Chapter 2
TWO
Cole
The Waldorf Astoria sparkled as if it were auditioning for a holiday movie—white lights cascading down marble pillars, a twelve-foot crystal tree gleaming in the lobby, and a live quartet playing something tasteful and expensive in the background.
My parents loved this kind of thing—money on display masquerading as tradition.
I adjusted my cufflinks—the same ones my father had given me when I signed my first contract—and pretended I was having the time of my life, so people didn’t start to pity me being on my own as probably the youngest person at the event.
The ballroom was packed with my parents’ friends—senators, bankers, CEOs.
The women wore velvet and diamonds—the men in suits and ties.
I’d barely touched my champagne when a woman with an accent polished by a lifetime of privilege smiled at my mother.
The woman was Evelyn Fairchild—chair of some philanthropic board, wife of a venture capitalist who’d bought and sold three tech companies before breakfast. I knew her because I made it my business to know everyone in this circle; knowing names and power structures was survival.
She leaned in toward my mother, her perfume sharp enough to sting.
“And this is your son?” She gestured to me with a practiced sort of vagueness that hinted she knew exactly who everyone was but preferred to play coy.
It was the move of a woman who collected secrets the way others collected jewelry.
“Yes, my Cole,” my mother said, the kind of smile that could freeze a room into applause.
“Head of Severs-Braxton now, took over the firm at twenty-eight. Brilliant mind, steady hand—he’s his father’s son.
” She said it like a résumé line, not a heartbeat.
The pride in her tone was more about what I represented than who I was.
The expectation and the unspoken competition for parental bragging rights turned me into a trophy on display. I was used to it, but so over it.
“Our daughter, Amelia, just graduated from Yale with a degree in political science.” Then she gave a soft, dismissive laugh.
“Oh, education,” she said lightly, as though it were a decorative accessory—useful for conversation, not for continuation.
“Still, it’s always useful for a solid family life to have a wife who understands that world.
That is, should a man be considering a future in the political arena? ”
My mother glanced at me, a flare of hope in her eyes. I’d achieved everything she’d wanted of me, but politics?
That would be a big, resounding no. I’d faked enough smiles, dinners, and interviews to last a lifetime; no way in hell was I adding the false charm of a political career to the list. I could barely stomach being the public face of Severs-Braxton without wanting to crawl out of my skin.
I laughed under my breath, the sound dry.
“I’ll leave the running of the country to people better suited for it,” I said, lifting my glass.
“People who actually enjoy smiling for cameras and shaking hands.” My mom gave a tight laugh, but her eyes flashed with disappointment, and Evelyn’s lips thinned for a brief moment.
“You must meet up with her next time you’re in New York,” she recovered nicely. I let the champagne burn away my answer.
Her husband chimed in, his tone conspiratorial. “You’d like her, my boy. Smart, beautiful.”
I smiled like I’d been raised to. Polite. Polished. Hollow. “Sounds great,” I lied smoothly. “I’ll be sure to reach out.”
My mother waited until Evelyn drifted away before turning to me, her smile still fixed in place.
“Amelia would be… suitable,” she said lightly, as if we were discussing table settings. “Educated. Discreet. Raised properly. You need someone who understands the responsibility that comes with your name.”
I took a slow sip of champagne. “I understand my name.”
“Yes,” she said softly, eyes sharp. “But a partner must also.” She adjusted my tie, smoothing a wrinkle that wasn’t there. “You’re not twenty-two anymore, Cole. The firm is stable. Your position is secure. The next step is obvious.”
“Marriage?” I asked dryly.
“Legacy,” she corrected. “Stability. Continuity.”
My father joined us then, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Your mother just wants you settled. Someone from our world. Someone who won’t be… overwhelmed by it.”
Overwhelmed.
“The Jacobsons have a son that—”
“Mother!”
“Well, I know that you—”
“I’m not dating Harry Jacobson.” Not in a million years would I go anywhere near that asshole. Then I smiled because that was what I’d been trained to do. “But, don’t worry,” I said smoothly. “I won’t bring home someone unsuitable.”
My mother’s laugh was polite.
But her eyes searched my face like she was already afraid I might.
Inside, I was already halfway out of the door.
