19. Will
WILL
The car pulls up to the curb, and the chaos hits before we even step out. The line for The Red Room stretches halfway down the block. Designer dresses. Tailored suits. All those desperate faces waiting beneath the red neon sign.
Most clubs in this city are interchangeable.
Dean’s aren’t. His places don’t just look expensive.
They feel expensive. Polished marble you can see your reflection in.
Chandeliers that cost more than most people’s cars.
Staff trained to disappear until you need them.
No expense spared. No detail overlooked.
We don’t wait. The bouncer at the velvet rope is the size of a small building, but he knows my name. One look, one nod, and we’re in.
Abigail hesitates for a second, glancing back at the line. I don’t. She’ll figure it out soon enough. When she’s with me, doors open. Rules shift. I take her hand and lead her inside.
The place is exactly what I expected. Loud, crowded, and dripping with Dean’s particular brand of excess.
Crystal chandeliers, black marble floor, red velvet booths.
The air is thick with spirits and tobacco, and the bass from the speakers vibrates through my chest. Not the kind of place you come to talk.
I spot the VIP room, guarded by another wall of muscle, and pull Abigail through the crowd.
Inside VIP, it’s another world. Plush leather couches you could disappear into. A glowing table surrounded by crystal glasses and top-shelf liquor. Mirrored walls stretch the space outward, even while closing it off. The music fades into the background here.
My brothers are already stretched across the couches, cigars in hand, each with a blonde tucked under one arm. Their suits are crisp, tailored, and expensive—dark wool, pocket squares. I’m in a button-up and feel like I missed the memo.
The room goes quiet, just long enough for everyone to size up Abigail.
“Did I miss the dress code, or are we doing a Godfather reboot in here?” I say.
They laugh.
Dean blows out a smoke ring, already smirking.
“Got yourself a girlfriend?” he teases.
His arm candy giggles like it’s the punchline. I’m already regretting this.
Henry leans forward, flashing teeth like a wolf.
“You gonna introduce us or stand there?”
No turning back now.
I rattle off names. My brothers do the same. Elena, Jess, Tila. Three blondes who look like they came off the same assembly line.
Abigail sits beside me, posture too stiff, smile too practiced. Not her kind of crowd. Fair enough. I place a hand on her knee.
“Place looks decent,” I say.
Dean flicks ash into a tray. “Almost didn’t open. City gave us hell on the permit.”
I stiffen. “You got it proper, yeah?”
“Course.” He doesn’t blink. Dean could lie to a polygraph.
He’d probably make a better lawyer than me.
Years back, he made the mistake of doing business with Ray Malone.
The kind of man who gets things done when City Hall won’t budge, but also the kind who collects his debts.
Dean, ever impatient, thought he could handle it.
He was wrong. It took months to clean up the fallout.
Calls in the dead of night, hushed meetings in parking garages, favors called in from people we’d rather forget.
Ray Malone is the underbelly of Alton Hills.
And our family doesn’t belong in the gutter.
Dean’s cell buzzes. He checks it and elbows Max. “Grace and Jasmine are here.”
“Now?” Max rises, clearly reluctant.
“Be right back. Marketing.”
As they leave, Henry scoops up the discarded women. The blondes adjust around him without complaint. Abigail watches, unreadable. I hope she knows I don’t operate like this.
I pour her a glass of champagne and hand it over, skipping one for myself.
“Thanks,” she says, her fingers brushing mine.
Henry studies her for a beat, the smile on his face turning sharp.
“Carter dress. Interesting choice.”
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
“I bought it for her,” I say, sharper than I meant to.
Abigail doesn’t flinch. “You work at Carter?”
“I do,” Henry answers smoothly. The blondes on either side of him make approving noises, like he just announced he owns a yacht.
“You’ve been at Strauss for what, ten years?” he adds, casually, like they’re talking resumes.
How does he know that?
“About that,” she says.
“Loyalty’s rare,” he says, his voice slick with false admiration. “Or are you just comfortable?”
“I like my job.” Abigail glances at me. There’s a flicker of uncertainty in her expression, like she’s trying to figure out where he’s going with this. I’d also like to know.
“Not ambitious, then?”
“What exactly are you getting at?”
Henry holds up his hands in mock innocence. “Just chatting.”
He launches into some drawn-out story about the London Carter office, complete with quarterly growth figures no one asked for. I tune him out. Should’ve known he’d be extra tonight. Especially with an audience.
Then, mid-sentence, he pivots.
“You want kids, Abigail?” Henry asks.
She blinks. “I do,” she says, polite but clearly caught off guard.
He hums like he’s weighing a stock.
“That’s probably something you’d want soon. Biology makes people desperate.”
Abigail’s expression shifts. “What are you saying?”
He shrugs, smiling.
“Nothing. Just some women get creative when they’re ready for the next step.”
Is he seriously suggesting she’s going to try to baby-trap me?
I lean forward. “That’s enough.”
The room stills. The blondes stop mid-laugh.
Even the music feels quieter, like the bass has pulled back to listen.
Across the table, Henry meets my gaze. He’s still smiling, but there’s a pause in it now, like something just shifted.
