31. Kael
KAEL
Now this feels familiar. My life’s in shambles, with not one but two rich assholes to blame.
Except that’s only half true, and worse because of it.
I shouldn’t have gotten close. Falling for Ash ruins my neat little stereotype and makes it impossible to tell myself it’s all his fault. I broke my rule. I let someone matter. I should’ve run sooner. That’s what my mom did. But I thought this time, this one time, I could stay.
“But it is a little his fault,” Jamal says.
“A lot his fault.”
I take a swallow of rum and Coke, extra heavy on the rum. It tastes familiar, the old buzz wrapped around my latest disaster.
Jamal’s Tendernob apartment is a chaotic explosion of color. It’s not nice, but it is stuffed with Beanie Babies. That bandwagon left decades ago, but Jamal caught it and never let go, big-eyed creatures distracting from the stained ceiling and old floors he’s covered with hand-me-down throws.
This is the kind of apartment I deserve. Not even. I couldn’t afford this without Alistair or Ash propping me up.
“I mean, what kind of monster throws a surprise gallery for their artist boyfriend?” Jamal pauses, and I give him the don’t you dare look. “So manipulative.”
I launch an inchworm Beanie off the couch at his head. It sails over him, smacks the TV, and drops into one of his little plush shrines.
“You’re supposed to be on my side,” I say.
“I am on your side. I’m just saying, there’s two sides.” He shifts up to sit. “Like Ash’s big, beautiful biceps—”
Jamal actually loses his train of thought, staring dreamily at a shelf.
“Hello?” I wave my glass. “You were making a point?”
“I’m saying there’s two,” he repeats.
“Thanks. Ash has two arms. That clears everything up.” I sink deeper into the worn couch, its rough fabric scratching my skin. “No Alistair. No Ash. No rent money.”
A purple bear hits me in the face and almost drops into my drink.
“Tell me that’s not the main thing you’re upset about,” Jamal says.
“A little!” I protest. “This is a real problem.”
“You sold paintings,” Jamal says. “You’re talented. You’re funny. You have excellent taste in friends. Ash will come around.”
“Not if he loses his job,” I say. “Would I come around if Ash did something that meant I couldn’t paint anymore?”
“It’s not the same,” he says.
“It is to him. He cares more about money than anything.”
“Not more than you.” Jamal slurps rum through a Minnie Mouse twisty straw.
“Uh, that theory has just been proven false,” I mutter.
“Fine. Then play me the recording.”
He shifts onto his knees and scoots closer, holding out his hand. The recording is the only part of my plan that worked and proves that I didn’t just roll over. I pull out my phone.
“He didn’t even care,” I say. “This could literally save Ash’s job. If Alistair does something stupid, we can blackmail him with this.”
“Play. The. Recording.” Jamal claps with each word.
I open the recorder app. Nausea smears the whole night into one murky streak as I scroll, half expecting there to be nothing at all.
But there it is, at the top of the list: a twenty-two minute conversation between me and a billionaire.
I press play, bracing. Alistair’s voice is softer, more distant than mine, but there’s no mistaking who it is. Hearing it makes my skin crawl just like it did in his pristine house on the hill. The only comfort is imagining him now, toweling off spilled wine and nursing a bruised elbow.
Reliving it is bad enough. Watching Jamal react is worse.
His eyebrows shoot up at Alistair’s opening line. His mouth falls open at the casual arrogance. He recoils when Alistair brings up Ash, nods grimly when I call him a sadist, and by the end he’s basically curled into himself, waiting for it to be over.
In my head, the audio should end with the soft scratch of a needle spinning at the center of a record. Instead, it just… stops.
“Well?” I ask over the pounding in my chest.
Jamal lets out a low whistle. “Dude’s an asshole.”
“He’s fucked, right? I got him?” Hope flares through the nausea like a baby bird trying to fly.
“I mean… maybe?” Jamal’s hesitation splats my bird on the pavement.
“He literally says ‘Use me,’ and then basically threatens to fire Ash.”
“He says Ash will regret this,” Jamal corrects. “Didn’t you say he kissed someone on his team?”
“Barely.” But I’m not here to defend Ash.
Jamal crawls up onto the couch and takes my hands.
“That was scary. I’m glad you’re out. That guy’s a creep, and you deserve better.
But it’s not like he physically assaulted you on tape.
He doesn’t say, ‘You’re fired.’” He searches my face.
“It’s shady as hell, but… enough to bring down a billionaire? Maybe. If Ash wants to go nuclear.”
I shove his hands away and grab my drink. “The media would kill for this. He put his hand on my waist. I should send it to the cops.”
“Maybe,” Jamal says, frustratingly neutral. “And you pushed him to the ground. Have you thought about what turning this in might do to you? To Ash?”
Of course I’ve thought about that. Rocky’s been rattling around in my pocket all night, whispering worst-case scenarios. The truth is, I’m not worth Alistair’s time.
“I don’t have anything he can’t already ruin,” I say. It’s a weak answer, and only half of what Jamal asked.
Ash was right; I hadn’t really understood how far Alistair’s reach went. If he wants to squash Ash, he can do it long after firing him from Query.
“You should send it to Ash,” Jamal says.
“He didn’t want anything to do with it.”
“Because he’s mad you did all this without him.” Jamal gestures between the phone and his apartment. “You’ve made all these huge decisions without even talking to him.”
“Like he planned a whole gallery without talking to me?”
“I helped plan that gallery.” Jamal plants a hand on his hip. “Do you want to be with Ash?”
Warmth punches through my chest, the same dizzy rush that hit when I realized, in that horrible house, that I loved him. I push it down. Ash didn’t look anything like love tonight. From where I’m sitting, he’d have me back in Alistair’s arms if it meant locking in his promotion.
“I thought I loved him,” I say, the words somehow too big and too small. “Standing there with Alistair, it hit me I’d rather walk away than let Ash get hurt.”
“Are you kidding?” Jamal’s whole face lights, but I just feel tired.
“I’m broken, Jamal—”
“No.” He shakes his head hard.
“How could I not be? Maybe Alistair’s right. Maybe we’re all just meant to use and be used. God knows that’s been the story of my life.” I meet Jamal’s gaze.
He’s still shaking his head. “I don’t give a shit what Alistair said,” he replies. “If you love Ash or even think you might, do you really want all this ‘use and be used’ crap deciding your future?”
Put like that, the answer is obvious. “Of course not.”
“Then quit,” Jamal says. “Stop talking about going to the press, going to the cops, blackmailing a billionaire CEO. You’re hunting for struggle. You want to find out what kind of guy Ash is? Send him the recording. Decide together what to do.”
I think of Ash on his couch, our feet touching under a blanket. The way his voice softened when he said, I want to help, sounded like more than words. It was the look in his eyes, like I was someone worth helping.
I miss him. And yeah, I love him. Even now—especially now—which feels stupid, given how tonight went. I could sit here forever, mainlining self-pity and rum while rewriting the story to shift the blame. Or I can do the one thing that isn’t hiding.
My thumb hovers over his name in my messages. Before I can lose the tiny bit of courage my rum and Coke is lending me, I drop a link to the recording into an email and start writing.
Ash is the one person who can decide with me what the hell we do next.