My phone buzzes in my hand.
I look down. One word.
Finally.
I’ve lost the firm. I’ve lost the trust fund. I’ve lost the apartment and the wedding and the girl.
I start the engine.
As I drive through the gates, the invisible boundary of the Thompson Estate finally snaps. I feel it in my chest—a sudden, sharp release of pressure. It hurts. It feels like a bone setting.
And as I see the mansion looming in my rearview, I settle into the drive.
Not back. Not away. Just forward.
Chapter 21
Skyler
The milk in the bowl is turning a sickly, radioactive pink.
I’m sitting on Steven’s mid-century modern sofa, wearing nothing but gray boxers and a three-day-old sense of impending doom. Around me, the living room looks like a luxury luggage store exploded. My suitcase is sprawled open, hemorrhaging T-shirts, jeans, and socks.
Digging the spoon into the Fruit Loops, the sugar hits my tongue with a chemical spike. I’m not an architect today. I’m just a guy in his thirties eating nostalgia for breakfast at two p.m.
The front door lock clicks, and Steven enters. He stops in the entryway. There’s the rustle of his jacket being hung up, then a long, melodic sigh. He walks into the living room, stepping over a stray Armani loafer.
“I can’t believe Harley lived like this,” Steven says, looking at a pile of my shirts that I’ve used as a makeshift pillow on the armof the chair. “I always pictured her as more organized. Not like a squatter in a Nordstrom catalog.”
I force a laugh that feels like sandpaper in my throat. Spreading my arms wide, I gesture to the chaos. “I’m hanging loose, Steve. Three decades of ironed creases and coordinated socks. It’s called being free; you should try it.”
He raises a single brow with his hands in his pockets, looking at me with the same curiosity he probably uses on his documentary subjects.
“Free?” he echoes. “You look like a man waiting for a ransom note that’s never coming. You’ve been on this couch for seventy-two hours. The only thing you’ve successfully designed is a cereal-based diet and a way to ruin a thousand-dollar sofa with body oil.”
My facade successfully cracks.
I drop the spoon. Clink. My gaze darts away from my brother, and I have a sudden interest in a floating cereal bit in my bowl.
“I’m stalling,” I admit. “I don’t know where to go. Whenever I leave the house, my brain assumes I’m going to drive to her dad’s place or the office. But then I remember I don’t have a plan.”
Anxiously, I fidget with the edge of the bowl, my thumb tracing the rim. My hands are shaking—just a fine, barely perceptible tremor. It’s the adrenaline of the escape finally wearing off, leaving behind a cold, hollow terror.
“I’m going to win her back,” I say. “But I don’t know how to start the first sentence. How do you apologize for a lifetime of screw-ups?”
He walks over and sits in the armchair across from me. Rather than offer comfort or give me a Thompson-approved “Get it done at all costs” lecture, he simply takes up space.
“You want the first sentence?” Steven asks. “Here it is: Step one, move out of your brother’s apartment. You can’t be a hero in your boxers on someone else’s furniture, Skyler.”
Since what’s in my savings is all that I have right now, I went straight from my parents’ house to Steven’s, but he’s right: I can’t win Harley back without getting my shit together.
“I need a job.” The thought is terrifying. I’ve always had a job, but I’ve never had to get one—not without the Thompson name doing the heavy lifting before I even walked into the room.
“Yeah,” Steven says, standing up. “A real one. One where the boss doesn’t call our father for a golf game on Saturdays. Until then, get dressed. You’re making the apartment smell.”
“Asshole,” I jokingly mutter, though he’s right. I haven’t showered in three days.
“What about the apartment with Harley?” He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, nursing a glass of water like it’s a high-stakes cocktail. “The one in the city. The mold-free sanctuary you had with her way back in the before-times?”
