70. Mic Drops And Bombs
CHAPTER 70
MIC DROPS AND BOMBSHELLS
NORA
The hall unfolds like a fever dream, each detail shimmering with Gatsby-esque grandeur. Art deco archways soar overhead, draped in cascading gold and black, while crystal chandeliers scatter light like falling stars. Lydia has transformed every inch into a glittering testament to excess that makes reality feel paper-thin.
The polished marble reflects hundreds of golden votives, their flames dancing across mirrored tables adorned with white orchids and gold-dusted roses. A jazz band plays from their velvet-draped platform, brass instruments gleaming like liquid gold against an enormous art deco mural that creates the illusion of a metallic cityscape reaching toward heaven.
The air is thick with champagne and designer perfume as wait staff in immaculate tuxedos weave through the crowd. The guests themselves are living art—women in gowns that ripple like precious metals, diamonds catching light at their throats, feathered headpieces blurring the line between vintage and couture. Men stand like dark pillars in perfectly tailored suits, every detail from their cufflinks to their shoes whispering old money and influence.
Nate's hand in mine is the only thing keeping me from freaking out as my eyes sweep the room, each familiar face hitting like a wave. Farrah and Connor's group notices us first, their expressions shifting into something carefully crafted. Relief flickers through me when I don't spot Evan, but it's short-lived. My mom and Lydia beam with unmistakable pride from across the room, their joy reaching through the crowd like sunlight. It should comfort me, but instead, my chest tightens as I spot Camilla and Marcus.
And then there's Jake.
The air abandons my lungs when I see him with Ollie, his signature smirk replaced by raw devastation. His fingers strangle an empty glass as he signals for another, jaw clenched tight enough to shatter. Ollie watches him with worried eyes, and guilt crashes through me. I'm holding the weapon that broke him.
Nate feels my grip tighten, leaning close with quiet certainty. "I'll talk to him."
"No," I whisper, the word catching like thorns. "Let me."
He hesitates before nodding, his hand lingering in mine for one more heartbeat before letting go.
The night stretches endlessly, conversations swirling around me like smoke, but Jake haunts the edges of my awareness. His absence feels more present than his being here. I should have told him before tonight, should have explained before he had to watch me walk in with Nate's hand in mine.
When I finally can't bear it anymore, I find him at the bar, his eyes sharp enough to draw blood despite their glassy sheen.
"Dance with me," I offer softly, hand extended like a white flag. He looks ready to refuse until I whisper, "Please." The word hangs between us like the last thread of something precious breaking.
On the dance floor, the space between us feels dense with everything unsaid. Before I can find the right words, he breaks the silence, his voice laced with bitter wine and harder truths.
"So. You and Nate. You're a thing now?"
"I should've told you??—"
"Why?" His laugh holds no warmth. "Keeping Jake in the dark seems to be the running theme around here." He pulls me closer, my chin resting on his shoulder, a move I realize is so he doesn't have to look at me. Over his shoulder, I catch Nate watching us, his expression mirroring my guilt.
"I just…" Jake's voice drops to something raw and honest that breaks my heart. "I wish you'd chosen me for once."
The words shatter against my skin.
"Jake… you'll always be my best friend. You??—"
"No, Nora." He steps back, severing our connection like a blade through silk. "I can't do that. I can't just play the role of your best friend, especially when he breaks your heart. Because he will."
His eyes bore into mine, hard as steel. "And when he does, I can't be the guy who picks up the pieces. I won't be your second choice."
The song ends, but the finality in his voice echoes long after the music fades. He steps away, leaving me stranded as my chest caves in around the hollow space he used to fill. When his eyes find mine again, they're cold enough to burn.
"The worst part is you kept this secret," he says, each word precise as a surgeon's cut. "When you were the one who said no more secrets, remember? Maybe you both do deserve each other. You're both good at fucking lying."
Jake's jaw sets like marble as he delivers his parting shot.
"I'm glad we never finished the summer list," he says as music swells around us."Because you just made sure number seventeen on my list never happens."
The harshness of his words sinks into me like poison. I reach for him, desperate, but he pulls away with a finality that breaks something inside my chest.
"I need to go get ready."
"Jake, please—" My voice splinters, but he's already vanishing into the crowd, leaving me stranded in a sea of whispers and stares.
Before I can follow, the microphone crackles to life, an older man's voice commanding attention. I stand frozen, legs too heavy to move, when designer perfume announces trouble in six-inch heels.
