26. Jayce
TWENTY-SIX
Jayce
S aturday, 8:47 a.m.
My apartment smells like burnt coffee and I’ve worn a groove into the floorboards, pacing between the fridge and the couch.
Rosie’s on her way to the hospital. To Kix Lyle. To the man everyone thinks she assaulted.
I check the clock. Again. It’s going to be at least two hours of her playing detective while I’m stuck here, vibrating out of my skin like a kid who chugged three Red Bulls before a penalty shoot-out.
I should be drinking.
I should be losing my mind.
Instead, I have a hockey game running in the background, the volume low. I don’t care about drinking. I don’t care about losing my mind. I don’t care about me . Right now? I’m just thinking about her. My chest is tight, my hands clenched into fists. I should be happy that I don’t feel the need to drown in alcohol anymore, but it’s replaced with this constant worry about Rosie, and I’m not sure if it’s just the perfect amount of distraction I needed or the final straw to end me.
I stop mid-stride and pull out my phone, my thumb hovering over Henry Huntington’s contact. Calling Rosie would be useless—she wouldn’t pick up. We already had a fight about me staying here because she and Ethan decided to go by themselves since too many people would be too conspicuous. So, I stayed behind and already regret it.
I exhale sharply and press Call before I can overthink it.
The line clicks. A deep, unimpressed voice answers.
“Thorne…”
Henry Huntington’s voice could freeze a Zamboni track.
“Let me tag along.”
A long pause. I hear the clink of ice against glass. Check the clock again. 8:50 a.m.
“You’ll keep your mouth shut about whatever you see,” he says finally.
It’s not a question.
I swallow. “Yeah.”
“Not ‘yeah.’ Say it.”
I grit my teeth. “I won’t breathe a word.”
The line goes dead.
9:12 a.m.
A sleek black limo purrs outside my building, like a panther stretching on the pavement. The door swings open before I knock.
Henry Huntington sits inside, perfectly crisp in a navy suit, probably worth more than my entire wardrobe. He doesn’t look up from his tablet. “Sit.”
I get in the car, the leather seats sticking to my jeans. The divider stays up, but in the polished walnut trim, I catch the driver’s reflection—he’s got way too broad shoulders for a chauffeur. That’s a man who’s probably trained to kill someone like me with a ballpoint pen.
Henry finally looks up. “Regretting this yet?”
I meet his gaze. “Do I look like I fold under pressure?”
He lifts an eyebrow. “You didn’t back in your good days. Now you look like someone microwaved your nerves.” A tap against the window. “Drive.”
Silence stretches between us. He’s an asshole, but at least that’s what you prepare yourself for when you think of Henry. I’ve known him for years—first as a ruthless boss who paid me to construct his pool house, nitpicking every detail to remind me of his power. Then, as the man who sat in private boxes at hockey games, watching his son play, never clapping, never congratulating, just existing like a force of nature. Sometimes he’d invite us to dinner, either in NY or in the Hamptons.
Riley used to go off about him, convincing me to tag along countless times. At first, I didn’t want to go, but eventually, I did it for him. And then, when Rosie turned eighteen, that’s when I started secretly liking her, even though I knew I shouldn’t.
It was always about how Henry would swoop in to fix things, how it made Riley feel like he wasn’t enough. Therapy helped him work through some of it, but I could tell it still stung.
“What are your intentions with my daughter?” Henry asks, pinning me with those familiar whiskey eyes, although they are a shade darker than Rosie’s.
I straighten, pulse kicking up. “I’d like to marry her. But I know she’s too young for that now.”
Henry scoffs. “She’s too young to settle for someone like you.”
I take a deep breath. Not going to lose my shit. Not here. Not with him.
“Don’t you want her to be happy?” I ask.
His expression remains unreadable. “I want her with a man who is as good as her.”
So is being rich her only characteristic? That’s cheap even for him. I lean forward. “How about a man who’s there for her until she dies? A man who worships the ground she walks on? A man who makes sure she doesn’t spiral, doesn’t drown in everything coming at her? How about that?”
A muscle ticks in Henry’s jaw. He reaches beside him, lifts a small black suitcase, and places it on my lap.
I frown at it. “What’s that?”
“Look inside.”
I flick open the latches. The case is packed with stacks of crisp hundred-dollar bills. The old smell of paper and power hits me instantly. At least a million dollars. Maybe more.
My stomach turns.
Henry leans back, putting his tablet away. “Take it and leave her alone. Actually, go back to where you came from and stop bothering my family.”
