Chapter 52 Bastian
BASTIAN
FOUR DAYS LATER
col·lapse: /k??laps/: verb
I’m running beside Zeke through Grant Park, and I can’t stop grinning like an idiot.
“You’re doing it again,” Zeke says.
“Doing what?”
“That thing with your face. The smiling shit. It’s unsettling.”
I laugh. I’m doing a lot of that these days. “Fuck off, Z.”
“See? Even your insults sound happy. It’s like watching a Disney villain discover the power of friendship.”
We round the corner near Buckingham Fountain. In the morning sun, the high arc of the spray looks like diamonds. Everything looks brighter today. Sharper. Like someone cranked up the saturation on the whole damn city.
Shit, maybe Zeke’s right. That is some reformed Disney villain shit right there.
“Big night tonight,” he continues. “You ready?”
It’s a big night indeed. The gala. Project Olympus. Eliana on my arm in front of everyone who matters.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m ready.”
And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I actually mean it.
Because there’s not a damn thing to worry about.
Nothing can drag me down. I have the world in the palm of my hand.
It’s just me, twelve hours away from achieving all my dreams, running through Chicago on a perfect May morning with my best friend beside me and the woman I love waiting for me at the finish line.
Well, not literally waiting at the finish line. Eliana refused to spend the night last night, even though she’s slept over every night since our wild experience at the top of the Olympus building. It’s bad luck, she said. Like sleeping with the groom the night before the wedding.
We’re not getting married, I reminded her with a chuckle. But she insisted.
That silly little metaphor of hers set off all kinds of bells in my head. Wedding bells, to be specific. Thoughts of waiting at the altar as a copper-haired bride dressed in white with pale hazel eyes came walking down the aisle toward me.
I shake that shit off, though. It’s sappy and premature. Even still, I can’t deny the dangerous little thrill at the thought of putting a ring on Eliana’s finger and calling her my wife.
We finish our run near Zeke’s place. He salutes me goodbye, with a promise that he’ll catch me at the gala for a celebratory shot of tequila.
“I’m buying,” he says.
“You idiot, it’s my company and it’s open bar. I already paid for the drinks.”
“No, really,” he says with a solemn hand pressed against his chest. “I insist.”
I laugh again and shove him aside. Then I lope off towards my place a few blocks away. It’s a beautiful day and a beautiful world and a beautiful life, and fresh air might be the most intoxicating aphrodisiac that God ever invented.
At the penthouse, I find Sage sprawled on the couch playing video games. He pauses when I walk in. “Uh-oh. You’re in a good mood.”
I shrug. “It’s a good day.”
“You’ve been getting this cardio high every time you go running lately. It’s unsettling.”
“Zeke said the exact same thing.” I chuckle as I grab a protein shake from the fridge and start chugging it.
“Well, he’s right. You gonna keep that same energy when you’re smooching the asses of all the VIPs tonight?”
“They’ll be smooching my ass,” I correct. That undeniable surge of hell fucking yes rears up in my chest again. It’s insane to think that this day is here. Years of planning, of maxed out credit cards, of early mornings and late nights—it culminates like this, in just a few hours.
I. Fucking. Win.
I drop my blender bottle in the sink and turn to Sage. “You sure you don’t want to come?”
“To a boring party full of lame-ass rich people seeing who can one-up each other with their boujee vacations and vintage Rolexes? Hard pass.” He unpauses his game. “Besides, Lilah and I are hanging out tonight.”
“Oh, yeah?” I lean against the counter. “You need money?”
“I’m good.” He glances at me with a smirk. “But thanks, Dad.”
I flip him off. He laughs. So do I.
Fuck, it’s a beautiful world.
I head to the shower, still riding the dual high of endorphins and victory. But when I step out and reach for my towel, my phone starts vibrating on the counter. Once, then twice, then a third time in rapid succession.
I dry my hands and check the screen. Three emails from Harold Fitzgerald. The subject lines escalate.
Urgent
URGENT
URGENT - CALL ME NOW!!
I open the most recent one. It’s short, direct, and absolutely not what I want to fucking read right now:
Bastian - Serious concerns have been raised about Project Olympus. We need to meet at the site immediately. This cannot wait until tonight. - HF
Water drips down my body and pools in the channels of the tile at my feet. Serious concerns. What the fuck does that mean? I dial Harold’s number, but it goes straight to voicemail.
Just like that, this beautiful day suddenly feels a lot less beautiful.
I arrive at the Olympus site an hour later, dressed in my tuxedo because there’ll be no time to change before the gala. The bow tie feels like a noose around my neck as I park and get out. Harold’s Mercedes is already parked outside, along with two other cars I don’t recognize.
Even with my hands tucked in pockets, I can feel them starting to shake.
I find them outside the front door of the building—Harold, Taylor Brewer, and two men in suits I’ve never seen before. Harold spots me first. His face is grave.
“Bastian.” He doesn’t offer his hand. “Thank you for coming on short notice. You know Taylor, of course. And these are my lawyers.”
Lawyers? What the hell?
“Care to explain what’s got you all fired up, Harold?” I ask coolly.
He blinks in a slow, placid way that does not reassure me in the least. “Concerns, Mr. Hale. Lots and lots of concerns.” He glances at Taylor, who shuffles his feet and looks away. The two nameless lawyers are glaring at me without any hint of a smile.
“Which ‘little birdies’ have been talking this time?” I ask him through gritted teeth.
“It’s not a matter of who’s been talking, Bastian. It’s about what they’ve been saying.”
“Well? Are you going to drag this shit out or are you going to actually tell me what the fuck is happening?”