My hand itched for my phone—half tempted to text Rowan, my best friend, to share the absurdity of it all.
She’d have torn this whole event apart with one line of dry sarcasm, probably already halfway to the airport to escape it.
The thought made me want to laugh and leave for real.
Dessert arrived, my private phone buzzed, something I never ignored—a message from Alex at Guardian Hall: Can you drop by tomorrow if you have time?
The timing was weirdly perfect—a small crack in reality in the middle of this artificial evening.
I leaned toward my mother, murmured something about an early meeting tomorrow, and kissed her cheek.
My father nodded, already deep in conversation about stocks, golf, or the next fundraiser.
As soon as I was able to get away from matchmaking parents, I headed out with a determined walk as if I had somewhere super important to be.
The valet offered to bring the car around, but I shook my head.
“I’m grabbing a cab,” I said. I’d insisted on Harry, my driver, taking the week off.
Christmas was for people with families who didn’t have to fake smiles.
I tipped the valet anyway, with a smile and a Merry Christmas, and then stepped outside.
The air was sharp with wind from the lake and leftover snow.
I loosened my tie, shoved my hands into my pockets, and walked towards the cabs, the music and laughter blurring behind me.
“Where to?” the cab driver asked.
I hesitated. I didn’t want to go home. Didn’t want to sit in my house, surrounded by silence, and I didn’t want to go to work because not even I was that pathetic.
Rowan was with her family, and three hours away.
God, I wish I’d taken her up on the invitation to spend Christmas with her, her husband, and the twins but motherly guilt trips were a thing.
“Guardian Hall, 4120 West Evergreen Avenue in Humboldt Park,” I said before I could stop myself.
The driver gave me a look in the mirror, as if he was wondering what kind of guy spent Christmas night heading there from the Astoria. I didn’t explain.
Guardian Hall was a weary, weathered old building whose faded red brick bore the scars of decades.
Once a convent, now repurposed, it looked tired but solid—its lower windows gleamed with new glass, while the upper floors were still in need of work.
Around it stretched a neighborhood of contrasts: a mix of neglect and stubborn survival, yet friendly enough for a city block.
Graffiti tagged the walls, snow-dusted trash gathered in corners, and a rusted chain-link fence enclosed the small lot to one side.
Motion lights blinked on as the cab turned in, catching on cracked brick and glinting metal.
I paid the fare, tipped him well, stepped out, and pulled my coat tighter. The cold bit deep, cutting through the expensive wool. Cameras tracked me as I crossed to the door. I raised a hand and waved at the nearest lens.
A buzz. A click. Then the heavy door creaked open.
Alex stood there—his eyes flicked up in recognition, and something unreadable crossed his face.
“Cole?” he asked, scanning the street behind me as if he wondered what the hell I was doing here.
“You messaged me.”
“For tomorrow,” he said.
I shrugged. “I wasn’t doing anything special.”
“It’s Christmas.”
Yeah, and how much of a sad sack was I that Christmas was just another day? “It’s all good,” I said, and left that hanging.
He stepped back, the warm air of the hall spilling into the icy night as he motioned me in and closed the door firmly behind us.
I shoved down the thousand reasons I shouldn’t be here. “Is it okay to visit this late on Christmas Day?” I asked. He blinked at me, glanced over his shoulder where Jazz was waiting by the door into the kitchen.
“Sure. Usual rules though.”
I nodded, already knowing them by heart.
“Of course.” No drugs or alcohol on-site, no weapons, curfew at ten unless cleared, respect the quiet hours and peace, no photography, and absolutely no outsiders past this floor without clearance.
Guardian Hall was built on trust and routine; for veterans who’d seen too much, those rules were the difference between chaos and peace—no asking questions.
Respect everyone. And no fucking staring.
“Jazz,” I acknowledged Alex’s partner, and he nodded.
“You missed our dinner,” Jazz offered, his arms full of brightly colored pet toys and one annoyed-looking cat.
“I’ve eaten,” I said, not adding that a spoonful of caviar and one scallop plus three glasses of champagne was a nutritious calorie count for the day. “If you could call it food,” I added grumpily.
“There are cookies,” Jazz said, and gestured behind him.
“God yes,” I muttered. Cookies sounded exactly like what I needed right now.