Chapter 2 Owen
OWEN
“If we don’t beat her there, the surprise is ruined.”
I check my watch, tapping the face of it as the blacked-out S-Class idles in the gridlocked Austin traffic.
“Relax,” Ethan says from the back seat. “We’re ahead of schedule. Harper is notoriously late.”
Ethan is a weapon stuffed into a bespoke Italian suit. He’s been answering emails since we left the office, attacking the glass screen with a violence that suggests he’d rather be breaking necks than negotiating with venture capitalists.
Next to him, Asher is staring out the tinted window. He’s wearing a suit, too, but he looks like he’s in physical pain. He’s tugging at his collar, his leg bouncing with that restless, manic energy he gets when he’s been away from a keyboard for more than an hour.
“I could be optimizing the backend right now,” Asher mutters, not turning his head. “The load times are lagging by 400 milliseconds. If we launch with this kind of lag, retention drops by twenty percent.”
“You’re not coding tonight,” I tell him, twisting around in the front passenger seat. “Tonight, we are good brothers. We drink expensive whiskey, we smile at Harper’s friends, and we pretend we aren’t three weeks away from the biggest launch of our lives.”
Ethan finally looks up. His eyes are gray, hard, and exhausted. “One hour. We stay for one hour. Then we go back to the office.”
“On a Friday night? You need a hobby, E,” I grin. “Or a woman. Or both.”
“I have a company,” he clips out. “That’s enough.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, expecting a text from the event planner to confirm the cake. A banner drops down from the top of the screen. It’s from the group chat—the one we set up with Harper’s best friend, Tessa, to coordinate the night.
I frown. “Did the balloons pop?”
I tap the banner. The chat opens.
My thumb stops completely.
“Holy shit.”
Ethan frowns, looking up from his email. “What? Did she cancel?”
“No,” I whisper, staring at the screen. “She definitely didn’t cancel.”
Tessa just sent two photos. And a caption that makes my brain short-circuit.
Help. Red or Black? Which one guarantees I get laid tonight?
I stare at the images. The black dress is fine. Classy. But the red one? It’s silk. It’s barely there. It clings to curves I didn’t know existed on Harper’s goofy childhood best friend. The neckline plunges dangerously deep, and a slit cuts high enough to make my mouth go dry.
“Christ,” Ethan breathes out.
I look up. He’s looking at his own phone now. The email is forgotten. He’s staring at the image of Tessa as if it just insulted him. His pupils are blown wide, swallowing the gray irises.
“What is she doing?” Ethan’s voice is low, rough. “Is she… is she sending this to us?”
“She wants to know which one gets her laid,” I say, my smirk deepening as the shock fades into pure, unadulterated appreciation. “That’s a bold move, Tess. Very bold.”
“It’s reckless,” Ethan growls. But he isn’t looking away. He’s tracking the line of that slit up her thigh with a look that is terrifyingly focused. “She can’t wear that. Not in public.”
“Why?” I challenge him, laughing. “Afraid she’ll actually find someone?”
Ethan’s face tightens. He ignores me and just glares at the screen like he wants to reach through the glass and cover her up. Or rip it off. It’s a toss-up.
“Asher,” I say. “You seeing this?”
Asher hasn’t moved. He’s holding his phone with both hands, his stillness absolute. He stares without blinking, like he’s trying to memorize the pixel density of her cleavage.
“Red,” Asher says. His voice is flat, devoid of emotion, but his eyes are piercing. “The black is boring. The red is efficient.”
“Efficient?” I laugh. “That’s one word for it.”
“She’s playing a game,” Ethan snaps. “She’s testing us. She wants a reaction? Fine.”
“Don’t be a dick, Ethan,” I warn him. “She’s flirting. Play along.”
Ethan ignores me and continues to glare at the phone. My fingers fly across the keyboard. I’m not letting this slide. If she wants to play, I’m all in. I type out a reply, voting Red, but warning her that she’s going to cause a riot.
I hit send.
A second later, a new bubble pops up. Asher. He didn’t hesitate. He calls the red torture.
I look back at Ethan. He looks furious. He looks like a man at war with his own instincts. The logical CEO is screaming at him to shut this down, to be the responsible older brother. But the man in this suit? The man staring at that red silk? He’s losing.
Another bubble appears on my screen. Ethan. He actually replied.
Unless you want trouble.
Ethan shoves his phone into his pocket immediately, crossing his arms over his chest like he didn’t just participate. He looks out the window, his jaw working.
“You called it trouble,” I point out, reading the notification on my own screen. “You know that’s not a warning, right? That’s a dare.”
“We are not discussing this,” Ethan snaps. “We go to the party, say hello, and act like professionals.”
My phone vibrates in my palm one last time.
Tessa: WRONG CHAT! Oh my god. I’m so sorry. Ignore that!
