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That’s it.

Calm. Controlled.

“I want to handle him myself,” Colt says without giving him a direct answer.

And we all understand there’s much more behind those words.

He’s the one who ordered Ethan’s jet to be intentionally sabotaged. Just thinking about it stirs something feral inside me.

With the state I’ve been in lately, I’m tempted to tell Colt I want in on whatever he’s planning for the bastard.

Even if Colt has already dealt with almost everyone involved—and I’m sure he’s found the last one too—we still can’t afford to let our guard down.

If Ethan hadn’t decided to stay home that night for Thalia’s sake, he would’ve been on that plane.

And I can’t let myself think about the consequences for even a second.

“They’re about to announce the awards,” Thalia informs us as she walks over. “I think we should move closer to the stage like the rest of the guests.”

My head turns, my gaze briefly passing over Sierra and Selene, the latter now facing our direction.

I still can’t leave.

But I’m done torturing myself more than I already have.

She made it painfully clear that she’d never be able to let me touch her again without feeling disgusted or praying for it to end… as if I’d ever want her to endure me for my own fucking pleasure. As if that’s what sex is to me. As if it isn’t something shared between two people who both want it, crave it, need it.

Something born from desire.

From pleasure.

With that reminder firmly planted in my mind, I follow everyone else to a more secluded area—closer to the stage, but safely out of the spotlight.

“The first award,” the host begins, “goes to The Legacy Hardy-Thomas and the extraordinary work John Hardy and Matthew Thomas accomplished with Hartho. We all know the company has grown even larger today thanks to their sons and Sierra, but tonight, we want to take a moment to thank the two men who built it.”

Applause immediately fills the room as the lights sweep across the crowd. We’re all standing, showing our respect to every person who will be nominated and honored tonight.

As much as I can’t wait to leave, this is one event I don’t actually mind attending. The organizers don’t chase media attention or care about fame and praise. Every year, they simply make sure the people who genuinely do something for others receive the gratitude and recognition they deserve.

And our fathers are among them.

“And because neither of them could attend tonight…” The host pauses, opening an envelope. “We’d like to invite Zayn Thomas onstage to accept the award on their behalf.”

Fuck my life.

I glance at my brothers, and they all try to contain their laughter, but fail miserably.

Great. Exactly what I want right now.

More attention.

FORTY-TWO

Selene

When you hand someone something—anything: a chocolate bar, a bottle of water, perfume… an award—you don’t actually need to touch them. Not their hand, not their arm, and definitely not their chest.

Zayn smiles politely as he accepts the award from the woman who seems physically incapable of letting go of him.