Chapter 31 Is Faking Your Death An Option?
Is Faking Your Death An Option?
August
As soon as the door to my condo swings open, something feels off.
There’s a scent in the air—faint cologne that’s not mine, layered beneath the familiar rhythm of home. It trips a silent alarm. The kind I trust more than instinct. The hairs at the back of my neck lift before I fully step inside.
The room’s dim, lit only by the flicker of last night’s NHL highlights. And there he is.
Kelley.
Stretched across my Love Sac sectional like it came with his name on it, swirling a glass of my premium whiskey, grinning like he knows he shouldn’t be here and decided to enjoy it anyway.
“Ever think about pulling this stunt at your own place?” I ask.
“Oh, I’m good here,” he says, sipping like the liquor’s his.
Rain slams the windows behind him, heavy and impatient. I should still be with Harlee. Instead, I’m standing in my living room, staring at a problem I didn’t invite and don’t have the luxury of ignoring.
Harlee and I had a perfect day. Until this asshole showed up.
He’d already ruined my afternoon—pulled me out of Harlee’s orbit before I was ready to leave it—and now he’s sprawled across my couch like this is just another hangout. Kelley never misses a chance to interrupt a good thing if it means proving a point.
I toss my keys onto the counter harder than necessary and pull out my phone, scrolling without reading. A grounding habit. There’s still a photo floating online, grainy and wrong, waiting to become something louder.
Kelley takes another sip. “You look tense.”
“And you look too damn comfortable.”
He doesn’t even blink. Lowers the TV. “So… you took the intern home, huh?”
“She’s not an intern.”
“I know,” he grins. “And I told you so… I knew this was going to bite you in your ass”
Of course, he goes there. He just can't help himself.
“You get off on riling people up,” I say. “It’s either that or you’re allergic to peace.”
“Gotta keep things interesting.”
I knock his legs off the coffee table. His feet hit the floor. He laughs and offers me my own whiskey like a peace treaty.
“You’re really pouring me my own liquor?”
“Hospitality.” He shrugs.
I head to the bar cart. The decanter’s weight is familiar. Solid. Predictable. Things I understand. I pour a generous glass and let it burn on the way down.
“So,” I say, turning back to him, “now that you’ve commandeered my evening… you gonna tell me why you’re still here?”
He leans back, unbothered. “Moral support. And your whiskey’s better than mine.”
I swirl my glass. “It’s the drama you’re here for.”
“Guilty.”
I sink into the couch, letting the fur swallow me whole. “Remind me when I invited you again.”
He raises his glass. “I’m a giver.”
I tap my phone to brighten the lights, but it doesn’t make a dent in the chaos lounging on my couch. Kelley’s made himself at home—uninvited, unbothered. I take another sip, let it burn, then fix him with a look.
“So,” I say, “you here to annoy me in person, or was this just a scenic detour from your penthouse with a view?”
Kelley laughs—easy, golden-retriever loud, infectious and irritating all at once. “Depends. How generous are you feeling with that whiskey?”
I clock the empty glass he lifts—subtle as a slap. I set the decanter down slowly. Deliberately. “You’ve got hands, don’t you?”
He groans like I’ve personally betrayed him, hauling himself off the couch. “Such a gracious host,” he mutters, sloshing his refill like we’re in a telenovela.
I settle deeper into the couch. “Still waiting on that invite reminder.”
He lifts his glass again. “I’m a giver.”
I chuckle despite myself. That’s the problem with Kelley. He’s unbearable and familiar enough to soften the edges.
The joking thins out. The way it always does when Kelley’s here for more than entertainment.
“How bad is it?” I ask.
He shrugs. “P3.”
I blink. “You pulled up for a P3?”
Kelley wanders toward the window, city lights slick against the rain like he’s auditioning for a noir film. “Cipher found a cute little photo of you floating through the digital underground.”
Cipher. Our reputation sniper. If she smells smoke, it’s because there’s fire somewhere nearby.
“And you couldn’t text me?”
He smirks. “Where’s the fun in that? Besides, if Cipher found it, someone else will too. Probably the Chicago Times. Figured I’d enjoy the show in person.”
“Glad my anxiety’s entertaining.”
“Always has been,” he says, topping off his drink with unnecessary flair.
I rub my temples. “It’s not just the photo. Something feels off.”
His grin dips. Just a flicker. His wrist gives a quiet beep. He taps it once, reaches into his pocket, pops a glucose chew, and eats without breaking eye contact.
“If Cipher’s nervous,” he says, “it’s real. You weren’t answering your phone. Clock’s ticking.”
I roll my eyes. “Mr. Chicago means nothing to me.”
“Says the guy who framed the article in his office.”
“It was a good article.”
“And a great marketing strategy,” I shoot back. “It landed us clients. You’re just mad they picked my face.”