Farrah materializes like a shark scenting blood, her smile carved from glass and malice.
"Well, well," she purrs, voice pitched to carry. "If it isn't the prodigal princess." Her eyes glitter with cruel amusement. The concealer she's wearing doesn't do a good enough job covering the dark shadow under her eyes after Camilla's assault at the Polo. "How adorable, you and Nate. Though I should warn you, he's not as pristine as you might think. Trust me, I would know."
My blood simmers, but I keep my expression neutral. She's hunting for a reaction, and I refuse to give her the satisfaction. "Farrah," I say, voice steady despite the storm in my chest. "Not now."
"Oh, not now?" She laughs, the sound like breaking crystal. Her sequined dress catches light as she steps closer, turning her into something sharp and dangerous. "You lost the right to dictate terms when you decided to play the small-town saint who fucks her best friend's brother." Her smile twists, dripping venom.
They're just words.
But Farrah's always known exactly where to slide the knife.
Camilla steps in, her Louboutins clicking against marble as she positions herself like a shield. Her expression is lethal, red lips curling into something between a smile and a snarl. "Oh look, if it isn't Satan's apprentice. Are you back for another round?"
Farrah's perfectly lined eyes narrow, her French manicure catching light as her fingers twitch. "I should have you deported back to your own country." Her voice drips with venom, but there's a tremor beneath the bravado.
Camilla laughs, a sound like breaking glass that sends chills down spine. She adjusts her designer clutch with practiced dominance.
"God, it must be exhausting being this bitter all the time. Let alone trying to act like you actually have somewhat of a personality."
The crowd around us pretends to be engrossed in their champagne, but their attention is magnetic.
Farrah steps closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Careful, Camilla. You don't know who you're fucking with."
Camilla moves forward, her presence electric and unyielding.
"Oh, I know exactly who I'm fucking with," she fires back, each word precisely aimed. "A desperate girl clinging to relevance because she knows it's slipping through her fingers. Question is, when are you going to realize you're the one who's fucking with the wrong person?"
I step between them, heart thundering. "Camilla, let's just go. She's not worth it."
Camilla's expression softens as she meets my eyes, looping her arm through mine with practiced grace. She turns back to Farrah, sugar-coating her voice. "Nice face. That new eyeshadow really suits you."
Farrah's words chase us like poison darts. "Enjoy your little moment while it lasts, Nora. We both know it won't."
Camilla's middle finger rises with elegant defiance as we stride toward Marcus and Mia's table, where they've been watching with barely concealed fascination.
"Do we even want to know?" Marcus asks, already pulling out a chair.
Camilla leans close, her Chanel No. 5 a comforting shield. "I swear, if she comes at you again tonight, I'll have Marcus dump his champagne on her dress and claim it was an accident." Her eyes sparkle with mischief and fierce loyalty.
A laugh bubbles up from my chest, unexpected but welcome.
"Oh shit." Marcus' words force us to turn, and my heart stops.
The air doesn't just shift when Scott Sullivan enters, it fractures like ice moments before it shatters. He moves through the crowd, his presence electric and suffocating, commanding space with the confidence that comes from decades of crushing others beneath Italian leather shoes.
Lydia's gasp from nearby is barely audible, but it reverberates through my bones. Nate transforms beside her, his spine snapping straight as though replaced with steel. His expression settles into something carved from marble—beautiful, cold, and utterly lifeless. It's a mask I've seen before, the one he wears when burying emotions six feet deep.
But Jake—Jake is different.
Where others ripple with tension, he remains still waters. There's an unsettling serenity in his demeanor, like he can finally exhale. When he meets his father's gaze across the room, their subtle nod feels like a secret handshake to a club I never knew existed.
"This is not good," I whisper, turning back toward our table like a moth seeking flame.
Camilla's perfectly arched brows knit together, her crimson lips pressing thin as she tracks the Sullivans. "No kidding. Who invited that walking midlife crisis?"
Marcus swirls his champagne with practiced nonchalance. "Forget reality TV. You can't script this shit if you tried." His attempt at levity dissolves into the thickness of the air.
My eyes magnetically pull back to Nate. The sight makes my heart fold in on itself—his jaw works like he's grinding glass, hands clenched into fists so tight I hear his knuckles protest. The usual fire in his eyes has been replaced by something worse: a vacuum-sealed emptiness that swallows light whole as he watches his father work the room like a master puppeteer.
