Chapter 26 Nico
Nico
Thursday evening. The office is mostly empty except for the cleaning crew and the small army of people trying to save my ass.
Bree came back this morning, that gorgeous mouth set in a firm line.
We talked.
I told her everything. About the years of toxic anger I weaponized against my own brother.
She said she cared about me, too.
Then she said she didn’t know if that was enough.
Fucking fair.
But she’s still here. Still at her desk outside my office, laptop open, working on my last minute plan for tomorrow like the world isn’t actively trying to burn us both alive.
I haven’t touched her since Sunday night.
Four days.
Feels like four years.
My phone buzzes. Larissa. I answer on the first ring.
“We have a problem.” My general counsel’s voice is tight. “Kieran Ashby’s publication is running a second exposé tomorrow morning. Six AM embargo lift. The headline is ‘Rossi CEO: Pattern of Control and Questionable Ethics.’”
I close my eyes. “Have you read it? Is it bad?”
“I have, and yes it’s bad. It’s essentially a continuation of the Monday hit piece. They have sources. They’re framing the blackmail as part of a broader pattern of manipulation. The relationship with Ms. Dawson is featured prominently.”
Of course it is.
Gabriella didn’t just drop a bomb.
She gave them a fucking narrative.
“Get Paloma and the crisis team in my office. Twenty minutes.”
I hang up. Through the glass wall, I watch Bree look up from her laptop. She can read the tension in my shoulders from fifty feet away. Anyone could.
I hit the panel to turn the smart glass opaque. Not to hide from her. To prepare for the shitstorm about to land.
Twenty minutes later, my office is crowded. Paloma sits across from me, tablet in hand, circles under her eyes. Larissa is beside her, legal pad filled with notes. The outside crisis firm sent two people whose names I’ve already forgotten.
“Here’s what we recommend.” Paloma taps her tablet screen.
“Same playbook as Monday. Legal sends a warning letter to the publication. We don’t deny the core story because it’s true.
We emphasize the ten-year gap. Highlight your philanthropic work.
Get character references from hospital partners and patient advocates. ”
Larissa nods. “We keep Ms. Dawson’s name completely out of any statements. No acknowledgment. Let the speculation remain speculation.”
“What about Dom?” I ask. “Did he ever get back to us regarding an official statement about our reconciliation?” We reached out to his team on Monday when the first hit piece came out.
“He did,” Larissa confirms. “We’re drafting one for him to release at this very moment. It’ll be about brotherhood, forgiveness, and moving forward. Nothing too personal.”
I stare at the conference table.
This is the standard corporate crisis playbook.
Spin.
Deflect.
Contextualize.
“Give me a minute.” I stand. “I need coffee.”
Nobody believes me, but they clear out anyway. Professional courtesy for the CEO who’s about to approve his own destruction.
I walk past Bree’s desk without a word and head to the break room.
The vending machine hums in the corner. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead.
Through the window, Manhattan glitters in the darkness like nothing’s wrong.
I hear footsteps behind me.
When I turn around, Bree’s standing in the doorway.
She’s changed out of her work blazer. Just the cream blouse now. The one with the gaps between the third and fourth buttons that drive me crazy.
“You’re making a decision,” she says.
“We’re going to use Paloma’s strategy,” I answer. “Same one we used on Monday. Standard damage control.”
She walks closer. Stops three feet away. Close enough that I can smell her perfume. Vanilla and jasmine. The scent that’s been haunting me for weeks.
“And what do you think of the strategy?” she presses.
I think it’s bullshit.
I think my brother should write his own heartfelt statement, rather than the sterile one my lawyers insist on writing for him.
I think Bree deserves better than being kept out of the narrative like she’s something shameful.
“I think I’m done hiding,” I say instead.
Her eyes search my face. Looking for the lie. The manipulation pattern Gabriella painted.
She won’t find it.
Not anymore.
“What does that mean?” she asks quietly.
“It means I’m going to tell the truth. All of it. No spin. No legal threats. No pretending the past didn’t happen or that I wasn’t a complete fucking monster to my own brother.”
Her eyes widen. “Nico. That’s PR suicide.”
I smile sadly. “I know.”
“The board will use it against you. Martin will push for removal.”
I keep smiling, my eyes feeling wet. “Probably.”
She stares at me. Those amber eyes that see everything. Every scar. Every wall. Every broken piece I’ve spent ten years trying to disguise.
“Why?” she whispers.
Because you were right.
Because I’m tired of hiding who I was.
Because the only way forward is through, and I’ve been taking detours my entire goddamn life.
“Because I want to be the man you think I can be,” I tell her honestly. “Not the man I once was.”
Her eyes fill with tears. She blinks them back. Sets her jaw.
