Chapter 2
Michael
My grandfather blamed his near-death experience on my inability to sustain a relationship.
Never mind that he’d slipped on the stairs because he refused to use the railing like a normal eighty-four-year-old.
Or that he’d been rushing to answer his phone at seven in the morning because he was convinced missing a call meant missing a crisis.
According to Augustus Ashford, the real reason he’d almost cracked his skull open three weeks ago was because his only grandson was thirty-three and allergic to commitment.
“If you’d just settle down,” he’d said from his hospital bed, IV dripping into his arm, monitor beeping steadily, “I wouldn’t be so stressed about the family legacy.
My blood pressure wouldn’t be sky-high. I wouldn’t get dizzy.
This is what happens when your grandson treats marriage like it’s some kind of trap. ”
I’d stood at the foot of his bed, exhausted from driving to the hospital at three in the morning, still in the clothes I’d worn to a board meeting.
The man had nearly fractured his skull, and he was using it as leverage in his ongoing campaign to get me married.
That was Augustus though. Relentless didn’t even begin to cover it.
He started the marriage lectures when I turned thirty.
Gentle at first—suggestions about settling down, hints about wanting great-grandchildren before he died.
Then he’d ramped it up. By the time I hit thirty-two, he was introducing me to daughters of business associates at every function.
Last year, he’d escalated to outright threats.
He’d pulled out his will during Sunday dinner—actually pulled out the physical document, spread it across the table next to the roast chicken, and announced that if I wasn’t married within the year, he’d leave everything to charity.
“You’re not serious,” I’d said.
“Dead serious.” He’d grinned like it was the funniest thing he’d ever said. “You think I’m leaving my life’s work to someone who can’t even commit to a woman? What does that say about your ability to commit to anything important?”
“And how exactly does my relationship affect my work?”
“It shows that you’re scared of permanence. And I’m not rewarding fear.” He’d folded up the will, tucked it back into his jacket. “One year, Michael. Find someone, get married. Or watch everything go to the children’s hospital foundation.”
Which was how I ended up engaged to Hannah Pierce.
Now I was sitting across from Hannah in some exclusive Vegas restaurant with exposed brick and mood lighting, and she was wearing an engagement ring that felt wrong every time I noticed it, as if we’re pretending this made any kind of sense.
Hannah was talking about her mother’s latest charity gala disaster.
Something about a caterer canceling last minute and the replacement serving salmon to a room full of people who’d specifically requested no fish.
She was animated, laughing as she described the chaos, and she looked beautiful doing it.
She always looked beautiful—that effortless elegance that came from growing up with money and good breeding and the kind of confidence that didn’t need to announce itself.
Emerald silk dress. Hair pulled back in a way that looked casual but definitely wasn’t. Diamond earrings that shook softly each time she tilted her head.
She was exactly the kind of woman I should want to marry. Except we were better off as friends than lovers.
“So then my mother tried to convince everyone it was done on purpose,” she was saying, wine glass paused halfway to her mouth. “Are you even listening to me?”
I blinked. Hannah was watching me, wine glass paused halfway to her mouth.
“What?”
“You’ve been staring at your whiskey for the last five minutes.”
“Sorry. Long day.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie. It had been a long day. Right after my best friend Jack Specter told me about Claudette.
“You say that every time we have dinner.” She set down her wine glass. “You know, you always look like you’re attending your own funeral when we do this.”
“I’m sorry.”
“We used to get along well, but ever since the engagement, you act like having dinner with me is some form of punishment you’re enduring for the sake of family peace.” She smiled, but there was something sad in it. “Which, to be fair, it kind of is. For both of us.”
That was the thing about Hannah. She was sharp enough to see through every polite lie, and kind enough not to call them out unless absolutely necessary. We’d been engaged for two months, but it was nothing more than a business arrangement.
“We should talk,” I said.
“Thank god.” She leaned back in her chair, relief washing over her face. “I was wondering how long you’d make us keep pretending this was working.”
“You’ve been thinking the same thing?”
“Michael, I’ve been thinking about nothing else since we got engaged.” She picked up her wine again, took a sip. “Your grandfather wants you married before he rewrites his will and donates your inheritance to charity—which is hilarious, by the way.”
“He’s serious about it.”
“And my parents want me to settle down after everything. We’re friends. But we’re not in love, and pretending we are is exhausting.”
I should have felt relieved. Instead I felt guilty.
“I need to tell you something,” she said before I could respond. “And I need you to just listen.”
Something in her voice made me pay attention.
“I had some medical appointments a few months ago. Routine stuff, annual checkups.” She paused. “They found something. Well, they didn’t find something. That’s the problem.”
I waited.
“It’s genetic. From my mother’s side.” She looked down at her wine glass and for some seconds, something sad and painful crossed her features. “I’m not having biological children. That’s the bottom line.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, meaning it. Hannah and I had visited some orphanages and children's foundations, even though it was for charity work that improves both our companies images, I’d seen the compassion in her eyes when she was with children.
She loved kids, I imagined how much she might actually want her own children some day.
“That’s so tragic, I’m really sorry, Hannah. ”
She looked up trying to smile, but it wobbled off. “Most men would already be planning their escape.”
“I’m not most men.”
“No, you’re really not.” She studied me for a moment. “You’re not disappointed.”
“About us? No.” I shook my head. “We both know what this is, but I do empathize with you.”
She laughed, genuine and surprised. “So if you’re not upset about us, why do you look absolutely miserable? You’ve been distracted for weeks. What’s going on?”
This was the opening. I took it.
“There’s someone else,” I said.
Her eyes lit up. “Finally. Who? When did you meet her?”
“She’s my best friend’s sister,” I said. As for when I met her, it felt like a lifetime ago.