The limo slows. My apartment flashes past the window. He’s giving me an out. A bribe.
I’m on the verge of losing my mind, yet I somehow remain composed. It feels like my hockey games, where I had under three seconds to make a call. In this odd moment, I almost feel like…my old self again.
I push the suitcase back to him. “Sir. With all due respect, I don’t want your money.”
His mouth barely moves. “Take it.”
“No.” I meet his gaze dead-on. “You could give me a billion dollars, and I wouldn’t walk away from her. I love your daughter.”
Henry narrows his eyes. “What if I gave it to your parents?”
I don’t even have to think. “My parents have everything they want. A house that’s paid for. Jobs they like. A Scrabble board and a cat. They don’t need your money. And neither do I.”
Silence. Heavy. Electric.
Henry watches me, unreadable. Then, slowly, he puts the suitcase next to him.
I fold my arms. “I know I’m older than Rosie. But you’re older than Eleanor, aren’t you? Ten years, I think? You value your wife. You fight for her. That’s all I’m doing for Rosie.”
Henry leans back. I can’t tell if he’s irritated or impressed.
“I promise you,” I continue, voice steady, “the minute she doesn’t want me anymore, I’ll let her go. But as long as she loves me, as long as I make her happy—I’m with her, and don’t you ever offer me your money again. I don’t ever want it.” I exhale. “So, can we focus on what actually matters? Like shutting this idiot down before he ruins her life?”
Henry stares at me for a long beat.
Then, finally, he smirks. “Maybe you are worth more than building my pool house after all, Thorne.”
The limo drives off again.
The building smells like stale takeout and bad decisions. It’s an old warehouse where the paint peels like sunburned skin. It looks like something straight out of a bad movie, and I have no idea who the fuck Henry Huntington is. I knew he did some bad things, but what the fuck is this?
Three guys in tailored suits materialize when the doors open. No guns visible, but the bulge under the shortest one’s arm says everything. Henry strides past them like they’re potted plants.
Peter’s duct-taped to a dining chair that’s seen better days, greasy red hair plastered to his forehead. His left eye is swelling shut, the Rolex glinting under the flickering fluorescent light. My gut twists. Kid is maybe twenty-five. Young enough to still think he’s invincible.
Henry snaps his fingers. One of the suits rips the gag off. He takes a deep, deep breath. “Jesus Christ!” Peter’s voice cracks. “I didn’t—”
“Charlotte,” Henry says, calm as a sniper’s exhale. “You thought she’d love you for this?”
Henry simply stands there, arms folded, as he watches him.
Peter barks a laugh. “She’s never looked at me. Not once.”
I narrow my eyes. Then what did the video show? A hug simply? Well, it’s hard to tell since it was so pixelated, and Rosie did jump to conclusions fast.
“Then who?” Henry presses.
“Immunity. Cash. Then I talk.”
Henry leans in, golden cuff links catching the light. “You’ll get a plane ticket and enough money to forget your own name. After you speak.”
Peter licks split lips. “How can I trust you?”
Henry shrugs. “You can’t. But I wouldn’t test my limits. You’re not actually worth anything to me.”
“Kix Lyle wanted revenge on Vaughn,” Peter starts, and I notice Henry frowning, as if he’s disgusted that he breaks so soon. “Because of this diss track bullshit he released. He found Charlotte and she got his puppet. That greedy little fame leech. They needed a fall guy.”
My pulse jackhammers. “What about the watch? Was it a present from Charlotte?”
“Down payment, my job was to mix the drugs in the drinks,” Peter says. “But Charlotte’s a dumb bitch. She mixed them up and gave Kix Lyle the drugs and forgot Rosie’s second dose. That’s why it took her so long to black out. We put more in the second drink, and well, that’s what put Kix Lyle out in the end. Instead, Kix started slurring and Charlotte needed me to get him home. That’s why I went with them.”
“And at home?” I pressed.
“It got freaky. Kix wanted weird stuff from Rosie. He wanted Charlotte to film, so I thought it was time for me to go.”
“You just left them there?” I say, my knuckles turning white.
“Well, it’s not my fault that Kix wanted Rosie.”
“For what?” Henry grunts out.
“Just to fuck with Vaughn, from what I know.”
Fuck. And now Rosie’s with Kix. “We must go,” I say to Henry, and he looks alarmed. “Rosie is sneaking into the hospital right now; they’re trying to find some answers.”
Henry’s fist connects with Peter’s jaw. The crack echoes.
“Car. Now.” Henry’s already moving, silk tie flaring behind him like a war banner.