Chapter Fifteen
Evan
New York
The bass hit like a sledgehammer. It wasn’t just loud—it was physical. It slammed through my ribs, rattled the glass in my hand, and crawled up the bones in my arms until I couldn’t tell if my pulse was matching the music or the other way around.
The club was one of those places that made its reputation by pretending it didn’t want you there.
It had the mandatory velvet rope downstairs and a doorman who could reject a billionaire if he didn’t like your shoes.
Inside, the dark walls and pulsing lights combined with the kind of money that made the very air feel expensive.
We had the balcony—a private table, a private bar, and a perfect, detached view of the chaos below.
Bodies were packed tight on the dance floor, moving like a single organism under the strobe lights.
Sweat-slick skin flashed white and gold as the beams cut through the haze.
Hands were in the air, hair was whipping, and strangers were losing themselves for the night.
Mateo slapped another shot down in front of me. “Drink.”
His voice barely carried over the roar of the music, but there was always something grounded about him—like even here, in the middle of chaos, he was clocking who needed what and making sure no one was left behind.
I looked at the row of glasses already lined up on the table like little glass soldiers.
Luca whooped and grabbed one, already halfway turned toward a group below like he’d known them his whole life. He had that gift—walk into a room full of strangers and leave with ten new allies and at least one problem solved.
Tomas clinked his glass against Mateo’s, steady as ever, eyes sharp even as he smiled. Tomas partied hard, but he never missed anything. He was the one who remembered names, details, who needed a follow-up call the next day.
Aisha had somehow already convinced two women in glittering dresses that they needed to dance immediately and was halfway to the stairs, laughing, pulling them along like joy was contagious and she refused to keep it to herself.
The usual crew. The usual chaos.
“Come on, man,” Luca said, nudging the glass closer. “You look like someone pissed in your whiskey.”
I grabbed the shot and threw it back. Tequila. Expensive. Smooth. Completely pointless because I was already well past my usual limit.
“Better?” Tomas asked, watching me a little too closely.
“Perfect,” I lied.
The problem with being good at entertaining people was that people liked being entertained.
Show them a great time once—skip the lines, get the good table, order the right bottles—and suddenly everyone wanted to keep the momentum going.
This was supposed to be a one-night affair.
Mateo and the others had flown in, and I’d thought: fine.
Show them New York. One night. Blow off steam.
That had been four nights ago.
And this was who they were. They worked harder than anyone I knew—rebuilt schools, negotiated with people who didn’t trust outsiders, stayed in places most people wouldn’t visit—and then they burned it all off like this.
Loud. Wild. Alive. But even here, they left things better.
Tips that changed someone’s week. Introductions that turned into opportunities.
They didn’t just take from a place—they shifted it.
Now the city felt like a revolving door of music, alcohol, and strangers who were all having a much better time than I was.
Another round of shots appeared. I took one automatically.
The burn hit my throat but did nothing for my head.
I kept hoping the next drink would fix it—that somewhere at the bottom of the next glass I’d find the old switch that used to flip so easily.
The one that told me to relax, enjoy the moment, and stop thinking so much.
But it wasn’t there. And the more I drank, the worse it got. Instead of losing myself in the music, my brain kept circling back to Firebrook Valley. Back to the barn. Back to Nora. Always fucking Nora.
I wanted this to work. I wanted the noise and the sweat and the flashing lights to drag me back into the version of myself that used to love this—the one who bounced between cities and projects and parties like life was an endless buffet.
The plan had been so simple: Bella would come back, she’d take the company again, and I’d disappear. I’d go back to Europe, back to building things, back to the life where Firebrook Valley felt like a strange emotional detour instead of something stuck under my skin.
But now? Now I was sitting in one of the best clubs in New York, surrounded by people I genuinely cared about, and wishing I were anywhere else.
I grabbed another shot. It was sloppy. I didn’t do sloppy. But tonight? Fuck it.
Mateo raised an eyebrow. “Easy, man.”
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah,” he said slowly, “that’s not convincing.”
He’d seen me in worse places than this—war zones, failed builds, negotiations that went sideways. He knew what “fine” looked like. This wasn’t it.
I forced a grin and pushed back from the table. “Need air.”
He watched me for a second like he didn’t believe that either, then nodded. “Don’t fall over.”
“No promises.”
I walked to the far end of the balcony where the lights were dimmer. The music somehow seemed to get louder, or maybe the alcohol was finally catching up. Down below, the dance floor surged and shifted like waves.
My friends disappeared into the crowd; Luca already had his arms around someone, probably mid-story that would end with them exchanging numbers.
Tomas was laughing with a bartender now, probably memorizing her name, her schedule, filing it away like he always did.
Aisha was in the middle of the dance floor, hands in the air, pulling people into her orbit like gravity had shifted around her.
They looked exactly like they always had in places like this—alive, happy, and at home in the chaos.
And somehow still better than it.
A woman appeared beside me. Tall. Blonde. Dressed in a way that would have distracted me a month ago. She leaned close so I could hear her over the bass. “You look like you’re thinking too much.” Her hand slid along my arm, warm and intentional.
I’d seen that look a hundred times—in clubs, in boardrooms, in quiet restaurants where people pretended the conversation was about work. It was rich-guy radar. There were times in the past that I’d indulged myself in those games.
I just shook my head. “Not tonight.”
She studied me for a second, then shrugged and disappeared back into the lights. There were plenty of other options in the room.
I watched her go, and all I could think was that none of the women I’d been with looked at me the way Nora does.
None of them smiled like that—that bright, surprised smile that starts in her eyes and spreads until it feels like the whole world just tilted toward happiness.
None of them laughed like her either—that sharp, sudden burst that catches her off guard and makes everyone around her laugh too.
I didn’t want any of them. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want the club, or the office, or the life that felt like it was slowly pushing me toward becoming my father.
The room tilted slightly. Okay, I definitely drank too much.
I sat down hard on one of the leather couches and closed my eyes. Bad idea. Everything spun faster. My brain kept looping the same thoughts over and over like a scratched record.
Nora. Brady. Brother code. She’s happy. She’s so fucking happy with him. Which means I’m happy. Because that’s what you do. You step aside. You don’t wreck something good because you’re too selfish to let it happen. Right? Right.
I laughed quietly to myself.
God, I’m such a pussy.
I didn’t even try. Didn’t even tell her. I just walked away like some noble idiot who thought suffering silently was the same thing as doing the right thing.
And these people—Mateo, Luca, Aisha, Tomas—they pushed me harder than anyone ever had. Called me out when I coasted. Dragged me into projects that mattered. Made me prove I was more than a name.
They made everything they touched better.
Including me.
But when things actually mattered?
I ran.
But it’s too late now. Too fucking late. They’ve been together. They’re happy. And if she’s happy, I’m happy. I’m so fucking happy for them.
My head dropped back against the couch.
I hate my life.
The bass pounded harder and the lights blurred. Or maybe my eyes did. I rubbed my face and forced myself to look up, and that’s when I saw her.
Nora.
She was walking straight toward me through the VIP lounge. She was in a tight black dress with her hair pinned up, exposing that soft curve of her neck that had haunted half my dreams since leaving for Europe. Her face was a little blurry, but that was probably the alcohol.
She lifted a hand and waved.
I stared.
I tried to stand up, but the room spun violently and my stomach lurched. I dropped back onto the couch, gripping the edge of the table until the nausea passed.
Okay. Definitely too much tequila.
I rubbed my eyes and looked again.
She was still there.
Still walking toward me.
Still smiling.
God, please don’t let that actually be Nora.
Because right now?
Right now, I really don’t want to see her.