Chapter 7
THE NEPHEW AND THE KNIFE
NOLAN
Sunlight stabs through the blinds, nailing me right in the face like a cosmic middle finger. My lower back protests with a dull ache—a not-so-subtle reminder that my couch is not a proper bed. Chloe picked it out. Too stiff. Too white. Too curated.
I should get a new one.
Yeah. I’ll do that today.
The coffee table in front of me is a full-blown war zone. Takeout containers teeter like Jenga, an abandoned whiskey tumbler, and a lazy sprawl of laundry that never quite made it to the basket.
Sitting up, I rub the sleep from my eyes, and take in the wreckage.
It feels… lived in. Chloe would’ve hated this. Her spaces were airbrushed—couch pillows karate-chopped into magazine perfection.
“We should present our best selves,” she’d say, smoothing corners that didn’t need fixing.
And I let her. Because I loved her.
But now, in the quiet of this imperfect space, I realize how much I missed actually living in it.
My phone buzzes.
A jagged fracture splits across the screen. A memory surfaces—me telling Rorie Adams that cracks meant change. It had been a non-flirtatious line at the time. But now, staring at the spiderweb across the glass, I wonder if the universe was trying to shout through the silence in that moment.
A text from my assistant, Tammy, comes through.
You working today or what? Your driver said he’s been waiting for over an hour and your not answering your phone.
I check the time. “Shit.”
I fire off a text to Alan.
Give me ten.
Launching myself off the couch, I immediately slam my knee into the coffee table. Pain flashes white-hot. I hiss through clenched teeth.
New couch. New coffee table. Noted.
In the bedroom, I tear through my closet, hunting until my fingers land on a charcoal gray suit. Strategic.
I strip off yesterday’s t-shirt, catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My hair looks is a war crime. My eyes are bloodshot, and dark-ringed. Basically, I look like hell. Feel like it too.
The quickest shower in human history comes next. No steam. Barely warm. Just movement.
Suit on. Tie adjusted. Jacket smoothed.
In the mirror, I look like I’ve got it together. Inside? I’m a Molotov cocktail with a ticking fuse.
Today, I have to pretend I didn’t walk in and find Jackson with my girlfriend. And act like my life didn’t splinter into a million shards less than twenty-four hours ago.
I’ll play the part.
For my job.
And because there was a shift last night.
One misdial.
One wrong number.
I ended up in a conversation that felt… real.
Texting her—whoever she is—was like finally cracking a window open I didn’t realize was painted shut.
She didn’t try to fix me. Didn’t pity me. She matched my mess with her own. And it felt honest.
A stranger saw more of the real me in one crazy thread than a year of showcased affection ever managed.
I fasten my watch. Grab my cracked phone and swipe it open. My thumb hovers over the thread. Her words still echo, but I pocket it, and head out.
Five minutes later than what I texted Alan, I walk out into the churn of the city.
Alan nods. “Morning, Mr. Rhodes.”
“Morning.” I slide into the backseat, buttery leather hugging my frame.
The ride is quiet. The city outside blurs—honking cabs, street vendors, sidewalk scuffles. All of it kept at bay by glass and privilege. Everyone and everything is moving. But my mind is stuck on pause, on one image.
Chloe and Jackson fucking.
Her hands. His smirk. The smug ease of betrayal.
No text. No call. No half-assed apology from her. Just absence.
Fucking bitch.
The car stops. Big Stream rises above, steel bones wrapped in corporate ambition.
I step out onto the sidewalk, the city humming at my back.
Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
The revolving door spins me into cool marble and quieter air. I cross the lobby, each step louder in the hush of marble stone and corporate calm.
Ding. The elevator opens. I step in. The doors close. By the time it lurches to a stop on the twentieth floor, my pulse has leveled, but only just.
I pause, take another breath. You got this, Rhodes. Fuck that guy!
The lobby inside Big Stream is sleek glass and chrome. My shoes clap against the tile, echoing loudly.
Tammy, assistant extraordinaire, intercepts me like she’s been posted there since dawn, armed with an agenda and God bless her, coffee.
She shoves the cup into my hand. “Morning, sunshine.”
This fireball is the heartbeat of my operation. Mid-forties, five feet of fury when needed, and always two steps ahead of me. Her curls are pulled tight, her suit is pressed, and her orange bow glows like a flare. Iconic.
Taking a sip of coffee, I eye her. She’s staring. “What?”
“Water cooler says you had quite the night.”
I sigh. “Fucking great! Everybody knows?”
“You could’ve texted me,” she says.
“I know.”
“I would’ve liked to be included in the vandalism.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Jackson’s been screaming about his car all morning. Sunscreen art. Very anatomical. Apparently it etched itself into the paint.”
