30.0 #2
Her side of the closet was empty. Every trace of her perfume gone. Keys sitting on the counter beside a folded note.
I picked it up, the handwriting neat and cold.
You can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved.
I let out a slow exhale, the kind that burned on its way out.
My phone buzzed again. This time, it was my father.
I stared at the screen for a long second before answering.
His voice came sharp, rehearsed, controlled. "I told you this would happen."
"Yeah," I said flatly. "You did."
"You think this is the time for that tone?" he snapped. "Do you have any idea what kind of chaos you've unleashed? Reporters are calling your mother nonstop. The party's already drafting statements. You've embarrassed every single one of us—"
"I already know what's at stake here and I'm gonna handle. You're not fixing this for me."
He laughed—sharp, humorless. "Of course I am. That's what I've been doing your whole goddamn life. Cleaning up after you. But this? This is something else. You've let a—"
"A what?" I warned, my voice low.
He ignored it. "You've let a woman like that destroy everything we built. Tell me how that's not my problem."
"Everything that's happening," I said evenly, "is because of you."
There was a long pause, then a sneer in his voice. "Yeah? Because I'm the one who was shacked up with a prostitute?"
My jaw clenched. "Alright Im done with this conversation."
"Oh, no, go on," he said, baiting. "I want to hear it. How exactly is this my fault? How are you going to spin this one, son? You going to play the victim again? Cry about how Daddy ruined your perfect little love story while you're the one who did the damage?"
"You knew I didn't feel anything for Margot," I said, voice rising now.
"Both of you did. You met Amira. You knew about us and instead of letting me live my life, you pushed me into a photo op and fed into Margot's delusion. That's the type of person she is—you can't give her power without her thinking she's owed everything."
"She is owed everything!" he barked. "She's your wife, for Christ's sake—"
I laughed once, sharp. "Are we all just pretending to forget how this started? It was a contract. A fucking business arrangement for the public that you created it. That's all it ever was."
He didn't say anything, but I could hear his breathing shift—tight, shallow.
"I kept things professional between us," I went on. "I never once told Margot she couldn't see whoever she wanted on her own time. I never lied about what this was. And now, somehow, I'm the one being crucified for not pretending it was real."
I continued, "I keep hearing I'm ruining reputations yet, you Margot and Mom are the ones who leaked this entire thing trying to teach me a lesson."
Silence. A deep one.
"You'll regret this, Brooks. You'll come crawling back once she ruins you too."
"I won't," I said. "You don't have to worry about it. You and Mom can handle the spin however you want. But I don't want either of you to call me again."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
And then I hung up.
For a moment, I just stood there, the phone still pressed to my ear even after the line went dead.
The city lights bled through the glass, distant and sharp. Somewhere below, the world was tearing into my name, my face, my family. But for the first time in years, I didn't feel small under it.
Just clean.
Just done.
Just a man watching his world split in two.
My phone buzzed again. Jenna.
I almost ignored it, but something in me knew better.
"Brooks?" Her voice came tight, hurried. "Do you remember a guy named Dazio Espin?"
I frowned. "Yeah. Donor. He's been at a few luncheons, fundraisers. What about him?"
"Well, he just went on TMZ claiming he's known you for years. Says you and Amira have been together for five years and that she's—" Jenna hesitated "—a stripper who goes by Dream."
I closed my eyes, jaw tightening.
She kept going. "Apparently, Dazio's close with the Wellesleys. Says he feels 'so bad for her.' "
"He's another weird punk chasing his fifteen minutes," I said flatly. "I'm sure there'll be plenty more."
Jenna exhaled. "I wish that were all. But it's getting worse. I'm not sure if this next part's true, and I really hope it's not. I'm getting another call—just... I'll send you the clip. They've got some pole
videos of her too we tried to get them taken down but they're not budging. We'll deal with everything during the presser tomorrow."
The line cut.
A few seconds later, my phone buzzed again—one new message, a link.
I hit play.
The video was grainy, shot in the back corner of some studio. Dazio Espin sat in front of a branded step-and-repeat, sunglasses still on indoors, his expression all moral outrage.
"Look, I ran into Brooks and this girl—Amira, or Dream as she calls herself—at the gym," he said.