Again, that blink. I hate it more and more with each successive sighting.
“I have it on good authority that this building—which represents billions of my dollars, and nearly as much from my friend Mr. Brewer here, as well as all of the other limited partners’ investments—is absolutely riddled with operational issues.
They say that everything from cooling apparatuses to ventilation systems has failed to pass inspection on numerous occasions.
They say that you couldn’t even fry an egg in here, much less cook a Michelin-star meal.
And they say that you, sir, are responsible for covering it all up. “
A rage I haven’t felt in months starts to boil in me.
Hot and lethal, from my fingertips to somewhere deep in my core, it rises and rises.
I’d like nothing more than to find the nearest sharp object and take a pinky finger from each man here, for even daring to look me in the eyes and accuse me of this shit.
“That’s a fucking lie,” I start to snarl, ready to tear them all limb from limb. “That’s—”
But then I look up at the highest window and memories of four nights ago come flooding in to quench the flames.
Eliana was so small and submissive in the darkness.
The world was spread at our feet and all she wanted to look at was me.
It was the same the other way around. Everything I ever wanted took the shape of a five-foot-three girl with forest green eyes and the softest lips.
The rage doesn’t disappear. Not entirely. But it settles. Shifts from boiling to simmering. From Aleksei’s way to mine.
I straighten my bow tie and look Harold dead in the eye. “Why don’t you show me?” I say evenly. “Show me these supposed violations. Show me the inspection reports you’re referencing. Show me a single piece of evidence that backs up what you’re claiming.”
The lawyers exchange glances. “We have sources—” Harold begins.
“That’s not the same as proof,” I interrupt.
“I’ve done this shit the right way, Harold.
And tonight, when the world finally gets to see what I’ve built, you’re going to fall at my feet and fucking thank me for making you the easiest money of your lifetime.
” I pull out the building keys from my pocket.
“Let’s settle this right now. I’m going to show you what we’ve done.
And then you’re going to take me to the little birdies and I’m going to rip their fucking wings off. ”
Silence. A blink. Another. Another.
Eventually, Harold shrugs. “Show me then,” he says, nodding toward the bronze doors that lead into Project Olympus. “I’d love nothing more than to be wrong.”
I unlock the bronze door, pull it open, and step inside. Harold and his entourage file in behind me. But I only get two steps in before I pause.
It’s the smell.
The smell isn’t right.
It’s not the clean scent of new construction, sawdust and paint, concrete and chrome. It’s something else. An acrid, chemical stench that makes my nostrils flare.
I put out a hand to stop Harold from moving deeper into the space. “Wait.”
“What is it?” Harold asks, wrinkling his nose with suspicion.
I don’t answer. I’m too busy trying to figure out what the hell is unsettling me. Is it gas? No. Not gas. Cleaning solvent? Maybe. But no, that’s not it.
I take another step forward. The sound of my dragging footstep echoes in the vast atrium, bouncing off walls that should be filling with laughter and clinking glasses in just a few hours.
“Well? Bastian?” Harold presses.
“Give me a second,” I mutter.
With a growl, I charge across the atrium. Harold and his lawyers scramble to keep up, barking endless questions I ignore and do not answer.
The kitchen doors to State & Madison, one of the ground floor restaurants, are straight ahead. I shove through them hard enough that one bangs against the wall.
The sight stops me cold.
It’s a fucking wreck.
The pristine space Frank showed us just a few days ago has been gutted.
Equipment that should be gleaming and ready sits disassembled in pieces on the floor.
Copper wiring dangles from open ceiling panels like spilled entrails.
The space where the range should be is completely empty, leaving only the gas hookup jutting from the wall.
As I look around, the damage continues. Cabinet doors hang at odd angles. The walk-in cooler door is propped open with a cinder block, the interior completely bare and as warm as the rest of the space. Even the fucking tile is cracked in places, as if someone took a sledgehammer to it.
Behind me, Harold’s sharp intake of breath confirms what I already know: This isn’t ready. This isn’t even close to ready.
This is sabotage.
I turn again. This time, I run. I brush right past Harold and Taylor and the lawyers and charge across the atrium to Somssi.
It’s the same in here. This place looks months away from readiness, if not longer.
I sprint upstairs. The second floor is the same.
The third.
The fourth.
The fifth.
Harold & Co. finally catch up to me at the very top level. I’m standing in my office, looking down at the patch of concrete where Eliana and I finally made love just four nights ago.
It’s covered in sawdust. As if no one was ever here.
Harold comes trundling in, his face purple with exertion and rage. Sweat darkens the collar of his silk shirt as he wheezes from the climb.
I pivot slowly. One hand reaches up to undo my bowtie. It dangles around my neck, loose and useless, sad, defeated.
“This is what you’ve been selling me?” he spits, flailing around wildly at the gutted office. “This disaster? This absolute clusterfuck?”
I open my mouth to respond, but he steamrolls over me.
“This shouldn’t even need to be said, but I’m pulling my funding.
Immediately. Every single dollar. And I’ll be demanding full refunds for what’s already been spent.
” His finger jabs at my chest as he stalks toward me.
“Furthermore, I’ll be contacting every single person in my network to warn them about Bastian Hale and his complete fucking incompetence. ”
He moves to the wall and flips the light switch.
Nothing happens. No light. Just darkness.
Harold turns to face me, scathing. “If you can’t even manage a light bulb,” he seethes, “how the hell can I trust you with three billion dollars?”
He spits on the floor. Then he spins on his heel and marches away. Taylor gives me one sad look before shaking his head and following the lawyers out.
I’m left alone, at the top of what was supposed to be my greatest victory, wondering how the hell it all went wrong.