28. Harrison
HARRISON
The best thing about haunting a high-level real estate deal is that no one ever expects the ghost to bite back.
Especially not when the deal’s buried behind four shell companies, a batch of offshore LLCs, and a bullshit front that calls itself something innocuous like Bright Urban Holdings. Vivian’s fingerprints are all over it, if you know where to look. Most people don’t. But I do.
And more importantly, my people do.
I’m not supposed to have people, technically.
Not these people, anyway. Not in the way Gavin has polished attorneys and Jack has ex-military security contacts.
My network is quieter, more likely to be found in server logs and dark-thread chat rooms than at charity galas. But they’re loyal. And fast.
And they hate Vivian just enough to make this fun.
Done . The message pings on my screen. It’s from a handle named RedRoot. No real name. No photos. Just three lines of text and a smiley face that always reads a little bit smug.
Blocked transfer authorization. Tripped quiet flag to notify Pillsbury shell. Left a trail straight to you. Like you asked.
I stare at the message and allow myself the smallest smile. Not because it’s petty—though yeah, it is. But because it’s precise. Vivian won’t get the building. And she’ll know exactly who stopped her.
I toggle open the chain logs just to see it for myself.
The false denial buried under the fake tax hold, the flagged route that looks like a rookie signature from someone with my exact traceable habits.
It won’t hold up in court—wasn’t meant to.
But it’s enough for Vivian. Enough to make her furious.
Good.
She’s already taken too much from Parker, from the kids, from all of us. She thought she could rip their home out from under them just to remind us who still pulls the strings.
But I don’t have strings anymore.
I sit back, close the terminal, and roll my shoulder until it pops. My apartment’s dim, warm in the kind of way that makes everything feel heavier. One lamp on. Outside, the city pulses like a heartbeat.
My place looks like what fifteen-year-old me thought success was supposed to be—glass walls, dark concrete floors, recessed lighting everywhere.
It’s sleek, cold, designed to impress people I don’t let past the entryway.
Custom steel shelving I never filled, a ridiculously oversized leather sectional, floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the skyline so sharp it feels fake.
The kitchen’s all black marble and brushed chrome, the kind of thing that looks better untouched.
There’s a high-end espresso machine I barely use, a wine fridge stocked by someone else, and a minimalist fireplace I’ve turned on maybe twice.
It’s curated, not lived in. Expensive, not warm.
Like I built it to prove something—then forgot what that was.
Inside, it’s just me and the steady hum of satisfaction.
I don’t celebrate. I don’t toast. I just stand, stretch, and pull out my phone. Messages from Jack and Gavin, both asking if I’m available now.
So, I send: Come over. We need to talk. Because now that the battle’s over, it’s time to talk about the future.
Jack shows up first, as usual. He knocks once, opens the door like he owns the place, and drops a six-pack of something cold on the counter. He doesn’t ask if I want one. He grabs two, tosses one my way, and leans against the kitchen island. “You get it done?”
I nod, taking a long pull from the bottle. “She’s out of the deal. Couldn’t close. I left a trail.”
Jack smirks. “So she knows it was you?”
“She’ll know by morning.”
“Good. Vivian’s been haunting all of us for too long. If she wants war, she can have it.”
Gavin arrives ten minutes later, still in slacks and a white shirt rolled to the elbows.
His tie’s stuffed in his jacket pocket, hair slightly mussed like he spent the whole drive debating whether to keep his temper or use it.
He nods to both of us, sets his phone face-down on the counter, and cracks a beer before anyone has to offer.
We sit in the living room. No formalities. No agenda. Just the three of us spread out on the couch and armchairs, city lights pouring through the glass behind us. It’s quiet for a minute. Then Jack clears his throat.
“So,” he says, setting down his drink. “We’re doing this.”
Gavin glances at him. “The baby?”
“ Babies ,” Jack corrects, then pauses. “Or baby. We don’t know yet.”
“We will,” I say, and they both look at me.
Jack raises an eyebrow. “You good with that?”
“I am.” The answer is simple. Maybe the simplest truth I’ve ever spoken. “If it’s one or two or however many, they’re ours. This is our family.”
Jack relaxes a little, his fingers drumming the side of the bottle. “I’ve been thinking about it. How weird it is that it’s not weird.”
“That’s because it feels right,” Gavin says. He shrugs. “We built this. The three of us. Parker’s not in the middle of it. She’s the core of it.”
We sit with the thought, the idea that this isn’t about taking turns or picking favorites. It’s about the fact that we are committed to the same woman, whatever comes next. And there’s no jealousy, no bickering. Just family.