The council head's voice cuts through tension like a dull blade.
"Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we honor a legacy that runs as deep as Eden's foundations themselves. Please welcome to the stage, one of the founding family members of this town, Mr. Scott Sullivan."
The room's applause swells like an approaching tide, but Nate stands immobile. Lydia's fingers dig into his arm like she's afraid one of them might shatter. Scott takes the stage like a king claiming his throne, his smile as practiced as a surgeon's hands and twice as cutting.
"Thank you, Joe." Scott's voice fills the room with practiced authority. "When my grandfather first came to Eden, this was nothing but untamed coastline and big dreams. He saw potential where others saw wilderness. My father expanded that vision, turning those dreams into reality, brick by brick." He pauses, words settling like seeds in fertile soil. His eyes sweep the crowd with calculated warmth.
"Tonight, as I accept this recognition, I'm reminded that the Sullivan name isn't just a family legacy—it's Eden's legacy. We've shaped this town, its economy, and its very identity. But legacies aren't meant to be preserved in amber. They're meant to evolve, to grow stronger with each generation."
The way he looks at Nate feels less like a father's gaze and more like a predator marking territory. Each word about legacy drips with honey-coated venom.
"Which is why I'm proud to announce that our five-year plan for this town is to expand. And I'm especially proud to announce that my brilliant son, Jacob, will be joining The Sullivan Group this year." He gestures to Jake, who rises with practiced grace. "Come up here, son."
Jake joins him on stage like a prince being crowned, and the air grows thick as concrete.
"Jacob understands what it means to be a Sullivan. He knows that our name carries not just privilege, but responsibility. Under my guidance, he'll learn to shoulder the weight of this legacy, to carry Eden into a future worthy of its past."
Scott's words about Jake's future leadership detonate across Nate's features in microscopic flinches that only someone who knows him would catch.
"Legacy is everything," Scott continues, words slithering like smoke. "It's about making the right choices. Some of us know how to honor that, and for others—" His lips twist into something that resembles a smile the way a knife resembles a spoon. "Well, let's just say not everyone is suited to the responsibility."
The barb finds its mark with surgical precision. Nate's mask fractures for a heartbeat, revealing raw devastation before walls slam back into place.
"This is bad," I breathe.
The applause that follows feels like the nail in the coffin. Scott's gaze, when it finds Nate and Lydia, carries all the warmth of a snake sizing up prey. Jake follows as Scott descends, but my attention is locked on Nate. He's a statue carved from tension and spite, every muscle wound so tight he might shatter at a touch.
This isn't just a celebration anymore—it's ground zero, and the Sullivans are nuclear.
The moment Scott exits, Lydia transforms—her gentle demeanor crystallizing into something dangerous. She tracks him like a lioness stalking wounded prey, each step carrying the weight of twenty years of buried rage. Nate stands motionless, as if movement might detonate him. His fists are clenched white-knuckled, tendons straining beneath skin. Ten eternal seconds pass before he follows, trailing storm clouds in his wake.
"I need to go," I say quickly, chair scraping marble like a warning bell.
"Call if you need backup!" Camilla's worried voice chases after me.
The hallway beyond swallows the ballroom's noise into plush carpeting. Nate stands ahead like a sentinel, staring at patio doors, shoulders rigid with barely contained fury. I approach cautiously, taking his hand between mine like something precious and volatile.
"They're fighting," he says, voice rumbling like thunder before lightning. Rage radiates from him in waves hot enough to burn, his body coiled tight as a spring. This isn't just anger, it's muscle memory—the response of a boy forced to become a warrior in his own home.
"You should go." His words are sharp edges wrapped in velvet.
"I'm not leaving you, Nate."
"Nora, please." His hazel eyes are battlefields of pain and pride.
"No." My voice rings with unexpected steel. His gaze cuts into mine like a blade seeking purchase. "I'm with you. No more hiding."
Something in him softens for a fraction of a second and his fingers tighten around mine.
Then Lydia's voice shatters everything.
"You're unbelievable, Scott!"
The sound ignites Nate like a match to gasoline. He bolts toward the patio, his hand tearing from mine.
"Nate!" My heart lurches after him as he crosses the threshold into gathering tempest.
I follow to find Scott advancing on Lydia like a shark scenting blood, his smirk a crown of thorns.
