Chapter 31 Is Faking Your Death An Option? #2
“Still got time,” I say. "At least out of the two of us, I am still the better looking one."
Kelley spins around, mock offense flashing across his face. “Lie to yourself all you want, hermano. We both know I’m objectively hotter. That’s why we never go after the same women.”
I snort. “No. We don’t go after the same women because you get butt-hurt when they choose me.”
“Please.” He waves a hand. “Tiffany had a lazy eye anyway. And Sloane was a bitch.”
I freeze.
Sloane.
Her name hits like a slap, dragging memories up from a place I’ve kept buried for years. The last time my personal life got dragged into the spotlight for everyone to dissect.
The fallout was catastrophic.
My stomach knots instantly, like I’ve been yanked back into that night—the moment everything fell apart and I learned exactly how brutal life in the public eye can be.
The room goes still.
I don’t look at him. I stare at the condensation sliding down my glass, watch it gather, break, disappear. My jaw locks before I realize I’ve stopped breathing.
“Among other things,” I say.
“That was different,” Kelley says softly. “That shit was a nightmare. But you got through it.”
Barely.
Back then, I was young. Drunk on momentum. I’d helped build a District Attorney into a brand. Turned policy into persona. Sold voters something they wanted to believe.
New Year’s Eve was supposed to change everything.
The memories hit like a flood.
Suddenly it’s not my penthouse. Not Chicago. Not now.
I’m back in that ridiculous Manhattan mansion, champagne everywhere, people celebrating like the city belongs to them.
Carver King had just won the District Attorney race.
And I helped make it happen.
His campaign had been stiff, forgettable. I gave it a story. A heartbeat. By election night the whispers were already spreading through the room.
August James is the one behind it.
The golden boy.
Everywhere I turned someone was shaking my hand, telling me my future was set. Investors. Lawyers. Political operatives. Kelley and I were already sketching out plans for our own company.
Everything was lining up exactly the way I’d imagined.
All I needed was Sloane.
We met junior year—me and Kelley sneaking into law lectures just for the thrill of it. Then Sloane walked in.
Brilliant. Beautiful. Completely out of my league.
I fell anyway.
And that night I was going to propose.
The ring sat heavy in my pocket all night. Sapphire between two diamonds. Custom.
Perfect.
Midnight was minutes away when I realized I hadn’t seen her in a while.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
I moved through the crowd, scanning champagne-flushed faces.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
I slipped down the hallway toward the quiet rooms.
That’s when I heard it.
A soft sigh.
Relief rushed through me as I followed the sound to a half-open door.
Four.
Three.
Then another sound.
Low. Breathless.
Bodies shifting.
Two.
And her voice.
“Oh, Carver… Ah fuck me. Yes. Fuck.”
Everything inside me went cold.
Two thoughts crashed together at once.
That better not be my mom.
And—
It better be my mom.
But it wasn’t.
One.
Midnight exploded somewhere behind me. Cheers. Champagne. Music.
Inside the room, the world ended.
Carver King—New York’s brand-new District Attorney— is balls deep inside of her. My girlfriend. His sweat dripping from his brown to her chest.
Sloane.
My Sloane.
The woman I was about to propose to.
She looked up first.
“Auggie—”
My hand moved to my pocket before she could say anything else.
I pulled out the ring box.
Flipped it open.
For a second nobody spoke.
Then I took the ring out and threw it.
The sapphire hit the wall and cracked the silence.
“You two deserve each other.”
Six years later, I still feel it.
The moment trust turned radioactive.
The beginning of the man I became.
The ice in my glass cracks, loud enough to pull me back.
“Okay,” Kelley says carefully. “Hear me out.”
I blink. He’s checking himself out in the mirror again, hoodie adjusted, hair perfect.
“What if we launch a clothing line?” he says. “Guys who party hard but still want to look good the next day.”
I stare. “What does that have to do with me getting caught eating out my girl in a nightclub?”
“Nothing,” he says, delighted. “That’s the point.”
I snort.
Eventually, the jokes thin again.
“Kelley,” I say, leaning forward. “Your fixers—they airtight?”
“Best in the game,” he says immediately. “You trust me, right?”
I do. That’s the dangerous part.
“I trust you,” I say. “I just don’t like crossing this line.”
“We wait too long,” he says quietly, “we lose the window.”
“And it’s just… gone? No Harlee fallout?”
“Gone,” he says. “Trust.”
I exhale. Nod.
“Alright.”
He’s already moving, phone in hand. “Handled.”
The door clicks shut behind him later, final in a way the night hasn’t been.
Alone again, the condo suddenly feels too big for one man and a bad memory.
Rain taps against the glass. Chicago hums twenty floors down. My whiskey sits where Kelley left it, expensive and accusing.
Her name still hangs in the air.
Sloane.
The last time my life went public. The last time I believed letting someone close wouldn’t come with a price tag.
I pace to the window, Chicago smeared across the glass in rain and reflection. Headlights drag slow lines along Lake Shore.
And then, like it always does lately, my brain betrays me.
Harlee.
The sound of her laugh. The way she leans into me when she forgets to be careful. Cocoa butter and jasmine oil tucked behind her ear when she thinks nobody notices.
The memory lands low in my chest. Warm. Immediate.
Real.
Dangerous.
The fear isn’t losing my company.
Companies can be rebuilt.
It’s losing that.
Tomorrow the story disappears. Fixers make their calls. Lawyers polish their statements. The internet finds a new villain by lunch.
The machine always resets.
But the truth stays.
Because every time I let someone see me—really see me—
the world pays attention.
And attention has never once shown up quietly.