"They were parading their little relationship like it was something to be proud of. I told Brooks straight up what he's doing is wrong. Margot's a class act, and the Wellesleys are good people. He didn't wanna hear it. Told me to mind my business."
Not how I remember it.
He leaned closer to the camera. "So I reminded him my company's donated plenty to his campaign. Guess he didn't like that, because the next evening—might've been a week later, who even knows—I'm coming out of my office and six guys jump out of a van and beat the hell out of me.
Guess that's how your future vice president handles criticism."
I let the clip run its course.
"Asshole can't even differentiate between a week and the next night," I muttered.
But underneath the frustration, something twisted lower in my chest. Because the beating? That part wasn't fiction.
I'd handled it. Quietly. And I'd told myself he deserved it—because he'd done worse.
Because he'd grabbed Amira's hard enough to leave a mark and her shaken up.
I stood there, the memory flashing quick and ugly—me coming home late, her on the bed in a near panic attack.
I opened a new text to Jenna.
Sent.
Then I locked the phone, turned it facedown on the counter, and poured myself a drink I didn't even want.
Before I could even take a sip, it started ringing again.
Agitation built fast, low in my chest—until I saw her name.
Amira.
I exhaled, picking up. "Hey."
Her voice came small, tired. "Hey. Are you coming back to Jersey tonight?"
"Yeah," I said. "I'm at the penthouse now. Gonna grab some clothes and head over."
She was quiet for a beat. I could hear wind on her end, maybe from the garden. "Alina's teacher called," she said finally. "Reporters found where she goes to daycare. They've been out there all afternoon."
My stomach dropped. "What?"
"Yeah," she said softly. "Tim called too. Said they've been at the club asking questions. He keeps telling them I don't work there anymore."
I rubbed a hand over my face. "Jesus Christ."
She let out a thin, humorless laugh. "Good thing we got out of Philly, right?"
But her voice cracked a little on the end—tired, frayed. Like she'd been crying and was trying not to again.
"I'm sorry," I said quietly. "For all of it. You and Alina didn't sign up for this."
"I know," she murmured. "It's not your fault."
"I talked to my dad," I said. "I don't think we're gonna be on speaking terms for a while."
She hesitated. "Brooks..."
"I need a break," I said before she could go on. "From their input. From everything."
"I get it," she said. "I mean—I'm not exactly their biggest fan and they're definitely not mine. But they're still your parents. Yeah, they did something shitty, but... I don't know. Their reasoning is their reasoning, I guess."
"Maybe," I said. "But right now, I just can't do it. Not with them."
She sighed, quiet. "I get that."
There was a pause, heavy but not uncomfortable. Then, softly, "I saw something on TMZ."
My chest went tight. "Yeah?"
Her voice wavered. "They're airing clips of me dancing at the club."
I closed my eyes. "I heard."
"I'm sorry," she said, voice small. "I know that's not gonna look good for your image."
"Don't," I said. "Don't worry about me or my image. I'll handle it."
She hesitated. "Brooks..." Her breath hitched. "I'm naked in one of them."
I could hear the shame in her voice, could picture her holding the phone with shaking hands.
"Amira," I said firmly, "it's fine. I'll handle it."
A silence stretched. Then, quietly, she said, "It doesn't feel fine."
I swallowed. "I know."
She was quiet for a while. When she spoke again, her voice was careful. "They said you... had someone beat that guy up. The one who went on the camera. The guy who came to the club."
I didn't say anything.
I never told her about that night—about how she looked when I walked in. Shaken. Small. Like she'd just learned the world could still surprise her in the worst ways. Something in me cracked then. I didn't want her to feel like that.
I closed my eyes and exhaled. "It's not something I'm proud of."
"...So it's true?" she asked.
I stared out the window, the city lights fractured against the glass.
"Yeah," I said finally. "It happened. And if I'm being honest, he deserved it."
On the other end, I could hear her breathing—steady, but uneven.
"Okay," she said quietly. "Just... don't do anything like that again."
"I won't."
Another pause.
"Drive safe," she said.
"I will."
When the call ended, I stayed still for a moment, staring at the phone in my hand. The silence hit harder this time—thick, absolute.
I stared back at the glass. I hadn't had a drink in God knows how long. Thought it was a bad habit I'd finally broken.
I lifted the glass, the smell sharp and bitter, then poured it down the sink.
And that was that.