My stomach sinks. Tammy notices the look on my face, that of part guilt, part panic, part should I be lawyering up?
“Relax. I had Imogene wipe the cameras.”
I blink. “You what?”
“Boss, you know I keep the felonies contained. You’re welcome, by the way. But next time you go full feral and don’t invite me—your balls? Earrings.” She points to her lobes, where a pair of glittering tiny pink flamingos dangle.
“You think I’m kidding,” she adds.
“I do not.” I absolutely do not.
“Good.”
“Please give your amazing white hacker wife a kiss for saving my ass.”
“Oh, I’ll give her more than that.” She winks. “Now. Thatcher. Ten minutes.” Tammy turns to leave.
“Oh, Tammy.”
She pauses, twists back.
“I need a new phone,” I add. “Screen’s cracked.”
She deadpans. “You want me to replace the whole phone, or just fix the screen? Asking for my sanity.”
“Whatever gets it done, Tams.”
“Mkay, testy today.”
“I’m sorry. It’s been a shit twenty-four hours.”
She nods. “I get it. Need anything else? Coffee refill? Alibi? Hit Jackson with my car?”
“You’re my favorite person.”
She winks. “I know.”
Then he appears.
Jackson leans against my office wall. Pristine suit. Hair annoyingly perfect. He looks fresh. Not like he was up half the night fucking my ex-girlfriend.
“Rhodes,” he says, like we’re old friends.
“Jackson.”
“Nice of you to show up for work. Must’ve had a wild night. I know mine ran late.”
Leveling him with a glare, my tone is a jagged blade when I reply, “Funny, didn’t realize narcissism required aftercare.”
His grin tightens.
“Hey, I heard about your car,” I add, feeling dangerous.
“Did you?”
“Yeah. That sucks.” I blink. Innocent.
“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
“Nope.” I slide one hand into my pocket, the other brings my coffee cup to my lips. I take a sip.
“Hmmm. Well, whoever did it had some very strong opinions about male anatomy.”
“Yours?” I ask. “I heard it was a micropenis.”
“Ha! It’s enough to keep Chloe satisfied. Repeatedly.”
I walked right into that one.
The air goes razor-sharp. My fists clench before my brain catches up. Blood roars, knuckles twitch, I’m a half-step from launching into him.
“Nope.” Tammy slides between us like a human Switzerland. “We are not punching nephews before ten a.m., Rhodes.”
She turns to Jackson with a smile that could slice the man’s throat. “And you? Stop measuring your manhood in other people’s bed sheets.”
Jackson adjusts his tie. “Touchy.”
I exhale through gritted teeth. “Careful.”
Tammy nudges Jackson along. “Boys, if this turns into a pissing match, please take it outside. I just had these floors buffed.”
Jackson watches me as Tammy pushes him further toward the exit. Even with the added distance, the tension pulses between us.
“Mr. Thatcher,” Tammy reminds me over her shoulder.
“Have fun in the meeting,” Jackson calls out. “Try not to drag me down, yeah?”
“The only thing dragging you is your own dead weight.”
“You’ve got jokes,” he says.
“And you’ve got insecurities.”
I’m hiding my own cracks in my composure, sure. But they’re just reminders.
Change is about to happen.
Thatcher’s office is an open view of the city—quiet dominance with grey tones, minimalist furniture, and abstract art that’s more like a psychological test than décor.
He sits behind his desk, a portfolio open in front of him where he’s scribbling notes. His salt and pepper hair is neatly parted, not a strand out of place, and his navy suit looks like it was sewn onto him by a tailor with a god complex. His dark eyes are unblinking. They miss nothing.
“Rhodes,” he greets, gesturing for me to sit. “Rough night?”
I wonder, for a split second, if he knows. If he’s already heard what his nephew did. If this is his way of testing me—watching for fractures, waiting for me to flinch. But his face gives nothing away. As always.
“Just a late one,” I reply, sinking into the seat.
He studies me for a beat before sliding a black envelope across the desk.
“What’s this?”
“VIP tickets to the Crossfire event this weekend.”
My gut tightens. I hate celebrity events. All flash. An endless parade of fake laughter, and ego disguised as charm. But they matter. Networking is currency, and these parties are where deals start—even if they end in headaches and hangovers.
“Asher Cross is shopping agencies. I want you there.”
I nod. “Understood.”
“Take Jackson with you.”
The silence stretches for a beat as that sinks in, then it screams.
“I know he’s your nephew, but... you want him in the room for something that big?”
“He’s green. Needs guidance. And you’re the man for the job.”
I grip the envelope. Jackson accompanied me to a sales pitch a few months in from starting at Big Stream and he managed to single-handedly tank the entire meeting. We were in a boardroom with one of the biggest investors we’d ever landed, and Jackson, well, he decided to improvise.