"A congratulations would have been nice, or is that asking too much?"
"Congratulations?" Lydia's voice quivers like a bowstring pulled too tight, each word poisoned with twenty years of venom. "You promised, Scott. You promised to leave Jake out of this."
Scott's expression remains unchanged, but his eyes gleam with something darker than triumph—the satisfied glitter of a puppet master watching his strings dance.
"Jake made his own decision, Lydia. He's a grown man. Or are you forgetting that? You already babied your first born, you're not tarnishing Jake."
"You twisted him into this! Manipulated him!" Her voice rises like gathering thunder. "You're poisoning him, just like you've poisoned everything else you've touched."
The night air crackles with electricity, every word another step toward an explosion that feels as inevitable as gravity. We're all just waiting for the match to hit the powder keg, and judging by the darkness gathering in Nate's eyes, we won't have to wait long.
Scott's smile warps into something feral, a predator baring its teeth. "Watch your tone, Lydia. You're lucky I didn't take him away for good when I had the chance."
The slap shatters the night like lightning striking glass. The sound reverberates across the patio, sharp and final, Lydia's hand suspended in the aftermath like a flag in a dying wind. Her fingers tremble, but her eyes blaze with two decades of swallowed silence finally finding voice.
"You bastard," she breathes, the words splintering like ice.
Scott's composure evaporates like morning dew in hell. His hand strikes like a cobra, pinning Lydia against the wall with bone-crushing force. Horror spreads through my body like frost, each cell screaming in protest as he looms over her, his cologne-laced breath hot with malice.
"This is all your fault. You couldn't keep your legs closed. Couldn't keep your mouth shut. And now look where we are."
My blood crystallizes in my veins.
This isn't happening.
This can't be happening.
But then Nate moves—a blur of contained violence, eighteen years of rage compressed into a single moment. He crosses the patio like an avenging angel, hands fisting in Scott's expensive lapels before slamming him against brick. The impact is a symphony of violence—flesh meeting stone, startled wheeze of expelled air, Lydia's sharp intake of breath slicing through chaos like a blade.
"Don't fucking touch her." Nate's voice is barely human, a guttural snarl ripped from somewhere primal and dark. His words vibrate with the force of an earthquake about to level cities. "Does it make you feel powerful every time you lay a hand on her?"
Scott's laugh crawls through the air like poisonous gas, thick with condescension. He doesn't resist, doesn't even flinch—a snake comfortable in its own venom.
"Still fighting your mom's battles." His eyes narrow to reptilian slits, targeting Nate's core with surgical precision. "I'm glad I only have one son."
I watch the words detonate across Nate's face. They fracture him in slow motion—his jaw grinding like tectonic plates about to split, hands trembling with the herculean effort of not becoming the monster before him.
"Stop!" My voice slices through the chaos like a desperate prayer.
Lydia's eyes find mine, heavy with secrets finally dragged into light, shame and defiance warring in their depths.
Scott adjusts his suit with theatrical precision, brushing off violence like lint.
"My one regret is letting her keep you." He turns with military sharpness, each step away a calculated insult, as if he's won not just this battle but every war yet to come.
The silence that follows feels radioactive, contaminating everything it touches.
Nate remains frozen, his breathing ragged like a wounded animal’s, each exhale weighted with years of suppressed rage. His fists are still clenched, knuckles bleached white with restraint that's rapidly unraveling.
"Nate, leave it. Please." Lydia's voice is soft but urgent, like trying to talk down an approaching tornado.
But he's beyond words now, lost in a red mist of fury and old wounds torn fresh. His body vibrates with barely contained violence, a bomb with a rapidly burning fuse.
"Nate," I plead, my voice cracking like thin ice. "Whatever you're thinking right now, just breathe. Don't let him win."
He doesn't acknowledge me. His focus is laser-locked on the door Scott disappeared through, every muscle coiled for pursuit. Then he moves, and it's like watching destiny unfold in slow motion.
Lydia turns to me, her face a roadmap of desperate fear.
"Stop him. Please. Don't let him do something he'll regret."
I nod, already running.
"Nate!" My voice chases him down the hallway, but it feels futile, like trying to stop an avalanche with whispers.
Because deep in my gut, I know this isn't something anyone can stop. This is Nate's Rubicon, his point of no return, and all I can do is pray I'm fast enough to prevent the impending catastrophe. Or at least be there to gather what remains when the dust settles.