Chapter Two
Zade
The bouncer unhooks the entrance rope and the club's sound system punches me square in the chest. The bass thumps deep enough that my heart forgets its own rhythm.
Flashing lights slice through the room, bright purples and neon greens splitting the crowd into freeze-frame moments—Dresses catch the lights.
Arms wave around. People drip with sweat.
The smell hits next: booze and perfume mixed with that sweaty-metal tang you get when speakers are pushed too far. The whole room smells like bad decisions waiting to happen. Even the mirrors along the walls sweat a little.
Perfect spot for someone trying to stop thinking.
I slide into the middle of the VIP booth, all plush velvet that sinks under my weight.
I relax my shoulders, pretending I'm at ease. A quick two-finger signal and a server appears instantly, dropping off a crystal glass of whiskey and vanishing again. The whiskey is dark. It rolls in the glass. Looks like it is trying to escape. I drink deep. Smoke, salt, heat, all hit me at once. It’s exactly what I needed.
Tailored suit, dark shirt, silver tie—my usual armor.
It fits me like a second skin, made to tell everyone I don't care.
Two women head toward me, confident like they've hunted this way before.
The blonde makes her move first, legs endless, dress shiny enough to blind.
She lands on my lap like she's claimed it, fingers brushing my jaw.
Right behind her, a redhead drapes herself over the booth, fingertips grazing my head.
One smells sweet, like gum, the other like strawberries and smoke.
They look good. But I know the type. Lonely and looking for attention. I'm barely paying attention.
Blonde leans closer, whispering loud over the music, "You're gorgeous, Zade. Why waste the night here? I've got a loft uptown."
They know my name. Everyone here does. I finish my whiskey, feeling the burn settle me. "Not tonight,” I reply, simple, clear, final.
She shifts on my lap, persistent. "The night's young."
This would’ve worked on me once, but tonight it just highlights the emptiness I’m trying to drown. Carefully, politely, I help her stand again. "Lots of adventures out there. I'm not one of them tonight."
Redhead tries next. Her hand touches my arm, gentle but insistent. "Just one dance, Zade. One song, let them talk."
I shake my head slowly, holding her gaze to soften the rejection. "Maybe another time. "
Disappointment shows across their faces, then they're gone, disappearing into the lights and noise. The crowd swallows them whole.
I push through the crowd toward the exit, each bump, each touch leaving behind heat and noise until I stumble out into the alley. Outside it’s like a breath of fresh air if you call New York’s air fresh.
My black Aston Martin waits at the curb. I hit the key, and it growls awake. As I pull into traffic the city blurs past. Towers close in as I pull underground into the private garage. The security gate rattles shut, locking me away from everything again.
The elevator ride feels longer than it probably is.
It’s quiet, all mirrors, so I keep catching pieces of my own reflection whether I want to or not.
My suit still looks decent. Kind of stiff, but clean.
My face looks tired, though. Not falling-apart tired—just worn in a way I do not always notice until I am forced to look at it like this.
Some days I am okay. Some nights, like this one, it creeps in. That heavy, stretched-thin feeling. I hate it. I do not know what to do with it most of the time.
The doors finally open and it’s that quiet kind of rich. You can feel it in the way everything is spaced out. Art everywhere, like it means something. Huge windows showing off Manhattan like it is trying to remind you where you are. All those lights shining like they have something to prove.
It should feel good. It doesn't. Instead, all I see is a tiny apartment with peeling paint, cockroaches, and a ceiling stain shaped weirdly like an animal. It’s a memory I've tried hard to forget .
I strip down to boxers and drop onto the oversized bed, letting exhaustion pull me under.
I wake up before the sun. Same way I always do. The lights flip on by themselves when my feet hit the floor. Warm marble underfoot. Quiet. Still dark outside.
The gym’s empty. Clean. Everything lined up like a showroom—dumbbells, treadmill, cables.
No music, no distractions. Just me. I jump straight in.
Burpees. Jump squats. Kettlebell swings until my legs shake.
I keep going anyway. Sweat drips into my eyes.
My chest tightens. Every move starts to blur into the next. That’s kind of the point.
After, I shower. I crank the heat so high the whole place fills with steam.
The soap smells like cedar and something sharp.
I just stand there for a minute, not moving, letting it all rinse off.
The glass fogs up fast, and when I drag my hand across it, I barely recognize the guy staring back at me.
I dry off fast and get dressed in dark suit, crisp shirt and tie. My shoes shine so hard I could probably use them to blind someone if I wanted.
Downstairs, the driver holds out the keys. I nod but take them myself. I do not know why. I just want to be the one behind the wheel today. Maybe I need the quiet. Or maybe I just need to feel like I’m in control of something .
Five minutes later, Patterson Towers rises out of the fog. Tallest thing in the skyline. Feels more like a statement than a building .
The streets are still half asleep. I pull up front. The valet sees me, gives a nod, and opens the lane. No need for words. They know the routine.
Inside, the lobby’s all glass and marble. Quiet. Clean. One of the security guys spots me, says my name like it carries weight. I nod, keep walking. People always put too much stock in a nod from someone at the top.
Upstairs, the glow from the monitors bounces off glass walls. Everything’s on, but no one’s talking. You can feel that early-morning pressure building.
My office is in the northeast corner. Big windows. Huge desk. Shelves lined with models from old projects. Cody’s sitting right there too, looking like it belongs.
A leather folder waits on the center of the desk. Color tabs sticking out like flags. I flip it open.
Cody Resort. First one on the list.
I skim the latest report. The resort should have broken ground two months ago, but local conservationists filed injunctions, citing river habitat disruption.
Budget slide shows red where there should be black.
My assistant, Yuri, recites schedule items while I page through.
“Ten a.m. board review,” he ends. “Conference room ten-oh-seven.”
