6. Liam
LIAM
I pick up Max on the way to the Silver Paw Ball, a gala raising funds for animal welfare across New York and New Jersey. Black tie. Vanity disguised as charity—my preferred genre of hypocrisy.
The limo rolls through wrought-iron gates and stops beneath the porte-cochère of his Hamptons estate. Max steps down the front porch.
“Your friend not coming?” he asks, glancing toward the open passenger door.
“He’s got his own transport,” I say. “Apparently her gown requires independent housing.” My eyebrows shoot up on housing.
Something brushes across the garden path near his shoes.
Barney.
The barn owl emerges from the side lawn with stubborn determination, hopping across pebbles with clipped wings lifted for balance. Once wild, he’s now grounded after a coyote’s bite.
“Behave,” Max tells him.
Barney rotates his head with slow disdain, then hops onto the handler’s gauntlet.
Max slides in, adjusts his cuffs, and studies his reflection in the darkened glass.
“Let’s get this out of the way,” he says. “I’m the best dressed.”
I look him over—white tux with black lapels, an impeccably knotted bowtie, all of it annoyingly effortless. Max still has a few years on me. I’m closing in on forty. He’s thirty-six.
I’m glad for the difference.
When we were kids, a few years meant everything. I could take a hit and keep moving. He couldn’t—not yet. Back then, being older wasn’t about authority or ego. It was about standing in front of what didn’t know how to stop.
Some habits don’t fade with age, but apparently, that responsibility expires the moment the gloves come on.
I glance at him. “Your nose is still crooked.”
He lifts a brow then angles his face toward my cheek. “Your cheekbone’s still yellow.”
“Didn’t stop three women from asking if it hurt,” I counter.
He scoffs, looking away.
“We’re going to look strange without a pet,” he says.
Tonight’s ball has one redeeming feature: pets are encouraged. The invitation specifies well-behaved, but no one defines what that means.
“We could’ve borrowed Mr. Johnson’s ferret,” he adds.
I consider it. “That ferret would spend the entire evening convinced it was about to be turned into a shawl.”
“Geez, Liam.”
“Maybe we’ll stick with Lockwood,” I suggest. “Blanket will be there.”
Blanket—once a stray from Hudson River Park. That scrappy mutt started the chain reaction that landed Marcus Lockwood married to Iris and conceding he’d never been in charge of his own fate.
“I’ll circulate,” Max says.
“Well, I’ll follow you,” I reply. “Borrow credibility.”
He grimaces. “That’s big-brother syndrome. And not the endearing version.” He checks his reflection in the window again. “Mara will be there.”
Ah. The old crush.
“Message received,” I say.
The limo slows to a stop.
We step out onto the red carpet into flashing cameras and shouted names. Max raises a single hand to the crowd as we move straight past the velvet ropes without slowing.
The ballroom of The Baccarat Hotel has been transformed into something decadent with white silk draping, ice-lit columns, and silver accents.
Max makes a beeline for Mara Ireland. Damn they look good together.
I don’t know how my brother managed to mess that up.
They’ve known each other since they were teenagers, back when everything around us was already going to hell.
I made the call to get us out. But leaving was never the hard part.
Mara was there for what came after. She’s one of the reasons he’s still standing, whether he wants to admit it or not.
I head for Marcus and Iris Lockwood.
“Fashionably just on time,” Marcus says, clapping a hand on my shoulder.
“You look sharp,” Iris adds.
I lean in to hug her, or attempt to. Seven months pregnant requires choreography these days. “And you look like a million dollars. How are you?”
“Good. I love being pregnant,” she says, then pats her belly. “But I won’t miss carrying a drum around.”
Marcus’s hand settles there, instinctive, steady.
And then there’s Blanket.
The white retriever cross waits patiently at their side, tail sweeping the floor in slow, hopeful arcs.
“Hey,” I say, dipping down to rub into his chest. “My favorite fugitive.” He presses closer, satisfied.
Then the energy in the room shifts. Two figures arrive, drawing every eye. Victor Rochemont wears a tux like everyone else, yet it sits on him with Parisian polish, transplanted into Manhattan. And beside him—Helena Mercer.
They walk in hand-in-hand, their fingers laced, her smile turned up toward him.
I saw her at the airport. Awkward, perhaps caught in the aftermath of a goodbye she hadn’t quite recovered from. She looked at me then. Surprised. A little swept up. I’ve seen that look enough times, though hers came with an innocence I wasn’t used to.
Victor says something to her and she laughs, the sound carrying farther than it should.
She’s more grounded than you’d expect for the daughter of a man whose name once stood for excess and abundance.
These days, that name barely circulates.
The Mercer collapse has been picked apart from every angle, and whatever noise surrounded her mother’s death has gone quiet.
