To be fair, the time I spent with the design team wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Jeremy was more than happy to take Sarah on as his new assistant. He knows she’s been with me for a while and has always been a hard worker. Still, I can’t shake the quiet worry that she might try the same thing with him that she did with me. If she does, Jeremy won’t hesitate to fire her on the spot.
For now, the plan is simple: I’ll send her an email explaining the change. I’m too much of a coward to face her in person after that embarrassing scene in my office. Once the email is sent, I’ll have my most trusted security team go up and clear her desk of all personal belongings, then change the top-floor access code so she can’t return. I’ll give her the rest of the week off to gatherherself, and starting next week she’ll report to Jeremy on the third floor. I’ll word the email carefully, framing it almost like a promotion… even though her salary will be lower. It’s still better than losing her job entirely.
The elevator doors open into the dimly lit parking garage. The cool, concrete-scented air hits me as I step out and head straight for my Jeep. My footsteps echo softly in the quiet space. All I want right now is to get home, lock the door behind me, and hide in my own apartment. With any luck, Cade won’t notice I’ve left early. Hopefully he won’t be back until well after six.
I unlock the Jeep with a soft beep, climb in, and grip the steering wheel for a moment before starting the engine. The familiar rumble fills the garage, but it does nothing to settle the storm still raging inside my chest.
Chapter Eight
Cade
By half past five, the social department has finally quieted down. I shut down my computer, grab my jacket, and head toward the elevators. The building is starting to empty, but I still take my time, enjoying the low hum of the place winding down for the day.
When I reach the underground parking garage, the first thing I notice is the empty space where Rowan’s Jeep should be. His spot is conspicuously vacant. Rowan’s almost always the last one to leave… he stays late, works through dinner, and avoids going home until he has no choice. Seeing the space empty this early sends a flicker of irritation through me.
I frown as I walk over to my Porsche, unlocking it with a soft chirp. I slide into the driver’s seat and close the door, the familiar scent of leather surrounding me. For a moment I just sit here, staring at the empty parking spot.
Curiosity, and something sharper, wins out. I pull my phone from my pocket and open the secure app my father had developed years ago. It tracks every entry and exit through the garage’s gate system. I scroll through the log, watching clients and staff come and go throughout the day. Then I find it.
12:36 pm - Rowan Adley, exit only. No re-entry.
He left hours ago and never came back. I can already picture him sulking in the apartment, locked away in his room, replaying everything that happened in his office this morning until he’s sick with shame.
The thought angers me, the way he ran instead of facing it. But underneath the irritation, a thread of genuine concern weaves through. I saw the look in his eyes when he pushed me away afterward: raw shame, confusion, and tears he couldn’t quite hide. It doesn’t bother me what we did. We’re not blood-related, but I know Rowan won’t see it that way. He’ll tear himself apart over this, convinced he’s done something unforgivable.
I start the engine, the low growl filling the garage, fingers tapping against the steering wheel.
…
The drive from the office takes me straight to a dingy little drive-through on the edge of the industrial district… the kind of greasy, no-frills place most people in my position would never admit to visiting. The neon sign flickers above the faded menu board, and the smell of hot oil and grilled meat hits me the second I roll down the window. I don’t care. Their burgers are really fucking good, the fries are always crisp and salty, and the shakes are thick enough to stand a spoon in. It’s my guilty secret, and tonight I’m not in the mood to pretend I want something refined.
I order two double cheeseburgers with extra pickles, large fries, onion rings, and two chocolate shakes. Then, almost without thinking, I add a grilled chicken sandwich with no sauce and a side of their seasoned curly fries, the type of thing Rowanused to inhale when Ann forced him to eat during his sulking phases as a teenager. He always claimed he wasn’t hungry, but the second something familiar and uncomplicated was put in front of him, he’d slowly start picking at it. I’m hoping the same trick still works.
The bag is warm and heavy in the passenger seat by the time I pull out of the lot, the smell of grease and melted cheese filling the Porsche. I take a long sip of my own shake as I merge back onto the road, the sweetness cutting through the salt. It’s stupid how comforting this ritual feels, but right now, I need it.
…
Twenty minutes later I’m parked in our building’s underground garage. The bag rustles softly when I pick it up, the drinks balanced carefully in the cardboard carrier.
I know he’s up there. I know he’s probably locked himself in his room, replaying every second of this morning until he’s convinced himself he’s ruined everything. He’s going to fight me on this… on the food, on talking, on all of it. But I’m not letting him hide forever.
I climb out, lock the Porsche behind me, and head for the elevator.
The ride up to the nineteenth floor feels longer than usual. My heart rate picks up with every passing floor, a steady thump I’m not used to feeling. I’m normally calm in almost any situation, but this is different. I’ve never done anything quite like this before, not really. I’ve never cared enough about someone to go out of my way to feed them, just because I know they probably haven’t eaten all day. My past relationships were surface-level;even the ones that lasted longer never missed meals, even if their idea of dinner was a sad bowl of leaves and grilled chicken.
This feels bigger than simply bringing my stepbrother dinner in case he skipped eating. This is me hoping he’s okay. Hoping he’ll actually eat. Hoping we can talk through what happened this morning without him shutting me out completely.
When the doors slide open, I tuck the warm paper bag under the arm that’s already balancing the drink carrier, and fish the key out of my pocket. I send up a silent prayer that it still works. Thankfully, it slides in smoothly and turns with a soft click. I wouldn’t have put it past Rowan to change the locks in the six hours since he ran out of the office.
I step inside, lock the door behind me, and drop the keys into the bowl next to Rowan’s. The apartment is dim, lit only by the glow of the TV.
What I don’t expect when I round the corner of the sectional is the loud, slurred greeting. “There he is!”
My eyebrows shoot up. Rowan’s voice is thick with alcohol, the words dragging heavily. He’s sprawled on the couch, curls an absolute mess, nursing a half-empty bottle of whiskey. He’s wearing grey sweats and an oversized tee that’s soaked through, dark patches under the arms and across his chest, a mix of spilled liquor and nervous sweat.
I’m instantly displeased. There’s a sharp, possessive edge to the feeling… I don’t like the idea of him sitting here drinking alone all afternoon. It’s bad for his body, it won’t fix whatever storm is raging in his head, and he could easily make himself sick. I reach down and pluck the bottle from his loose grip.
“Hey man, that’s… m-mine!” he protests weakly, making a half-hearted grab for it.