I tap the folder edge. “Make sure catering remembers Dad’s sugar-free demands. Last time he decapitated a muffin.”
The assistant gives a small nod, almost smiling. “Already confirmed.”
At 9:50 exactly, I step into the boardroom .
The place is already buzzing. Glass walls on all sides, skyline sharp behind them, and the kind of artificial silence that only exists when everyone’s pretending not to feel rushed. A few seats are filled. Most still empty.
My project lead’s up front, setting up the deck. He fumbles with the remote, muttering something to himself. The eighty-inch screen flickers, then holds steady.
Behind me, the rest start filtering in. Legal. Finance. PR. No small talk. Just clacking keys and rustling papers. They settle into their spots like they’re suiting up for war. Laptops open. Phones on mute. Eyes already darting toward the head of the table.
No one says it, but everyone’s waiting for one person.
And right on cue he walks in–my dad. Exactly thirty seconds before the meeting starts.
His silver hair is cut sharp, part perfect.
Black suit, pressed to death. Everything about him is intentional.
The second he looks around the table, everyone shifts just slightly.
Straighter backs. Quieter fidgeting. He does not have to say anything. His presence says it for him.
The project lead starts us off. “Zoning approvals are in. We got the council vote—four to two. Still waiting on the environmental review, but we’re ahead of schedule.”
My dad turns to me. “You paid Ellis two million for that?”
“Yeah,” I say, steady. “Fast-tracking saved us six. ”
Next slide clicks up—photos of protest signs, press headlines, people rallying against the project. Save Cody Riverside Park painted in red. Articles about fish and protected wildlife and trout season.
“Locals are calling it an attack on the ecosystem,” the PR lead says.
My dad doesn’t flinch. “So how do we kill that?”
I look around the table. “We don’t. We offer something louder. We promise jobs—ninety full-time, two hundred seasonal. We put money toward a scholarship fund for Cody High. And we commit to a five-year creek restoration plan, led by outside biologists.”
Legal frowns. “That’s a huge cost.”
“We lose profit the first year,” I admit. “But it cuts down lawsuits. A long fight in court bleeds more than a few early investments.”
My dad leans back in his chair, watching me. “You going out there?”
“Yeah,” I nod. “Face-to-face still means something.”
“Take someone from legal with you. Keep records. If this turns, we need proof.”
“Got it.”
The meeting ends ninety minutes later. People talk over each other—notes, plans, warnings. All of it noise now. My dad stays behind, standing near the windows. The city stretches behind him, lit up and distant.
“Make it flawless, Zade. Patterson flawless. ”
I nod once. “I will.” Because there’s no version of this where I don’t.
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Lunch is a salad in a plastic container, eaten at my desk. My fork keeps scraping the bottom of the bowl while I answer emails. The contractors in Cody want new timelines. Finance wants guarantees. I give them both—clear numbers, short answers. The kind that shut people up for a while.
Meetings blur together after that. One after the other until the lights in my office go off by themselves. I don’t even realize it’s dark outside until I stand up.
On the drive home, I keep the radio low. There’s some podcast playing about eco-resorts. I half listen. Maybe I’ll remember something useful later.
When the elevator opens into my apartment, the smell hits right away—tomato, garlic, cheese. It’s strong. Feels like someone threw a memory at me. My mom is in my kitchen, standing over the stove in an apron covered in flowers. She looks way too proud of herself.
“Mom,” I say, somewhere between annoyed and kind of amused, “you broke in again.”
She waves me off like I’m being dramatic. “You changed the door code. But I still remembered your soccer jersey number from middle school. You’re easy.”
Before I can even try to argue, my dad walks out of the wine fridge holding a bottle. “She took over,” he says, smiling like he’s enjoying every second of it. “I just followed orders.”
We eat sitting at the counter, legs swinging like we’re kids again. My mom starts doing her usual thing, working the conversation toward relationships.
“You need someone who’ll cook for you,” she says, scooping lasagna onto my plate. “Someone who makes sure you eat more than takeout.”
I roll my eyes. “Please don’t start the wedding talk.”
“You let Meredith go,” she says, pointing her fork at me. “Five years and no ring. She was a good one.”
“She wanted timelines,” I say. “I needed space.”
My dad sets his wine glass down gently. “We just want you happy. That’s all. No pressure.”
My mom reaches for my hand and squeezes. “You’re moving all the time, but that’s not living, mijo.”
I don’t say anything. I stare at the window instead. The lights outside blur against the glass. I think about everything I’ve built—and how shaky it still feels.
We finish dinner, clean up, and sit in the lounge for a while. Dad asks about work. Mom reminds me about vitamins. I pretend everything’s fine. Promise I’ll call. Tell them not to worry.
They leave around ten. My mom kisses the air toward me on her way out. Then the door clicks shut. It’s quiet again.
I pour myself a littl e whiskey and walk to the windows. The city is lit up like it’s trying to impress me, but it doesn’t.
And just like that, the memories come rushing back. My biological dad, drunk and angry, calling me names. The smell of bleach in the group home. Axel punching a kid in the face when I couldn’t. My adoption papers still fresh when Mom hugged me like I’d always been hers.
Axel teaches art now. He’s married to Cora. They’ve got a blended family—two teens and a baby. It works. Mom keeps hoping I’ll end up with something like that. But I don’t think she sees the parts of me that are still cracked.
Still, tomorrow I’ll get the team together. I’ll book the flight. Bring in PR. Make sure every piece of the plan is locked. Cody is going to get its resort. People will stop whispering when they say my name. I’ll earn that respect. Even if I have to do it alone.
I finish the whiskey. Set the glass down. No speeches. No drama. Just a decision.
I look at myself in the window, say it out loud so I believe it: “I’m not backing down.”