Chapter Four
Zade
The jet lands smoothly. Just a soft bounce, then a long hum of tires on the tarmac as we roll to a stop.
I unbuckle, stretch, grab my bag from the seat beside me, and head for the stairs.
My suit’s a little wrinkled from the flight, but it’ll straighten out on the move.
I’ve got bigger things to worry about than creases.
As soon as I step outside, I feel the quiet. Not city quiet but real quiet. No horns, no shouting, no construction buzz in the background. The sky is wide open out here. Too open, maybe. No buildings boxing you in. Just space stretching out in every direction like it doesn’t know when to stop.
It makes me feel exposed. Like I’m being watched. Or maybe judged.
I don’t like it.
A black Mercedes waits on the edge of the airstrip. My driver—older guy, calm face—opens the door without saying a word.
The ride into town takes maybe fifteen minutes.
We pass through neighborhoods and storefronts that feel stuck in time.
Red bricks, chipped paint, wooden signs swinging from rusted hooks.
Some of the windows are taped at the edges.
Some still have Halloween decals peeling off.
It’s not fake quaint. It’s just old. Honest in a way New York hasn’t been in a long time.
I scroll through notes on my phone. Timelines.
Contractor names. Legal concerns. But my mind’s not really on it.
I keep glancing out the window, trying to picture the future version of this place.
Luxury trails. Upscale rentals. Seasonal restaurants serving microgreens and craft cocktails.
It’s hard to imagine. That’s usually how I know I can pull it off.
We stop outside The Opal. From the street, it looks like it’s been trying to live up to its name for the last decade but never quite made it. Cream-colored siding faded by the sun. A sign that flickers when the wind hits. Supposed to be the nicest hotel in Cody, but I’m not holding my breath.
Inside, the lobby gives it a better shot—polished counters, fake marble floors, gold accents that are doing their best to look like something they’re not. A girl at the front desk looks up from her screen with a polite smile. It looks rehearsed, but at least she’s trying.
“Reservation?” she asks.
“Patterson,” I tell her, pulling out my card.
She takes it and glances down. Then glances up. Her whole energy shifts in about two seconds. “Of course. Just a moment.”
She types something fast, and suddenly there’s movement. A manager appears—blazer too tight around the middle, voice a little too bright. “Mr. Patterson, welcome. We’ve got your sui te ready. Please, right this way.”
The elevator ride is all small talk on his end, mostly nodding on mine. He says something about the view, something about the last time the carpets were replaced, maybe. I’m not listening.
The suite isn't bad. It’s clean. Has huge windows looking out at the park. The mountains in the distance look fake—too perfect, like someone painted them into the background. I toss my bag on the leather couch and loosen my tie.
The manager’s still there. “Everything to your liking?”
“It’s fine,” I say.
He backs out fast.
I stay where I am, right by the window. Just watching. The tree line is quiet. Still. Green stretching all the way to the hills like it’s trying to swallow the road.
My eyes drop.
I think of those nights back in the group home. Axel and I curled up on thin mattresses, blankets scratchy enough to leave marks. Everything in that place smelled like bleach and melted plastic. Some days it felt like it was eating us alive.
“We’re gonna have more than this one day,” he used to say.
We were ten. Maybe eleven. I didn’t believe him back then, not really. But I needed those words. They gave me something to hold.
And now ?
I’m here. I’m in it. The having-everything part.
Axel’s got the wife. The kids. That adorable dog, Leo and Cora’s bakery, the Sweet Fairy. He’s settled. He’s good. I am happy for him.
As for me… I’m… still proving it.
I check the time and let out a breath. Meeting is in twenty minutes. I head to the shower, fast but not frantic. Water’s cold for the first few seconds, but I don’t bother waiting.
I towel off halfway while I’m walking to the closet. Pull on a fresh shirt. Dark grey. Wrinkled at the cuff, but I don’t care. Jacket’s fine. No tie. I’m not in the mood to look like I’m trying that hard.
I grab my phone, shove it in my pocket, and step into the elevator. It’s already on my floor, like it knew I was coming.
Downstairs, my driver’s standing by the car. He opens the door without a word.
I nod and slide in, already shifting gears in my head. The day’s about to start.
We drive through town again. The streets feel even smaller this time. Every crack in the pavement, every leaning fence post—it all looks like it’s waiting for something to happen. Maybe it’s been waiting too long.
The mayor’s office is in a low brick building. Ivy climbs up one side. A single flag flaps out front. Inside, the receptionist glances up.
“He’s in a—”
I ignore the receptionist a nd keep walking.
When I push open the mayor’s office door, I find Mayor Brian Ellis behind his desk. Tie loosened. Face flushed. Eyes wide like he’s just been caught stealing something.
Then I see her.
There’s a woman on the floor, kneeling in front of him.
Jesus.
His face twitches hard—panic or shame, who knows—and then he makes this awful little grunt. Not a word. Just sound.
The woman jumps like someone pulled a string. She’s up in a second, face flushed, grabbing her purse off the floor. She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t say anything. Just bolts past, heels clapping against the tile like a timer going off.
What a sleazebag this man is.
“Thought you had a wife,” I say.
He adjusts his tie, trying to play it cool. “Mr. Patterson. I didn’t expect—”
“No kidding.”
I sit, open my laptop. “Let’s talk land contracts.”
He hesitates. “It’s… complicated.”
“It’s not,” I say, flat. “I paid you to handle it. You told me this wouldn’t be a problem.”
He leans back and the n forces a smile across his face. It’s damn fake. “Locals are making noise. Trout habitats, environmental reviews…”
“Then fix it.”
“I’ll try.”
“No. You will.”
He swallows. “You’ll have your signatures.”
“Good.”
I shut the laptop and leave without another word.
