Chapter Thirty Six
I tug on my cuff nervously, straightening the sleeve for what must be the hundredth damn time beneath my suit jacket. The fabric feels too stiff and too heavy, like it’s judging me for pretending to be someone I’m not.
Twenty years old today, and I’ve still yet to learn how to enjoy one of the suffocating gala nights my father organises.
The endless champagne, the fake smiles, the brittle laughter, but this one’s different.
Tonight, it’s not about donors or our family name.
It's not even about my birthday. Tonight is all about Harper and the decision she’s about to make.
I roll my neck, shifting my shoulders again, not that it helps.
The nerves crawling under my skin are relentless.
They whisper words of doubt into my ear, convincing me I’m about to lose the only thing that matters to me.
There’s nothing more I can do to sway Harper’s heart.
The choice is all hers, and I’m going to have to live with whatever she decides.
Staring into the bathroom mirror, I assess my suit with a critical eye.
The shirt is crisp white and unbuttoned to my chest, standing out in stark contrast to the dark tattoos covering my neck.
There’s not a crease to be seen on my navy suit or a single part of my black loafers that isn’t shined to perfection.
My hazelnut hair is slicked back, the sides freshly trimmed short.
I’ve switched my piercings for black metal and bathed in the new Paco Rabanne fragrance.
Yeah, I’d do me. But still, I’m worried I might be ending this night alone and broken.
There’d be no coming back for me. This is my one shot at happiness, the one and only time I’m going to open myself up to rejection.
At least I tried. For once in my goddamn life, I tried.
I made her coffee while she read, quietly corrected her essays when she wasn’t looking, stayed up while she talked about everything and nothing until I couldn’t keep my hands off her for one more second.
I attended her classes, sat through her study sessions, learned her moods, her silences, the way her laughter always came with a hint of apology.
I even gave her space when she asked for it, space that nearly drove me insane.
But even with all of that, something in her eyes still stays just out of reach.
There’s always a flicker of distance there, like a barrier I don’t know how to scale.
Like a void that needs to be filled with love I might never be able to provide.
I reckon that’s the part that terrifies me most. The possibility that no matter what I do, I’ll never be able to give her what she deserves.
My Rolex ticks past the hour, pulling me from my thoughts.
It’s time. I stride out of the bathroom and lift the single, red rose from my dresser.
Oh yes, I’m going all out. Leaving my room, I stare longingly down the hall and listen to the girl’s soft muttering seep beneath the door before making my way downstairs.
Clayton is hunched over on my sofa, his eyes downcast and a frown pulling at his eyebrows.
“You’ll give yourself crow’s feet before she makes it downstairs,” I remark.
Striding into the kitchen, I grab two whiskey glasses and pour a healthy dose into each one.
“Come on, asshole. Join me for a drink. It is my birthday, after all.” Clayton eyes me curiously over his shoulder as I raise a glass in his direction.
The guy looks like he needs this more than I do.
Standing to his full height, I take in Clayton’s suit over the rim of my glass.
He’s wearing a classic black tux, most likely rented if the too-tight fit is anything to go by.
His shirt is buttoned up to the neck, a striped tie disappearing beneath the waistcoat.
What a nerd. I slide the extra glass toward him as he approaches, his obsidian eyes glancing at the rose laying on the kitchen island.
“May the best man win,” I refill my glass before lifting it. On a grunt, Clayton clinks his with mine and we down our whiskey in one. Standing on opposite sides of the island, I size up my rival. Clayton may hate me, but despite everything, the feeling isn’t mutual.
We’ve both had to face certain trials in life, but I’ve never lost someone I’ve loved.
Fuck, I’ve never loved anyone at all. Yet after experiencing both, he’s found the strength to open up his heart to the possibilities once again.
I’ve seen the way Clayton treats Harper, how he worships her and knows exactly what she needs and when.
He’s well and truly fallen for her, as have I.
Sighing, I swig from the bottle this time, trying to drown my thoughts.
There’s no use comparing us now. The time for overthinking is over.