Maybe it should feel strange, but it feels natural.
I glance down at my hands, flexing my fingers like I’m testing the weight of something I can’t see. “I didn’t grow up with much.”
Jack glances over, but he doesn’t speak. Gavin just waits.
“We didn’t have a car. Our apartment had cracks in the ceiling and mice in the walls. My mom turned tricks to make ends meet. I spent most of my time in the back alley or at the public library. I figured out early that money didn’t fix everything, but it sure as hell helped.”
Gavin sets his bottle down. Jack stays still.
“Vivian took me in, thanks to you.” I nod toward Gavin. “And I owe her. Even now. She saw something in me before anyone else did. For that, I owe her.”
“She also weaponized you,” Gavin adds gently.
I nod. “Yeah. But that’s not the part I carry. What I carry is this—someone gave me a chance when I had nothing. And now I want to give that to someone else.”
The room is quiet for a long moment.
Then Jack says, “You’re gonna be a good dad, Harrison.”
I huff out a breath. “Sure as fuck hope so. It’s not like I had any good examples among Mom’s johns.”
He snorts at that. “No, I don’t imagine you did.”
After a while, Jack’s draped sideways on the couch, one arm over his eyes. Gavin’s nursing his beer, eyes half-closed, legs stretched out like he finally let himself take up space. I stay seated in the armchair, elbows on my knees, looking out at the skyline I used to think was unreachable.
It’s strange, having everything I ever wanted—and realizing it’s not enough.
Not in a greedy way. I’m not trying to climb higher or grab more.
But there’s this low burn inside me, this nagging voice that won’t shut up, even now.
Especially now. A part of me that can’t just sit still and say, “I made it,” because I know there are too many people out there like me—kids scraping to survive, waiting for a hand that may never come.
I worked for everything I have. No one gave it to me. Vivian opened a door, sure, but I had to fight to stay inside the building. I swallowed my pride, silenced my own voice, made myself smaller just to be allowed in the room. Now, I own the damn room. And it’s not enough.
I want to do something that matters.
Not just provide. Not just build equity and hand down a trust fund. I want to create something bigger than legacy. Something with reach. Something that outlives me.
“You ever feel like we’re still behind?” I ask.
Jack groans without opening his eyes. “Define behind.”
“I mean…we’re winning, right? On paper. Money. Careers. Parker. The kids. A baby on the way. It’s everything we said we wanted.”
“And?” Gavin says without moving.
“And I still feel like I haven’t done anything that matters. To the world, I mean.”
That makes them both stir. Jack squints at me like I’ve lost my mind. “You just torpedoed Vivian’s real estate grab and kept over twenty families in their homes. That matters.”
“That was personal. I want to do something to help people outside of our family.”
Gavin studies me. “You want to make a bigger impact.”
“I don’t want to just protect what we’ve built. I want to offer it. To someone. Anyone. I don’t even know what that looks like yet, but it’s been itching at the back of my skull for weeks.”
Jack leans forward now, serious. “What do you want to build?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. Something for kids. For the ones like me. The ones falling through cracks no one bothers to patch. I don’t want to just pay my taxes and feel good about it. I want to fix something.”
They’re quiet for a second. Then Gavin nods. “Let’s figure it out.”
Jack raises his beer. “To fixing shit.”
I tap my bottle against his. It’s a simple gesture, but it means more than they know.
After the guys leave, I don’t turn on the TV or head straight to bed. I sit in the same armchair, the bottle sweating in my hand, and watch the city lights blink across the glass. Everything looks the same, but something’s shifted under my skin.
I used to chase control like it was oxygen. Keep my accounts tight. My calendar tighter. Wake before dawn. Stay two moves ahead in every meeting. I made a life out of proving I deserved to be in every room I walked into.
And I do.
But I’m going to be a father.
The thought settles differently now than it did a few days ago. Back then it was still abstract, hypothetical. We hadn’t met the twins. We were just three men circling something too fragile to touch. Now? Now there’s no denying it.
I want to be the kind of man who makes them proud. All of them. The kind who shows up. I want to be their safe place. Their steady hand. And I want to be that for Parker too.
She never asked for that. Never demanded anything. But she deserves everything. A partner who sees her. A man who stays. Or three of them.
My phone buzzes on the counter. I pick it up, expecting an update from Gavin or Jack. But it’s Parker.
Her message is simple. Just five words: I miss you. Come over?
I stare at it for a second, then grab my keys. This is where I’m meant to be.
On my way.