“I’m the face of this company.”
“And yet,” I say, “we’re in Chicago.”
“Touché, James.” He lifts his glass. “But this P3? Could be a P2 by morning.”
I exhale through my nose. “You got a plan, or are you just here to drain my liquor and my patience?”
“Fixer.”
I raise a brow. “You’re serious?”
“Worked for me in 2015. One phone call and a dick pic vanished from the internet.”
“Charming. But this is different.”
He shrugs. “Maybe. Still had money on you getting caught up. Just didn’t think it’d be this fast.”
I stare at the ceiling. “Lucid isn’t scandal central. It’s not like we were on a yacht with billionaires and coke.”
“And yet,” he says pleasantly, “here we are.”
“You live for this, don’t you?”
“Thrive,” he corrects. “Chaos is my love language.”
I sit forward, dragging a hand through my hair. “I kept things clean for years. Of course it’s Harlee that gets me caught slipping.”
Kelley raises a brow. “Caught feelings?”
I ignore it. “You’re the one who should be nervous. You get the fallout.”
He gasps. “I sparkle under pressure.”
He does. That’s the difference between us. He drinks scandal like champagne. I prefer to avoid them at all cost.
“You’re really enjoying this,” I say.
He strolls past the window like it’s a runway. “So how does it feel?”
“What?”
“Me being right.”
I groan. “They haven’t even confirmed it’s us.”
“But it is,” he says, suddenly calm.
“Only you and I know that.”
“And Cipher.”
“And Cipher,” I admit. “Still—no one’s watching me.”
“Exactly.”
I frown. “Exactly what?”
“Exactly why it’s news. You don’t do this. You show up once and suddenly you’re the story.”
I sink deeper into the couch. “You really think this is enough to drag your family into it?”
He lifts his glass. “You already did. When you ate your girlfriend out in a nightclub.”
I blink. “That’s—”
“A narrative,” he finishes. “And people love those.”
The word sticks. Narrative. That’s always where it goes wrong. When people decide who you are before you finish the sentence.
I scrub a hand over my face. He’s not wrong. I knew it the second I saw the photo.
“Alright,” I say. “PR God. What’s the move?”
He straightens, grin sharpening into strategy. “Damage control. Spin it before it spins you.”
I tilt my head back. “Define spin.”
“Go public,” he says lightly. “Control the narrative. Charity event’s coming up. Could even help.”
The thought knots in my chest. Not because of optics. Because of her.
“I’m not throwing Harlee to the wolves.”
“For the record,” he says, “wolves love you.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I,” he replies, quieter. “I’m just also funny.”
Silence stretches. I swirl my drink, watching the amber shift.
“Alright,” I say finally. “We get ahead of it. But on my terms.”
Kelley lights up. “There he is.”
“I want options,” I add. “And we keep Harlee out of it as much as possible.”
He grins wider. “You came to the right guy.”
“No one would see it coming. Total plot twist.”
“Kelley, I’m not faking my death.”
“Alright, alright.” He paces like the floor might cough up a solution. “What if we lean in? Satire. Release a statement like, ‘Yes, I was at Lucid. Also solved world hunger while I was there… The solution just so happened to be between her thighs.’”
I snort. “So now I’m doing stand-up? Risking everything for the bit?”
“Better than letting them write the story,” he says. “Laughter’s medicine.”
“Yeah,” I say, the smile fading. “Except this isn’t a joke.”
My gaze drifts to the framed photos on the wall. Me and Kelley, back when it was just ambition and morally grey decisions. Before the silent partner of the Whitmore name hung over everything like weather.
“We’ve worked too hard,” I say quietly. “I can’t let it spiral.”
Kelley’s grin softens into something real. He nods once. “Okay. Different angle.”
He drops into a lunge, sipping mid-dip.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Multitasking,” he says. “Saving your life.”
“We distract them,” he adds. “Something bigger.”
I rub my temples. “Simple. Effective. Not a circus.”
He grabs an apple, tosses it once, bites. “Fine. Nuclear option. We say it’s me in the photo.”
“And how does that help?”
“I bounce back better.” He shrugs. “Hero arc.”
I shake my head.
The joke lands wrong.
I shake my head, chuckling. “Kel, you’re out of your damn mind.”
For a second the room settles into rare quiet. I glance over at Kelley, who somehow manages to pace even when nothing’s happening. The man is pure kinetic energy. We’re nothing alike—he’s the hurricane, I’m the guy boarding up the windows—but somehow it works. Always has.
“Remember when we came up with the idea for the business?” I say, nodding toward the framed photo from graduation. Two cocky idiots in oversized suits, convinced we’d own the world by thirty.
Kelley grins, crossing the room with that same reckless swagger he had back then. “Yeah. Sitting in your dorm room like, we’re gonna take over the world by 2030.”