Then Helena’s gaze lifts. For a brief moment, it finds mine.
And holds.
The bruise on my cheekbone aches, a reaction I never expected in a ballroom I’ve attended countless times.
Then they’re moving again, closing the distance. Victor steps in first with his hand out. We clasp, a quick pull-in, shoulder to shoulder.
“Hunt,” he says, grip firm, the corner of his mouth pulling into a grin.
“Rochemont. Not bad for a man fresh off a transatlantic.”
He looks around the ballroom. “I still don’t believe they meant it,” he says.
“Meant what?”
“The pets. I thought it was a polite suggestion. A gimmick.” He gives a short shake of his head and adds, “When Helen walked out this morning with that leash in her hand, I nearly shut the door on her.”
He’s about to introduce Helena to me, but her dog has decided the ballroom is hers.
The mutt barrels forward, straight toward Blanket. Blanket freezes, unsure whether this is an attack, or a social ritual he never studied for.
“Alaska—” Helena starts, already tugging on the leash. “Sit. Sit.”
Alaska does not sit. She circles Blanket, enthusiastic, friendly, completely undeterred. Blanket glances up at Marcus like he’s waiting for instructions that aren’t coming.
Victor exhales. “This is exactly why I told you not to bring her.”
“She’ll be fine,” Helena says, already knowing she’s lying. “She just—for some reason she loves—”
“Blanket,” Iris supplies. “Let them be.”
Helena exhales and loosens her grip on the leash. The dogs sort it out themselves, and an unspoken treaty is reached within seconds.
“I’m so sorry,” Helena says and introduces herself to Iris and Marcus. Then she turns to me, offering her hand. “I’m Helen.”
Her hand is small in mine, the satin glove making the whole thing more formal than I’d prefer. There’s a faint tremor there. Nerves? Hard to say. She seems at ease in the crowd, so maybe it’s just the last trace of the airport, that wicked curiosity ebbing now that we’re finally exchanging names.
“I’m Liam,” I say, then nod to her dog. “Springer?”
“Well, faux springer. But don’t tell her that,” she says, fondness softening her voice. “Twenty percent, though she looks convincing.”
Up close, Helena Mercer is stunning. Her eyes are warm brown, almost honey in this light, sharp at the corners.
Her mouth is generous, made for slow kisses and a great many other things.
Fucking Rochemont, he better earn her. The dress doesn’t help.
I’m a man, I don’t miss the bustier cut, maroon velvet of all things.
I step aside and steer Victor toward Marcus as Iris and Helena fall into conversation. Out of the corner of my eye, Helena hooks her fingers under the bodice and adjusts it.
Fuck. I shouldn’t be looking.
She then leans toward Iris and murmurs, “Why do men always choose the uncomfortable one?”
Iris smiles, conspiratorial. “My best friend’s a designer. I know a trick. It won’t expose anything, just make it slightly more bearable.”
Helena’s relief is immediate. They head off together, no doubt toward the ladies’ room.
“You remember Marcus Lockwood,” I say to Victor.
“Of course,” Victor says, clasping his hand. “Good to see you.”
“Ditching Paris, I hear,” Marcus says.
“I’m patriotic,” Victor replies.
The conversation drifts where it always does—the money side, timing. Victor needles me about an early deal, one he still insists was reckless. He’s younger than me, but I was never too proud to learn from him.
“Hunt’s still got the touch,” Marcus says. “Did you hear about Harbour East?”
Victor tilts his head. “That Hong Kong mess?”
“Used to be,” Marcus replies.
Victor looks at me, eyebrows lifting. “That you?”
I shrug.
“I thought whoever did that was out of their mind,” he says. “Buying straight into unrest.”
“It was madness,” Marcus agrees, then smirks. “But profitable.”
Victor gives me a wry shake of the head. “Classic you. In early when everyone else is out.”
Iris and Helena return a few minutes later.
Iris lifts her chin at her, then takes Helena’s hand and presses it to her stomach.
Helena laughs under her breath, eyes lighting as she spreads her palm there.
They lean close, sharing something private.
I don’t need to hear the words to know the subject.
Victor’s attention drifts across the room.
“Excuse me,” he says. “I’ve just seen someone I should go greet.”
Marcus follows his line of sight and smiles. “That’ll be my cue too.”
Iris squeezes Helena’s arm before she goes, then throws me a look far too deliberate to be accidental. Marcus follows his wife, and they walk off together, Blanket trotting behind them, tail high.
Which leaves me standing there.
With Helena.
And Alaska.
“She likes you,” Helena says, sounding equal parts pleased and mortified.
As if on cue, Alaska launches herself at me, paws up, barking her greeting.
“Oh—sorry. Sorry,” Helena says quickly.