April
KILLIAN'S HOUSE WAS less of a home and more of an estate, with a driveway long enough to qualify for its own zip code and gates that swung open like they'd been expecting them.
They drove past personally selected trees until the house came into view—clean lines and floor-to-ceiling windows, designed by someone who'd been told 'money is no object. '
The driver opened her door. She stepped onto a driveway smoother than most public roads. Killian stood by his car, watching her emerge from Dante's.
"You live here.” It wasn't a question, only an observation about the absurdity of her day.
Inside, the house was more ridiculous than the exterior.
Everything was aggressively expensive. The entryway alone was larger than her entire apartment, with soaring ceilings, marble floors, and dramatic lighting that felt more like a gallery than a home.
“It’s home,” Killian replied, and there was a faint edge to it.
“It’s both,” Liam said, strolling into a living room. “Ridiculously home.”
Arthur disappeared toward the kitchen, Mateo trailing after him as if food was a civic duty.
“Sit,” Killian said, gesturing toward the living room. She sat on the couch next to Jax, who shifted to make room. Killian took the spot on her other side, picking up her hand.
Liam claimed a chair. Dante claimed a chair near the windows, watching the skyline like it might misbehave.
Caleb perched on the arm of the couch like he'd been born knowing how to take up space.
Jiro settled onto the floor near her feet, casual in a way that didn't feel casual at all.
Arthur returned with plates of food that smelled incredible, handed one to April. “Eat.”
She ate, and the tightness in her chest loosened. A full stomach was not a solution, but it was a start. As she ate, the men began to drift. Conversation scattered into smaller groups as people stopped performing and started existing in the same space.
Her plate was half-empty when Jax shifted beside her, not looking at her, making space the way he always did. His phone was in his hand. His thumb moved once. Her phone buzzed. She glanced down, expecting a poem. Instead, a notification sat at the top of her screen.
You’ve been added to a shared folder.
She opened it.
A grid loaded—neat rows, clean labels. Everyone's test results, timestamped and current. Her thumb stilled as she turned toward him. “You’ve been doing this the whole time.”
Jax nodded. “It made sense.”
She looked back at the screen. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. It’s just… organized.”
“So,” Liam said. “What happens now?”
Killian cleared his throat with the air of a man about to deliver quarterly earnings. “Housekeeping,” he said.
Several heads turned. Mateo looked offended on principle. Jax looked delighted.
Killian's gaze swept the room, "Jax verified everyone's status today. Records are current."
Her eyebrows shot up. Jax had asked her privately, quietly, giving her the choice. Killian had announced it like quarterly earnings.
His hand had felt anchoring before. Now it felt like pressure, trying to keep her from reacting too strongly to something she hadn't agreed to.
He caught her look and his expression flinched.
"And," Killian added, "lube is still required.
We're considerate men." His eyes flicked to April, "April deserves the best."
April pulled her hand free from Killian's and turned away, leaning toward Jax, purposefully giving Killian her back.
Jax leaned toward Arthur, smug as sin. "Hear that? We have standards."
Arthur gave a single approving nod.
"You," she murmured, "are the least standard man I've ever met."
Jax's grin widened. "Thank you."
Arthur and Don Dante gravitated toward the windows without a word. Two men who understood enforcement from different angles but shared the same principle: protection through overwhelming competence. They stood with drinks in hand, cataloging the skyline like it might try something.
“The policy document,” Don Dante noted, voice barely a question.
“Effective,” Arthur replied.
“Laminated?”
“Obviously.”
Jax and Liam had found each other like magnets.
“The velvet rope was inspired,” Jax said. “I’ve already seen three posts about it. #VelvetRopeJustice’ is trending.”
“I didn’t do it for the trending topic.”
“No. You did it because you’re a petty genius with excellent taste in symbolic barriers.”
“And the digital lock on his accounts?” Liam asked.
“Still active. He can’t access his email, his cloud storage, or his LinkedIn. Every password reset sends him in a loop that ends with a customer service number that doesn’t exist.”
Liam let out a real laugh. “Beautiful.”
In the kitchen, Killian appeared in the doorway, watching Mateo open cabinets.
“Your pantry is tragic,” Mateo said. “You have seventeen types of whiskey and no fresh herbs.”
“I have a chef.”
“You have a service. It's not the same.' Mateo pulled out ingredients. “April will be hungry later. I'm fixing this.”
On the couch, Caleb and Jiro sat like two performers who were deeply relieved to finally be off-camera.
“The song was perfect. Timing, delivery, public impact. You destroyed him.”
“He deserved it. I’m just sad it hurt April”
“Buck up man, you’re here aren’t you? She forgave you. You know what's strange? I've made people believe in romances that didn't exist." He glanced toward April. "But watching her today? That wasn't acting."
Jiro nodded slowly. “She’s different.”
“Yeah,” Caleb said, quiet now. “She is.”
Mateo's voice drifted from the kitchen asking who wanted food, and Liam coaxed a genuine laugh out of Jax with some quip April didn't catch. Arthur and Don Dante maintained their silent vigil by the windows.
Killian moved through the room refilling drinks, playing host like if he kept moving, he wouldn't have to actually face her. He passed by her once. Then again. The third time, he lingered near the couch, rearranging a coaster that didn’t need rearranging.
By the fourth pass, April was still laughing at something Jax said—and then she looked up and caught him hovering.
She glared.
Killian stilled, caught like a schoolboy trying to sneak past the principal's office.
“Can I talk to you?”
Something in his expression—vulnerability thinly veiled behind that CEO mask—tipped her from no to maybe.
She nodded. He offered his hand. Her thoughts flared a warning.
Her hand moved anyway. His palm was warm when she took it, his fingers curling around hers with gentleness that undercut every possessive word he'd spoken tonight.
Behind them, the room went deliberately busy—conversations resuming at carefully normal volume.
Nobody watching. Everyone aware.