I laugh, the sound harsh in the quiet car. “She’s panicking,” I announce.
I look at Ethan. He doesn’t bother to check his phone. He just keeps staring out the window, entirely rigid. He knows exactly what he saw.
“Professionals,” I mutter. “Right.”
Velvet is a sensory assault. It smells of sweat masked by designer perfume and spilled vodka. The bass from the DJ booth shakes the steel railings, rattling the ice in my glass.
We’ve been here for ten minutes, and I’m already itching for a distraction.
Usually, I own rooms like this. I work the floor, shake hands, and lie to investors until their wallets open.
I am the unofficial diplomat of the Phantom Trio, the one who smooths over the feathers Ethan ruffles and Asher ignores.
But tonight, the noise feels grating.
“We have fifty minutes left,” Ethan says, checking his watch, again. He is standing with his back to the bar, scanning the room like he’s providing security detail rather than attending a party.
“Relax, E,” I say, leaning back against the counter. “Have a drink. A real one.”
“The server migration is at 2 AM,” he shoots back. “I need to be sharp.”
Beside me, Asher is typing on his phone under the cover of the bar.
“Coding?” I ask.
“Their firewall,” Asher mumbles. “It’s pathetic. I could breach this place in thirty seconds.”
“Please don’t hack the venue, Ash.”
“Too late.”
I sigh, taking a sip of my whiskey. My eyes drift to the door again. We haven’t spoken about the text since the car, but it’s hanging between us like a live wire. Every time the door opens, all three of us tense. I wonder if she’ll actually do it. I wonder if she has the nerve.
“She’s here,” Asher says.
A roar goes up from the front of the room. I follow his gaze. Harper walks in first, beaming, waving at people in a gold sparkly dress.
But then, stepping out from behind her…
Oh my god. The photo didn’t do it justice. Not even close.
Tessa stands in the doorway, and for a second, the noise of the party just… stops.
The dress is a threat. It’s a slip of crimson silk that pours over her body like liquid fire. It clings to her hips, plunges recklessly at the neckline, and leaves her arms and shoulders completely bare. It’s the kind of dress that whispers touch me and screams ruin.
“Damn,” I whisper.
Beside me, Ethan goes completely motionless.
I glance at him. He isn’t looking at her face; of course, he isn’t.
He’s staring at the high slit in the skirt that teases the smooth skin of her thigh every time she takes a step.
He looks furious. He looks hungry. He looks like a starving man staring at a feast he knows is poisoned.
“She wore it,” Asher murmurs, sounding almost impressed.
“She’s provoking us,” Ethan growls. “She did this on purpose.”
“Mission accomplished,” I mutter.
Tessa scans the room. She looks flushed, her eyes wide and panicked, looking for an exit that doesn’t exist. She looks terrified.
And then she sees us.
Her gaze collides with mine across the crowded room. I see the exact moment the recognition hits her. Her eyes widen. A blush burns up her neck, staining her chest a guilty, blotchy red that clashes beautifully with the silk.
I lift my glass in a mock salute and wink.
She looks like she wants to dissolve into the concrete.
“Here they come,” I warn as Harper grabs Tessa’s wrist and drags her toward us. “Game faces. Don’t look at her chest.”
“I’m going to kill her,” Ethan mutters. He buttons his suit jacket, smoothing the lapels down with unnecessary force.
They reach our circle.
“Look who I found!” Harper announces, squeezing Tessa’s waist. “Doesn’t she look amazing?”
Tessa looks like she’s about to vomit. “Hi,” she squeaks.
“Hi, Tessa,” I say. I drop the charm and simply stare. “It’s been a while. You look… grown up.”
Beside me, Ethan is stripping the dress off her with his eyes, sweeping from the hem of the silk to the pulse fluttering in her throat.
“Different,” Ethan corrects, his voice rough. “She looks different.”
Nobody speaks. Tessa’s chest rises and falls too fast. She looks ready to bolt.
“Here,” Harper says, oblivious to the tension, shoving drinks into our hands. “Vodka tonic for Owen. Whiskey for the killjoy. And a club soda for Ash.”
“Thanks,” Asher mutters, gripping the glass like he wants to crush it. He hasn’t stopped looking at Tessa’s bare shoulders.
“I know, right?” Harper beams, catching him staring. “I’m still in shock. I honestly expected her to show up in a turtleneck, but I guess she finally decided to live a little.”
Asher’s eyes drop to the plunging neckline of the red silk. “Hard to imagine,” he grinds out.
Harper laughs, clinking her glass against mine. “But honestly, don’t scare her off.”
She grabs my arm, her manic energy. “Okay, enough talking. It’s my party. We’re dancing.”
Ethan plants his feet, looking like he’d rather undergo a root canal.