Smugness slipping, just enough for me to see the crack underneath.
To kill the tension, one of the women—Tila, I think—throws out a baby name. Then another chimes in.
“Jaxon.”
“Ace.”
“Xayder.”
They volley suggestions like they’re naming goldendoodles, and I can’t tell if it’s a joke or not.
Abigail tips back her drink and finishes it in one go.
We haven’t talked about kids. Not seriously.
But when Henry asked, she said yes without hesitation.
That’s good.
The conversation shifts. Someone brings up ski season. One of the blondes complains about a stylist who butchered her extensions. Another asks if we’re planning a trip to St. Barts.
Then Henry leans in again, oozing that salesman charm.
“Abigail, as a lawyer, I’m curious. What’s your professional opinion on prenups?”
She barely reacts.
“We draft whatever the client—”
“Would you sign one?” he interrupts.
I shift forward, ready to shut it down, but Abigail’s hand lands on my thigh. Just a light touch. A signal. I’ve got this.
“I wouldn’t marry a man already planning his exit strategy.”
It catches me off guard. That’s not what I expected.
The room falls silent. Henry leans back, looking like he’s just struck gold. He thinks he’s found it. Proof. Confirmation of everything he’s been sniffing for since we walked in.
“So that’s a no?” he asks.
“Correct.” It hits harder than she probably meant it to.
In my world, prenups are like seatbelts. Non-negotiable.
Mom drilled that into us before we could tie our shoes.
It’s not just a suggestion. It’s survival.
And this complicates things.
The women stand, all smiles and heels, offering to show Abigail the powder room. She rises, calm as ever, but there’s a flicker of something beneath the surface. Her smile is polite, but her eyes are unreadable.
The second the door swings shut behind them, I reach across the table and grab Henry by the tie, yanking him forward hard enough to make the crystal glasses rattle.
“What the fuck?” I say.
Henry rips the tie from my grip and leans back, completely unfazed. His grin sharpens.
“You’re really this blind? Some random woman comes out of nowhere, and now you’re playing house?” He flicks ash into the tray. “She just told you exactly what she wants.”
“Not everyone thinks like a vulture,” I snap.
For a split second, Henry’s expression flickers to something colder, almost worried.
“She’s playing you. They always do. You just don’t see it yet.”
But the math doesn’t add up. If Abigail were after money, she’d already have it.
She could wrap any trust fund idiot in this city around her finger.
Instead, she wears the same three blazers on rotation and drives a twelve-year-old sedan that wheezes at stoplights.
Every time I give her something, there’s that same quiet pause.
She’s nothing like the women who perform gratitude like it’s a sport.
Or the ones who ‘accidentally’ left catalogs open on my coffee table. I know gold-diggers. Abigail isn’t one.
The door swings open before I can say what I really want to say. Dean and Max stroll back in.
“Where are the girls?” Max asks, scanning the room.
“Powder room,” I say.
Dean’s eyes bounce between us.
“We interrupting something?”
“Just Henry grilling Abigail about prenups,” I say.
“Guess you’ll find out the hard way,” Henry says, swirling his drink with that infuriating calm.
I level a look at him that makes him pause mid-sip.
For once, he’s the one who looks away.
Later, we pass the same line on our way out. It’s just as long as when we arrived.
Abigail checks her reflection in a pocket mirror, tilting her head.
“Elena thinks a blue-based red would suit me better,” she says, snapping the compact shut and sliding it into her purse. “I’d never even thought about it.”
“Everything looks good on you,” I say, and I mean it.
When the women returned from the restroom, they did so as a united front.
Abigail stepped into their circle without hesitation, like she belonged there, like they were already old friends.
She could’ve dismissed them. She’s smart enough to spot shallow from a mile away.
But that’s not her. She doesn’t judge. She connects.
There’s something about her that makes people open up. She makes it feel easy.
Dean and Max warmed to her right away. But then, they’re normal. Unlike Henry. He didn’t say another word. Not for the rest of the night.
“Sorry about Henry,” I say as I unlock the car and open her door.
She laughs as she slides in.
“He’s intense. I mean, we’ve only been together a week. Why is he already asking about prenups?”
“Nine days,” I say, holding the door a second longer before closing it gently.
By the time I’m behind the wheel, she’s staring out the window, fingers tapping lightly against her knee.
“He thinks he’s being protective. A lot of women have the wrong intentions.” I turn the key. The engine hums to life. “It’s smart not to sign one.”
I mean, I get it. There’s no real upside for the person with less to lose.
She turns to me slowly, her face unreadable.
“It’s not about being smart,” she says. Her voice is even, but there’s something behind it. “If I ever got married, I’d want a man who bets on us. Not against us. But I guess I never expected to be with someone who had anything to protect.”
Her words settle between us, heavier than I expect. I grip the wheel a little tighter. Does she mean she’d sign one for a man who has something to protect? Or not?
The silence stretches. I reach over and rest a hand on her leg, my thumb brushing softly over her dress. She places her hand over mine. Not tight. Just there.
We don’t say anything else the whole drive back to my place. But she doesn’t let go.