I’d met Jack Specter when we were twelve years old at some business function our family had dragged us to.
The kind of event where kids were expected to sit quietly while adults talked about mergers and acquisitions.
We’d both been bored out of our minds, so we snuck out to the parking lot and spent two hours seeing who could throw rocks the farthest.
We’d been best friends ever since.
We grew up going to the same functions, the same private schools, the same exclusive summer camps where rich kids learned to sail and play tennis.
Jack was the brother I never had—the one person who knew me before the money got serious, before the company became what it was, and before I became someone people wanted things from.
He’d always been protective of his little sister. Even when she was just this tiny kid with blonde hair and scraped knees, following us around and asking a million questions. Jack treated her like she was made of glass, like the world might break her if he wasn’t careful.
When we got older and I started dating, Jack pulled me aside one time at a party. We were twenty-two, drunk on expensive whiskey someone’s dad had left unattended.
“You’re a player,” he’d said, pointing at me with his drink. “A commitment-phobic player who goes through women like they’re disposable.”
“That’s harsh.”
“That’s accurate. And I love you, man, but if you ever—and I mean ever—even think about looking at Claudette that way, I will personally destroy you.”
“She’s seventeen, Jack. That’s disgusting.”
“I’m talking about future you. Future her.
Any version of this where you think my sister is an option.
” He’d gotten serious then, the drunk humor fading.
“You don’t do relationships. You don’t do commitment.
You sure as hell don’t do love. And Claudette deserves someone who can do all of that.
So stay away. Don’t even sniff in her direction. ”
I’d agreed. I’d also wondered why Jack was suddenly warning me off when I’d never seen her that way before.
That she’d looked at me a few weeks earlier while I was fixing her laptop didn’t mean anything to me back then.
I left for college overseas two months later. Spent years in London building my education and then my company, putting an ocean between me and whatever Jack thought was going on.
I came back two years ago.
Claudette was twenty-six then—no longer the teenager with scraped knees but a woman who was beautiful, brilliant, lovely, and kind. Maybe that was when I realized Jack had been right to warn me off. Because I’d absolutely been blown away by her.
Every time Jack invited me over and she was there, curled up on the couch with a book or making sarcastic comments about whatever documentary was playing.
I’d gotten good at looking away, at keeping my distance, at pretending I didn’t notice her smile or the sound of her laugh or the fact that she was everything I’d ever wanted wrapped up in the one person I could never touch.
Jack’s warnings never stopped. Even now, at thirty-three, he’d make comments about my dating life. Call me a player. Joke about my inability to keep a girlfriend longer than six months. And always, always, there was the underlying message: stay away from my sister.
So I had.
Then eight months ago, Jack called me at midnight.
I’d been in my office, working late on some acquisition deal that didn’t matter anymore. I’d answered on the second ring because Jack never called that late unless something was wrong.
“It’s Claudie,” he’d said, his voice wrecked. Broken in a way I’d never heard before. “She has a brain tumor. They found it yesterday. It’s—Mike, they said it’s bad.”
I’d driven to his place and sat with him while he fell apart.
Watched my best friend, the strongest person I knew, cry about losing his baby sister.
I kept every feeling locked down because this wasn’t about me.
This was about Jack’s pain. About Claudette fighting something that shouldn’t exist in someone so young.
I’d asked what the doctors said. Jack told me they were trying treatments, that there was hope, that maybe they’d caught it early enough.
I’d wanted to believe him.
For eight months, I watched from a distance as Claudette fought. Heard updates from Jack about appointments and treatments and side effects. I kept my distance because what was I supposed to do? Show up and confess feelings for a dying woman? That felt selfish. Cruel, even.
Yesterday, Jack called again.
His voice was hollow. The doctors were out of options. They were talking in weeks instead of months. Claudette was getting worse, and there was nothing anyone could do.
I stood in my office after we hung up, staring out at the city, thinking about all the time I’d wasted. Eight months of telling myself there would be a miracle.
My phone rang, jerking me out of my thoughts. Jack’s name lit up the screen.
I answered. “What’s wrong?”
“She’s gone.” His voice was ragged. My heart skipped a beat, thinking she was gone. But he added immediately, “Claudette. She left a note, but her phone’s off, and Mom found it in her room, and she’s out there alone somewhere—”
“Slow down. Did you call her friends?” I asked, already thinking of who to ask.
“No one’s heard from her. I tried tracking her phone, but it’s off.”
There was exactly a second of silence when he said, “Wait—Mom just got a credit card alert.” I heard muffled conversation in the background. “She bought a plane ticket. To Vegas.”
Everything stopped. “You’re there for meetings, right?” Jack asked. “Can you—”
“I’ll find her.”
“Thank you.” He sounded like he was barely holding together. “Just… keep her safe. She’s probably scared, and I can’t lose her yet.”
“I’ll find her tonight.”
I hung up and stood there, trying to process. Claudette was coming here. Landing in a few hours. Running toward something or away from something—and either option scared the hell out of me.
“I have to go,” I said to Hannah.
She stood, grabbed her purse. “Then go. At least one of us should be with someone we actually love.”
I smiled at her. “I really am sorry, Hannah.”
“Shut up, just go.” She chuckled, but I could sense the hurt in her eyes about her situation.
I took one last look at her, then I took off.
I was already dialing my assistant as I walked out of the restaurant.
I needed everything she could pull on Claudette Specter.
Anything that might help me locate one woman in a city of millions.
I didn’t let myself think about what I’d say when I found her.
I focused on the immediate problem: finding Claudette before she did something reckless in a city designed for exactly that kind of mistake.
If she was in Vegas making terrible decisions, I was going to find her.
And then I’d figure out what the hell to say to the woman I’d loved for two years and never had the guts to tell.