We’re back on the road. Sun’s starting to drop. I glance at the mountains through the window. Light’s changing. Slipping lower, turning everything gold. It’s the kind of view people pay a fortune for.
Good. Let them.
For about two minutes, it’s peaceful. Then my driver slams the brakes—hard.
The car jerks to a stop just inches from the crosswalk. I lurch forward, hand catching the seat in front of me. Outside the windshield, I spot two people. A man’s on the ground. The woman beside him is helping him up, one arm around his back, the other gripping his elbow.
A few people nearby start moving toward them. Just enough for a small crowd to form—eyes already on the car. On me.
Great. I won’t be able to cross without dealing with this.
I sigh under my breath. “Pedestrians,” I mutter, pushing the door open.
It was my drive r’s fault. I know that. But still, I find myself walking out like I have something to defend. Maybe it’s instinct. Step out first, take control of the moment before someone else twists it.
“You guys came out of nowhere!” I shout, stepping closer.
The guy’s staring at me, holding his elbow.
His face seems twisted in pain. Like he’s trying not to show how bad it hurts.
Then I see it—blood. Just a thin line down his forearm, but it’s there.
The woman sees it too. And that’s when she snaps.
She looks at his arm, then looks at me. Like she connects both things instantly.
Next thing I know, she’s coming straight at me.
“You asshole!” she yells, closing the space between us before I even register what’s happening. “My brother is bleeding because of you!”
And suddenly, her hand hits me across the face. Hard. It lands open-palmed, right across the cheek, and I hear it more than I feel it. The sound echoes. I don’t even move right away—just blink, stunned. Not from pain. From disbelief.
She slapped me.
She actually slapped me. In public. In front of people.
She then turns and kicks the tires of my car like it’s her ex. Then she pounds the hood. Then again. And again.
My driver steps toward her, hesitates. She swings her bag like she’s daring him to try again.
Now she ’s just standing there. Breathing hard. Hands trembling a little. Her chest rising like she’s still mid-fight even though the moment’s paused.
There’s this heat in her. Not just anger—it’s in the way she holds herself, like she was built to resist. Like even standing still, she’s challenging the world to come closer.
And I can’t stop looking at her even though this woman just slapped me.
Her hair’s half falling out of whatever it was tied in. There’s this wild piece stuck to her lip gloss, and she hasn’t noticed. Her glasses are crooked on her nose. Too big for her face. They make her look... sharp. But not in a polished way. In a real way.
She’s not trying to be anything. That’s what’s messing with me.
I should be mad. Should be calling someone. Telling her to get the hell away from my car. But I just stand there, quiet.
Watching her like she’s the problem and the answer to something I didn’t realize I’d been asking.
Finally, behind her, the guy, her brother, tries to wave her off. “Juniper,” he pleads. “Just let it go. Please.”
She spins around like he just betrayed her.
“Let it go?” she snaps. “Are you serious right now, Jacob? Look at your arm. He could’ve killed us!”
She jerks her purse open and starts digging through it and pulls out a pen.
Clicks it once. Twice.
Then she steps toward the s ide of the car.
Raises the pen.
Lines it up with the paint near the passenger door like she’s about to carve her initials into it.
That does it. I finally snap out from the trance I was in since the slap and step closer. The woman goes rigid all the while glaring at me. “Don’t do anything stupid. Otherwise, you’ll regret it.” I warn her.
She doesn’t move; she just stares daggers at me, like it’s hard for her to believe that I just threatened her. I stare back, but then my eyes drop to her lips—full, luscious, right at that moment, familiar. A memory stirs—something from the past. I’ve seen her before.
“We’ve met before.”
“What?” she asks, her eyes narrowing.
“At Axel’s wedding,” I say, the words landing before I can really think about them. “I’m—Zade. Zade Patterson. I was there. I’m Axel’s friend.”
I see something shift in her face. Not exactly softening—but recognition, yeah. Just for a second.
Then she pushes me, palms flat against my chest.
“I don’t care if you’re Axel’s friend!” she snaps, voice shaking now. “That doesn’t mean anything to me right now!”
Her hair flies across her face as she turns, then flips back when she locks eyes with me again. That glare could burn a hole through glass.
“You’re just a rich jerk ,” she says, spitting the word like it tastes bad. “And the way you tried to get ahead of this? Like if you speak first, if you control the story, everyone’s just gonna believe whatever version you sell—”
She takes a shaky breath, eyes flicking to the small crowd still watching.
“I’m not letting you twist this around. I’m not letting you turn this into your narrative.”
Her voice cracks a little on that last line, like she didn’t want it to—but she doesn’t take it back.
Okay. She’s clever. She caught what I was trying to do. I know I need to defuse the situation.
“Look, I’m sorry, alright? But you didn’t have to start a scene,” I say a bit gently, not wanting to anger this fire cracker anymore, but it backfires. She’s even more angry now.
“A scene? You deserve much more!” She shouts back, her fists clenched.
I can see the crowd gathering, and their judgmental stares are adding to the tension. I need to end this. “Look, let’s just calm down. I’ll take care of any medical bills. Let’s not make this worse.”
“We don’t need your help,” she snaps and then adds. “Jerk.” before turning on her heel and walking away with her brother, leaving me watching her while the crowd around me looks at me like I am the villain.
I get back in the car and slam the door harder than I mean to. The engine kicks on, but all I hear is the echo of that slap. Her voice. Her face. That fire in her eyes .
Who the hell does she think she is—screaming in the street like she owns it? Like I’m the one who needs to answer to her?
No one’s ever hit me before. Not like that. Not in front of a crowd.
And I just stood there. Didn’t yell. Didn’t stop her. Just… watched. That bothers me more than anything.
She had me locked in, and I let her.
Now I can’t get her out of my head .