Bro is loaded. What kind of debts are we talking?
Money?
Or something worse.
“Twelfth floor,” one of the guards says, pressing the button.
Before the doors close, two women stumble in, giggling, holding each other up like they might collapse any second. Perfume and alcohol thick in the air.
One of them sways, catching my arm. Her wide eyes lift to mine.
“How drunk am I?” she giggles, manicured fingers brushing my cheek.
I step back, hand half-raised. “I’d say… pretty wrecked.”
You smell like vanilla and bad decisions.
Pass. Our wifey awaits.
I catch Chace’s eye. His whole body locks for half a second before he smooths it over, running a hand through his hair.
Her friend squints at me. “Trey Baker?”
The first girl tilts her head. “Chace Ryder?”
“Are we tripping,” the first one squeals, “or is my Burnt Ashes fantasy about to come true?”
Chace smiles—smooth, effortless. “Ladies, believe me, the honor is ours. Unfortunately, we’re late for a rather sensitive meeting. But if you’re amenable, we’d be happy to take pictures with you when we return to the lobby.”
They freeze, caught somewhere between awe and disbelief.
You’ve been hit by—You’ve been struck by—A smooth criminal.
I snort.
One of the guards holds the door open with a sharp ding.
The girls glance at each other, uncertainty flickering.
“Uh… yeah,” the taller one says.
They shuffle out, giggling as they go, heels clicking away.
Silence settles again. My chest tightens.
Every second without Sera twists something deeper inside me.
“I suppose it’s a good thing you didn’t say anything,” Chace murmurs, studying me. “You’re tightly wound, Trey.”
Stay focused.
We rise.
The lift lurches slightly, that hollow drop settling in my gut. My body tenses automatically—doing nothing to help the sharp, persistent pain threading through me.
The doors open.
“Here we are,” Chace says lightly, ushering us out.
