23. The Price of Belonging
23
THE PRICE OF BELONGING
CONNOR
Twenty-four hours after watching Ariana leave the dance studio, I find myself in the exclusive private lounge of The Summit, a sanctum of Seattle’s elite where billionaires negotiate everything from acquisitions to art investments over aged Scotch.
The air is thick with the scent of old money—polished mahogany, imported cigars, and single-malt whisky older than me. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city skyline, where the rain paints shifting silver patterns against the glass, a Monet of excess and power.
And somehow, in this temple of affluence, we are debating... corsages.
"The flowers have to coordinate," Alex’s fiancée, Mackenzie Gallo, insists over video chat while my so-called friends and fellow groomsmen nod seriously. "And no, Alex, matching pocket squares are not the same thing."
"But—" Alex starts.
"No buts!" Her image freezes momentarily. "I've already compromised on Vegas?— "
"Because someone," Grayson coughs while looking pointedly at me, "ruined that location for everyone."
"—so the Monaco party has to be perfect," Mac continues. "That means coordinated everything. Including flowers."
I tune out the flower debate, watching Seattle's spring rain paint patterns on The Summit's windows.
My thumb moves on autopilot, opening Instagram, scrolling to a profile I shouldn't still check. Amanda's latest post fills my screen—her daughter beaming at some academic awards ceremony, Matt's arm around them both. The same eyes I used to know so well, now reflecting a happiness that shouldn't bother me anymore.
But it does.
Not because I want her back—that ship sailed years ago. Bu there’s something else, something needling I can’t shake.
And now all I can think about is how Ariana ran last night. How she looked at me like she wanted to say something important, then fled into the darkness.
How I let her go.
"Connor?" Luke waves a hand in front of my face. "You with us?"
"Hmm?"
"I asked if you're bringing a plus-one to Monaco." He pushes his glasses higher, grinning. "Perhaps a particular PR exec that you’ve been obsessed with lately?"
"That's..." I clear my throat. "Complicated."
"Everything's complicated with you, late.” Callum’s voice cuts through the chaos, commanding attention without effort. He prowls the room like the Highland-born predator he is, phone pressed to his ear as he argues in rapid-fire Gaelic before switching to regular old English. “No, Grandmother. The estate is my responsibility now. My rules." A pause. “That was twenty years ago. Let it go."
He ends the call with a decisive tap .
Like everything about Callum Abernathy—His Royal Highness, the purported future Duke of Kingham—the perfectly tailored suit, the aristocratic features that belong on currency, the way he moves through space like he owns it.
Because he usually does.
"Family drama?" Grayson asks.
"The usual inheritance warfare." Callum sprawls in a chair with lethal grace. "Grandmama’s threatening to auction off another estate unless I ‘settle down properly.’ As if I'd let her."
"Most people would be worried about losing a Scottish castle," Luke notes.
"Aye, well, most people aren’t me." Callum’s smirk is pure devilry. "Besides, I own the auction house."
"Of course you do. Because buying auction houses is a completely normal response to family drama."
"Says the man who’s supposedly already ‘playing house’ with a certain brunette? I heard about the family dinner.”
I shoot Grayson a glare. “Wonder where that bit of info came up…”
Grayson rubs his forehead, sighing aloud. “For the love of God, can anyone in this goddamn friend group keep a secret anymore?”
Luke and Callum’s voice join as one. “No.”
Before I can respond, Mac's voice cuts through: "Can we focus, gentlemen, please? We have forty-eight hours until wheels up, and we still haven't discussed the yacht placement."
"The yacht," Callum drawls, "will dock exactly where I say it will dock. The Mediterranean has rules, lads. Old rules."
"The Mediterranean has GPS," Luke mutters.
"Ach, how charmingly technical of you." Callum gestures. "Tell me, when was the last time ye navigated Monte Carlo’s harbor during high season? No? Then perhaps we’ll stick with my expertise. "
“ Che palle .” Even Mac’s sighs sound Italian. “You lot are worse than my bridesmaids. Now, can we please?—"
"Speaking of expertise," Grayson cuts in, "we still need to discuss the Will situation."
My stomach drops. "What Will situation?"
