaustion sitting behind my eyes, making everything feel slightly off-kilter tonight. Like my body’s running on fumes but my brain won’t get the memo to slow down and figure out what’s wrong.
I shake it off and toss two chips into the center of the mahogany table, the sound echoing off the dark wood paneling that lines this back room. “Raise. Just trying to decide how much to take you idiots for tonight.”
Brad Hayes snorts from across the table, his ice-blue eyes sharp with amusement. The guy’s built like a linebacker. “Rich, coming from the guy who’s lost two games to us already. Not that I’m complaining. I like easy winnings as much as anyone.”
“Except for your ex-wife, maybe. That eight-figure divorce from Alessandra’s got to sting, even for someone with your bank account.” I take a sip of whiskey, hoping it’ll clear whatever fog is creeping into my head. The comeback lands with just enough bite to sting without drawing blood.
Brad grins and flips me off. “Touché, you bastard.”
These assholes are my closest friends, which means I trust them in everything except poker. In business and friendship, information is currency, and emotion can get you killed. Figuratively speaking. But on game night with this bunch, it’s every man for himself and there is no such thing as mercy. Personally, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Wyatt deals the flop, his dark wavy hair perfectly styled even at this hour, those dark brown eyes calculating odds like he’s already three moves ahead. “Speaking of disasters, Mason’s been sending photos from his island hideaway with Lucy. Guy looks disgustingly happy.”
“Poor bastard.” I add another chip to the growing pile. “A week with a cute temporary assistant and he chucks it all to go build sandcastles and make babies.”
Finn chuckles. “You got to admit, Mason got lucky with Lucy. She seems perfect for him.”
“Damien didn’t fare too poorly with Willow, either,” Wyatt adds. “At least she lets you continue coming to poker night.”
“You’ll hear no complaints from me,” Damien says with a smile, something that used to be so rare as to be shocking. Now, the sonofabitch always seems to be in a decent mood. Even if falling in love with Willow did cost him a cool million when he forfeited his stake in our group bet a few weeks ago.
Gabriel sits statue-still across from him. His mouth quirks. Barely perceptible, but I catch it. “What about you, Alec? Still confident you’re immune to whatever got Mason and Damien?”
“Immune?” I lean forward, stacking my chips and trying not to notice the slight tremor in my fingers. “I’m not immune, Sinclair. I’m strategic. Love is just bad risk management.”
Finn smirks, his athletic frame lounging in the chair like he’s on a yacht instead of in Manhattan’s most exclusive club. “Jesus, Alec. You sound like one of HoloTech Security’s robotic assistants more than a human. Are you letting your R&D guys mess with your programming? Even I’m not that cynical.”
The mention of my company’s latest product success makes me smirk, though it takes more effort than it should. “At least I wasn’t programmed by Red Bull and bad decisions.”
“Hey, my decisions aren’t bad. They’re just... adventurous.” Finn’s grin widens. “There’s a difference between calculated risks and whatever the hell you call your dating life.”
“You assume he’s actually got a dating life,” Wyatt quips, nudging my arm with his from where he’s seated beside me. “If I’m the Casanova of our little group, Alec here is our resident monk.”
I snort. “Trust me, I’m no monk. I just don’t do relationships.”
Not since Victoria. I learned my lesson with her back in college, and it’s a mistake I don’t intend to repeat.
I try to laugh, but it comes out strained. My chest is starting to feel like it’s caught in a vise. “While you idiots are sitting ducks for the first woman to come along and crack your emotionalfirewalls, I’ll be claiming the Last Billionaire Standing title and counting my winnings from our wager.”
Wyatt’s fingers stop drumming against his glass as he stares at me. “Seriously, man. You look like shit. When’s the last time you slept?”
“Sleep is for people without empires to run.” I try to keep my voice steady, but the cards in my hand blur slightly around the edges.
This is ridiculous. I don’t get sick. I don’t have time to get sick. I run five miles every morning at exactly 5:30 AM, eat a precisely calculated diet, and haven’t missed a scheduled workout in four years.
Except right now, my body feels like it’s about to throw a connecting rod.
“Beckett.” Wyatt’s voice cuts through the fog settling over my thoughts. “You’re pale as fuck. You okay?”