I’ve told myself whatever Harper decides, I’ll respect.
It’s a pretty lie, and it’s all that’s keeping me from burying Clayton beneath the porch and pretending he went out for milk and never came back.
“You could have stopped all of this, you know,” Clayton sniffs, lowering onto a stool. “You could have argued harder or done something to secure her place here. Instead, you’ve left her to suffer.” Refilling both glasses, much to his disgust, I paint a smirk on my face.
“Why would I change a competition I’m due to win?
” It’s a bluff, but it’s plausible. Sitting beside him, I cradle my glass in one hand and the bottle in the other.
I could have stood up to my father. Or at least, I wish I could have.
Something about being in that man’s presence sends me back to a place in my mind I pretend doesn’t exist. Harper isn’t scared of him, but Harper hasn’t been left bleeding on his office floor.
“What does it feel like?” I ask to distract my mind from the image, finding my knuckles have turned white around the glass. Clayton raises his eyebrow. “Loving something. Being loved by someone. What does it feel like?”
Clayton doesn’t move, his ever-watchful eyes staring at me as if looking for the punchline. I have no ulterior motive this time. I’m stripped back and exposed, emotions I don’t understand stirring within. Sensing that I’m genuinely curious, he leans his forearms on the marbled surface.
“I don’t know much about your upbringing, but I’ve noticed you don’t have any photos around and you’ve never mentioned your mother.
If that’s the kind of love you’re asking about, it just feels warm.
Like you’re constantly wrapped in an embrace and there’s always someone to hold you when life seems too hard to bear alone.
” Clayton focuses on swirling his glass in his large hand, watching the amber liquid spin in circles.
“Is there another kind?” I ask, my voice smaller than I’d like. Clayton releases a breathy laugh.
“Oh yeah, there is. But I think you already know about that one.” I frown at this, putting down my glass.
My leg starts to bounce, my mind struggling to decipher the meaning behind his words.
The intentions of my actions are to make Harper happy, and I can’t deny that I care for her, but anything beyond that is a pipedream.
It’s territory I don’t know how to trek.
“Whatever you think you’ve seen, you’re wrong. I’m incapable of emotions beyond anger and hate,” I reply, my jaw clenching. Clayton shrugs and stands, moving to place the glass in the basin. I twist my head to watch him lean against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed.
“You’re lying to yourself, but for once I believe your intentions are honorable.
You know you’re beneath her and that down the line, you’ll end up hurting her.
But I’ve also seen that she’s good for you and makes you want to be a better person.
A bigger man might stand aside and let you have her.
But I can’t.” I nod slowly at his words, knowing that feeling all too well.
Maybe Clayton and I aren’t so different after all, and maybe Harper likes the notion of fixing our broken souls.
However, some things are beyond repair, and the patches over our scars will only hold for so long.
No matter who she chooses tonight, she’ll end up miserable.
Neither of us will be enough, yet we can’t walk away either.
A door bangs upstairs, the sound hitting me like a gunshot.
Jolting me out of my seat, my feet move before my mind has caught up.
At least a part of my brain is working and the rose is in my hand as Clay and I stop at the bottom of the stairs.
Shoulder to shoulder, the light facing-off with the dark.
My palms itch with the need to fidget, so I opt for pushing my free hand into my pocket.
Harper appears at the top of the staircase a moment later, the air freezing in my lungs.
Holy…everything. The silver dress shimmers with each breath she takes, the fabric hugging her curves like it’s worshipping her.
It pools around her heels, liquid light trailing behind her.
The neckline plunges dangerously low, only barely contained by the faintest layer of mesh.
The delicate straps roll over her shoulders, tracing the lines of her skin before vanishing into what I know must be an open back.
She’s a work of art. A slice of sin. She’s all I want but don’t deserve.
Harper’s hair is pulled back from her face and cascading down her back in a river of soft curls.
Her receivers are on full display, as they should be.
She’s a goddess of strength, overcoming challenges with such ease, many wouldn’t even know she faced them.
I’m nowhere near worthy of her attention or her affection, yet I want them both.