"Well..." Alex shifts. "He is my cousin. And technically part of the wedding party. So..."
"So he's coming to Monaco." I run a hand through my hair. “Fucking fantastic.”
"If it helps," Mac offers, "I invited Ariana too. For the bachelorette side of things."
"Ah yes, the bachelorette side." Callum’s smirk turns wicked. "Where we'll all pretend we don’t know about the Vegas incident. How delightfully awkward."
"The Vegas incident isn't?—"
"Public? Please. I had three different intelligence agencies call to verify that video."
"You what now?"
"Old money, lad." He examines his cufflinks. "We have resources. And your harmonizing on the file management verse was surprisingly decent."
I grab my phone, needing distraction from the urge to strangle my friend:
ARIANA: So
ARIANA: About Monaco
ARIANA: I can make an excuse not to go
ARIANA: If that would be easier
My throat goes dry. I type back.
ME: Do you want an excuse?
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
ARIANA: No
ARIANA: But I don't want to make things weird
ARIANA: Weirde r
ARIANA: Although that ship probably sailed somewhere around the Elvis chapel
Despite everything, I smile.
ME: Come to Monaco
ME: We’re all weird here anyway
"Texting yer lass?" Callum peers over my shoulder with predatory grace. "How domestic. Though perhaps less romance, more logistics?”
"Says the man who spent twenty minutes arguing about yacht placement."
"The villa," he says with exaggerated patience, "has very specific requirements. Not all of us dock our vessels between social media servers and startup incubators."
“Aaaaand,” Mac sing-songs. “Moving on to sleeping arrangements.”
The next hour dissolves into increasingly ridiculous party logistics. Somewhere between debating helicopter landing zones and whether Will’s new girlfriend-slash-fellow-piece-of-shit requires her own suite, I find myself actually relaxing.
Because this chaotic planning session, complete with twenty-something years of friendship and rivalry and terrible jokes, reminds me that these guys—Connor and Grayson, and hell, even Luke and Cal’s crazy ass are about close to family as I’ve ever gotten after James.
They’re a reminder that even when I feel untethered, I have people who know me. People who give a shit.
I have a place.
My thoughts stray to Ariana, to the space we’ve built just between us two. A place that in its own strange way has become its own home.
"Connor?" Mac's voice breaks through my thoughts. "You okay with sharing the east wing suite?"
I clear my throat. “What? "
"With Ariana," she clarifies. "Since you're each other’s plus-ones. Unless that’s too…”
Too much. Too intimate.
Too familiar.
Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? Ariana and I are familiar. The opposite of everything I've built my single CEO life to be.
And yet...
"It’s fine." I ignore Grayson’s knowing look. “Question for the class: Why the hell Will get the west wing?"
"Because," Callum’s voice drops to that aristocratic purr that means he’s about to be insufferable, "some of us actually understand proper villa etiquette. The east wing has better views. And a private pool."
"And soundproof walls," Luke mutters.
"Very soundproof," Callum adds with a smirk. "Tested personally. Multiple times."
I throw a pocket square at his head. He catches it without looking.
“Alright,” Mac sighs again, and this one sounds happy. For once. “The private jet leaves in forty-eight hours, and we still haven't discussed the yacht party dress code."
My phone buzzes again:
ARIANA: Also
Fair warning
Lily may have helped pack my suitcase
Which means everything is either sequined or stolen from a Kardashian's closet
I blame the protein powder fumes
I try not to imagine Ariana in sequins. Or anything else Lily might have packed that may be lacy. Or silky.
Or see-through.
“Yo, Reeves!” Alex waves the color swatches. “You should be good to go. I know you’ve got IPO shit to untangle.”
The IPO .
“Yeah.” I nod.” Of course.”
I get up to leave, nodding to the guys.
"But we haven't discussed the coordinated dance routine,” Grayson calls after me.
"Let him go," I hear Callum say as I exit. "Our boy's got it bad. “I will say this…” His voice carries that lethal amusement that means trouble, "Monaco should be interesting."
I flip them off as I hit the door.
Just as my phone lights up one final time:
ARIANA: One more thing
About last night
I need to tell you something
But not over text
Can we talk? In Monaco?
I stare at the screen, already having an answer.
ME: Yes