For one terrifying second, the world narrows to a single image: Vesper disappearing through an airport gate, without a goodbye or a sunshine grin that says,You can’t scare me, Callaway.
This time it might be forever because my parents are scaring her or ...why the fuck does she want to leave?
That thought rips through me so fast I almost make a sound.
Then another one follows, nastier.
They’re watching her.
My vision blurs.Heat builds behind my eyes—hot, bright, brutal—like my body is trying to become something violent.I clamp my jaw so hard my teeth ache.I refuse to let my face crack in a hallway where staff and cameras exist and everyone loves a story about a golden boy losing it.
“Winthrop.”
Monty’s voice hooks into me and pulls, like it always does.
I glance up.
He’s watching me.His gaze is precise, unreadable.He has that goalie stare, the one that makes you forget how to breathe.It’s not anger.It’s focus.Like he already knows where this is going and he’s just waiting to see if I’ll follow.
I shouldn’t notice how good he looks.But I do.
The suit is fitted in a way that’s unfair, the fabric stretched across his shoulders like it was made to punish.He’s everything the world wants him to be—controlled, clean-lined, expensive.Polished until nothing raw shows.
His hair’s combed back, dry now, not a single strand out of place.But I remember what he looks like with it wet—dripping onto his collarbones while he swore my name.I remember what it feels like in my hands, when he grabs my wrist and begs me not to stop.
And I wish I didn’t want him.
Not right now.
Not when I’m supposed to be focused on what might happen to Ves, my career—or him—if we’re not careful.
But desire doesn’t wait for good timing.It comes dressed like regret, humming beneath my skin, daring me to touch.To speak.To need.
“What’s with the murder face?”he asks, mouth twitching like he’s trying for humor.“That’s my brand.Don’t steal it.”
Normally, I’d snap back, or flirt.I’d enjoy the sparring, because sparring with Monty is safer than admitting I care about anything.
Right now, my lungs keep stuttering like they’re not sure they want to keep up.
“Look at you,” I manage, aiming for light and landing on desperate.“Making jokes.”
His eyes narrow, because Monty doesn’t tolerate dodging.He steps closer, crowding my space the way he crowds a crease—claiming it, daring you to try him.
“You’re worried,” he says.
Then his gaze shifts past me, scanning.Staff.A lingering PR rep with a clipboard.A guy in a suit who looks like he gets paid to smile.
Monty drops his voice.“Did someone upset Golden Boy?”
I glare at him, because I refuse to be readable, and because the nickname feels like a slap in the face when all I want is to be a man who keeps his people safe.
I hit call.
Harvey picks up on the first ring.“Lawson, speaking.”
“I didn’t read all your texts,” I say, and my voice sounds wrong to my own ears—too rough, too thin around the edges.“What’s happening?”
“You were right,” he replies, all business, no cushion.“The reporters were sent by your parents.”
