Caleb bumped her hip as they moved into the hallway. April hooked a finger into his belt loop and kept walking.
A golf simulator booted automatically as they passed, projecting a sunlit course onto a massive screen.
Liam stopped. "You play?"
Killian paused, glanced at the screen, then stepped inside.
He picked up a driver, tested the weight, and swung without hesitation.
Perfect arc. The ball sailed across the virtual fairway and landed exactly where it should; the screen flashed digital applause.
Killian smiled—small, pleased, genuine. "There it is."
"Oh," Caleb said. "You do have hobbies."
"I like winning quietly," Killian said.
"That tracks," Mateo murmured, grinning.
Arthur made a small sound that might have been approval.
Liam looked at the screen, at Killian, back at the screen. "Your handicap must be obscene."
"It's adequate."
"That was a perfect drive."
"Like I said. Adequate."
Jax had already found the console, changing the course to a tropical island. "Can you play this one?"
"Jax," Killian said, but there was no heat in it.
"Operational question."
Killian took another swing—this time on a beach course, palm trees swaying in digital wind. Another perfect shot. He set the club down, still wearing that small, satisfied smile.
April filed it away with the Death Star and the laugh in the toy room.
Killian was already moving, heading back into the hallway.
The group exchanged looks and followed. Jiro appeared on her other side, his fingers threading through hers without asking.
The next door stood open.
The library rose two stories. Every inch of wall was books—leather spines in burgundy and forest green and deep navy, gold lettering catching the afternoon light that slanted through tall windows. Dark wood shelves, brass ladders on rails. A balcony circling the second floor with carved railings. The smell wrapped around her, leather and old paper. The kind of library that made her chest ache with something between longing and recognition—like seeing a place she'd dreamed about but never quite believed existed.
Dante appeared beside her at the threshold. He took her hand, lifted it, and pressed his mouth to her knuckles. He released her hand and pushed the door wider, gesturing her through first. The group followed. Their voices dropped without anyone asking.
The men scattered into the stacks without coordination, each drawn to different sections like the room itself was pulling them. She could hear them moving through the space—the soft whisper of pages turning on the upper level, someone's quiet exhale of discovery.
April turned slowly, trying to take it all in. The way the light hit the spines in gold. The weight of all these stories in one space.
One chair that didn't match the rest. Leather worn soft from actual use, not display. Angled to catch the light from the window. Beside the chair—a stack of books. Not shelved, not organized with the rest of the pristine collection, piled like someone had meant to come back.
She crossed to it without thinking, crouched down.
Business books. Strategy. The Art of War. Never Split the Difference. Reading that made sense for Killian Blackwood, CEO who thought earnings calls were entertainment. Wedged between the corporate weapons: Unsouled. by Will Wight. Dog-eared, spine creased, pages soft from being read and reread and loved.