“Then write the statement yourself,” she says. “Don’t let Paloma craft it. Your words. Your voice. And have Dom craft his own.”
I nod. “I will.”
“And Nico?” She steps closer. Her hand reaches up, touches the scar at my cheek. “Let me read it before you send it.”
I cover her hand with mine. “Okay.”
She leaves.
I go back to my office and send the crisis team home. Paloma protests. Larissa looks like she wants to strangle me. The outside consultants exchange glances that say we’re not getting paid enough for this shit.
I don’t care.
I text Dom, tell him there’s been a change of plans. Ask if he can draft an official statement about our reconciliation himself, rather than to expect one from our lawyers.
He doesn’t text me back. Either it’s too late at night, or...
Fuck it.
If it’s too much trouble for him to draft his own statement, then I don’t want one from him at all.
At 9 PM, I’m alone at my desk with a blank document open. Bree is outside, at her own desk, her back to me.
Thank you for being here when I need you most, Bree.
The cursor blinks. The building is silent except for the hum of the HVAC system.
I type.
Delete.
Type again.
The words are harder than I expected. Honesty is a muscle I haven’t exercised in years.
By 11 PM, I have something. Three paragraphs. Two hundred words. The most terrifying thing I’ve ever written.
The story is true.
Ten years ago, I attempted to manipulate my brother into leaving the woman who is now his wife. I used his guilt over a childhood trauma to pressure him into ending his relationship because I wanted what he had. Because I wanted him to experience what it felt like to be abandoned and betrayed.
It was cowardly. It was cruel. It was wrong.
I was in my early twenties, angry, and drowning in grief I hadn’t processed. None of that excuses what I did. Dom and I reconciled years ago. He forgave me before I could forgive myself. I carry the shame of that choice every day.
I can’t change who I was. I can only choose who I am now.
And I choose to stop hiding.
I read it three times. Looking for weaknesses. Exit ramps. Ways to soften the blow.
There aren’t any. It’s raw and ugly and true.
I email it to Bree.
Three minutes later, she appears in my doorway, her eyes bright.
“It’s good,” she says quietly. “It’s you.”
I smile wanly. “It’ll destroy me.”
“Maybe.” She walks to my desk. Sits on the edge the way she’s done a dozen times before. But this time she takes my hand. “But so what? At least you went out fighting. And with your head held high.”
I nod. “I did. Didn’t I? Told the truth, for once. Instead of hiding behind my glass walls.”
She smiles. “You let me inside, earlier today.”
I squeeze her hand. “I did. And it’s time to let the world in, I guess.”
I schedule the release for 6 AM. Copy my PR team so they have time to prepare for the fallout. Copy Larissa so she can handle whatever legal shitstorm is coming.
Then I shut down my computer and look at the woman sitting on my desk.
“Come home with me tonight.” Not a command. A request. “Not for anything. Just. Stay. Be with me.”
She doesn’t answer with words. Just slides off the desk, collects her bag, and walks toward the elevator.
I follow.
Indira has the SUV waiting in the garage. Callahan opens the door for us, then sits in the passenger seat.
The drive to Tribeca is silent.
Bree’s hand stays in mine the whole way.
When we reach the penthouse, the door barely closes before we’re on each other, making up for every painful word with touch and breath and the desperate need to be close.
It’s not gentle.
Forgiveness written in sweat and skin.
Afterward, we lie tangled together in my bed, and I can’t stop touching her.
Her hair, her shoulder, the curve of her hip... like I need constant proof she’s still here.
That she stayed.
At 7:32 Friday morning, my phone rings.
I’m awake, have been for an hour, watching Bree sleep. Still can’t quite believe she’s here. That after everything, she chose to stay. The early light catches in her hair, and something in my chest loosens.
Whatever comes next, I don’t face it alone.
Dom’s name on the screen pulls me back.
I answer. “Did you see it?”
“I saw it.” My brother’s voice is rough with emotion. “I’m proud of you, little brother. I’m releasing my own statement, like you asked. Supporting you. Publicly.”
The words hit me somewhere deep. The place where all the old wounds live. The scar tissue that never quite healed.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say.
“Yeah.” Dom sounds like he’s smiling. “I do. You asked. So of course I’m going to release a statement.”
He hangs up.
I look at Bree, who’s just starting to wake up, the morning light turning her skin to gold.
The statement is live. My phone is already exploding. The board meeting is in six hours and Martin Hale is probably drafting his attack right now.
But in truth, as I watch her wake up in my bed, I don’t feel concerned at all. Instead, I feel... at peace?
It’s the strangest sensation.
Like the most important thing I have in the world is right here.
And I’m not drowning anymore.