Emberfall (Fire and Shadows Mate #1)

Chapter 1

Evan

Cigarette smoke spiraled upward from my lips, fading into a night sky that promised nothing. From forty-two floors above, rituals remained my only comfort.

Another drag. Another slow release.

My phone buzzed on the concrete ledge. David’s name lit up the screen, an unwelcome intrusion into my nightly ritual—the only peace I ever got. I thought about ignoring it, but habit won out. It always did.

“Congratulations, Mr. Ashwyck. The board meeting ended in a unanimous vote in your favor,” my assistant squeaked from the speaker, his upbeat tone overly cheerful for such an ungodly hour.

“Unanimous?” The word was ash on my tongue.

“Mr. Richardson gushed that he had never seen anything like it. You got every single vote!”

I pulled on the cigarette, smoke curling around my head. “What about Hartford? Richardson didn’t have second thoughts about that whole thing?”

A short, incredulous laugh burst from the phone. “Are you kidding? That’s the very reason you got the promotion. The way you handled that acquisition? Textbook. Richardson said it showed real leadership under pressure.”

I lowered my voice. “Has the family been quiet since the buyout closed?”

David adopted a placating tone. “Bryon Hartford’s been doing interviews.

It’s nothing but noise. His daughter’s been more vocal.

She’s a piece of work, Evan. She attempted to infiltrate our shareholder meeting last month by posing as a caterer.

Their legal team has them both reined in now, but honestly, I’d watch your back. Anyway, it’s over.”

The line went dead, and the cigarette’s ember glowed in the dark, my only companion. I gazed out at Manhattan, a maze of lights and movement. Each one represented a life, a dream, or a struggle I would never know.

“Evan? You still there?”

I snapped out of the suspended moment at David’s question. “Yeah, I’m here.”

“The press release goes out tomorrow morning. They want you in at six. You’ve got CNN, Bloomberg, and potentially The New York Times lined up. Are you ready for this?”

Ready? What a fucking joke. I had spent my whole life waiting for a feeling that never came.

The corner office would be mine tomorrow. The one with the Rothko print and the leather chair that cost more than I used to make in a month. But lunch would be the same turkey on wheat I always made, assembled at 5 a.m. in my empty kitchen while the coffee brewed.

Like clockwork, Anita—the woman who raised me—would call around seven to ask if I was visiting the kids at the children’s home.

Staring at spreadsheets, my answer would be the same, tired, “Yes, I’ll be there.

” Then back to my empty penthouse, where only the hum of the Sub-Zero refrigerator broke the silence.

But today should have been a celebration. The kind of day people spend their whole lives dreaming about.

The youngest senior vice president at Morrison & Associates in over thirty years. That was what they called me today. That was what tomorrow’s headlines would read.

“Send them the statement we prepared,” I instructed David. “I’ll be in at six.”

“This is it, man. All of it, everything you’ve worked for. You should be celebrating.”

“Yeah. I should be,” I acknowledged, yet the satisfaction failed to arrive. Beneath my ribs, a cavern opened, a void where joy should have been. All that success, and the only thing it purchased was this crushing weight of nothing.

Ending the call, I slipped the phone into my pocket. Flat praise and meaningless words. Success without anyone to share it with was solitude with a seven-figure price tag.

Another drag sent smoke into my lungs, but the nicotine did little to silence the constant noise in my head. God, there was always noise up there—thoughts spinning, questions without answers, and memories that kept surfacing.

I began to tremble, my hand shaking enough that I had to set the coffee cup on the ledge.

Twelve years climbing this corporate ladder. Twelve years of sixteen-hour days and three hours of sleep. Twenty-three years of seeing her face every time I closed my eyes.

Has to be stress. At least, that’s what a normal person would think. People who don’t claw their way out of the slums with nothing but a scholarship and stubborn determination. People who get eight hours of sleep and don’t spend over a decade grinding from the mailroom to the executive suite.

I pushed for it all because of a promise.

“Promise me, Evan. Promise me you’ll get out of here. Promise that you’ll make something of yourself.”

The cigarette had burned to the filter, so I let it fall, grinding the ember beneath my heel. Picking up my coffee from the railing, I took another sip of the bitter liquid. It matched my mood.

“I did it, Mom,” I said to the wind. “This view, this success… I built it all for you.”

The only problem was that she was not here to see it. She would never see it. All my work had turned her dream into the most expensive participation trophy in history.

Bittersweet.

I leaned on the cold metal bar for support, and a prickling sensation crawled up my neck.

I had forged enemies climbing this high.

I had stepped on the wrong people, squeezing out smaller firms with the contracts I had signed.

The game demanded it, and I had played by every one of its rules.

In corporate America, success always comes with a target on your back.

And yet, I had never expected it to follow me here.

I exhaled a white plume. My breath formed impossible moisture despite the lingering summer heat rising from the bricks. Every instinct I had developed growing up in the worst neighborhoods screamed at me to move.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and shook my head. Maybe I was tired. Or maybe I was finally losing my mind. Then, distinctly—heels clicking against concrete.

Click, click. Click, click.

Who would be here this late? The building should have been empty except for security personnel.

I spun around. The darkness was deep, limiting my view to a few feet.

“Evan.” My name came from the shadows. A woman spoke, but her voice was one I couldn’t place.

Squinting into the gloom, I called out, “Who’s there?”

A figure emerged, and I could only make out blonde hair. Something metal glinted in her hand.

Something that was not a phone or a purse.

The woman moved closer. “Congratulations on your promotion. I heard it on the news an hour ago. You’re very predictable, Mr. Ashwyck.

Every night, at the same time, in the same spot.

Security cameras don’t reach up here, do they?

” she purred, closing the distance between us.

“Hartford Family Pharmaceuticals. You dismantled a century-old company, seized its patents, and shut down every manufacturing plant. My father dedicated his entire life to that place.”

The gun barrel reflected the ambient glow of the street below, a cavernous black circle of finality pointed at the center of my chest. The coffee cup slipped from my grasp, spilling on the floor.

“Perfect time for a gift,” she snarled, a vicious pleasure twisting her lips.

A loud crack broke the hushed night. Fire flashed from the barrel, spewing a cloud of gray smoke.

For a half-second, nothing registered. Then a concussive force struck my chest. It was not painful, not at first. Just an immense pressure. Searing heat bloomed into a spreading wetness, soaking the shirt against my skin. With the connection to my legs gone, I folded over the railing.

The city tilted, and my stomach lurched as forty-two stories opened beneath me. Wind ripped the breath from my lungs, roaring in my ears while my suit jacket flapped wildly against my back. Below, streetlights spun into streaks, each second stretching into forever.

So this is how it ends? I closed my eyes, and calm settled over me.

After twenty-three years of fighting to keep my promise of building something meaningful from nothing, this was where it all came crashing down.

In the end, it meant nothing.