Tristan
The hum of conversation fills my foyer as delivery personnel march back and forth, carrying large, bubble-wrapped canvases in pairs. I scheduled the delivery of the paintings that Chloe bought—with my money—for a day I wouldn’t be working.
Typically, at this time on a Thursday, I’d be in the office. But my wedding is on Saturday, so nobody expects me there today. I tried to go in yesterday and get some work done, but everyone was surprised to see me, and my assistant told me I should be at home preparing.
“Easy there!” I call out, a reflexive response as a delivery person stumbles slightly under the weight of one of the paintings. They nod, clearly aware of the value they carry.
I haven’t gotten the chance to see the works themselves yet. Right now, they’re wrapped in so many layers of protective packaging that I still don’t have a good view of the canvases. I can only hope they’re not hideous.
Curiosity rises inside me as I await the revelation of Chloe’s choices. Once all of the works are gathered in the living room, the layers of packaging peel away, revealing vibrant hues and intricate strokes.
They’re gorgeous. Of course they are. My soon-to-be wife has impressive taste.
As the last one is hung, I step back to take in the collective masterpiece.
The room breathes with newfound life, the air charged with an artistic energy.
Chloe’s choices, a reflection of her style and sophistication, have transformed the space into something extraordinary.
My living room has a two-story ceiling, with windows that span the length of the walls and overlook the endless stretch of the Pacific.
The expanse of the ocean spills in through large windows, bathing the room in natural light.
A sophisticated color palette dominates the space, with neutral tones defining the furnishings.
Plush, dove-gray sofas with clean lines and delicate gold accents offer comfortable seating, arranged in an inviting manner around a low, glass coffee table.
Soft, cashmere throws and pillows in muted hues add warmth to the seating areas.
A grand fireplace, crafted from marble, commands attention as the room’s centerpiece. Its minimalist design aligns with the modern theme.
And now these paintings, all curated by Chloe, have seamlessly integrated into the elegance of the room. The artwork brings a burst of color and emotion, a contrast against the neutral backdrop. The ocean-view living room has transformed into a curated gallery, each piece enhancing the atmosphere.
“Fucking stunning,” I mutter to myself, a rare admission of appreciation.
I glance down at my phone as it vibrates with an incoming message.
Beckett’s name flashes on the screen, and I can already predict the contents of the text before I read it.
He’s undoubtedly reminding me about tonight, the so-called “bachelor party” my brothers insisted on organizing despite my initial protests.
BECKETT: Get ready, brother. We’re taking you out tonight. Last hurrah before you’re a married man.
I scoff, my fingers tapping out a quick response.
ME: Beck, I told you I don’t need a bachelor party. Save the theatrics.
BECKETT: It’s a rite of passage. You can’t deny tradition.
ME: Tradition?
ME: In case you forgot, our family’s traditions involve boardroom meetings, not wild parties.
BECKETT: Oh my god, is that what this is about? The company image?
BECKETT: Okay, we promise we won’t sully the good Thorne name with our wild debauchery. Now get ready.
I roll my eyes, wondering if I can convince him to let this one slide. Tradition or not, a night out with my brothers isn’t exactly my idea of relaxation.
I guess relaxation isn’t really the point, though.
ME: Fine.
Beckett responds to that text with a series of emojis, and I darken my phone screen, tucking it back into my pocket.
An hour later, a sleek black Mercedes pulls into my circular driveway and flashes its lights. Behind the wheel is Beckett’s usual driver.
“Where are we headed?” I ask as I climb into the plush back seat.
Beckett’s driver doesn’t even look back at me, but I can see the glimmer of amusement in his eyes through the rearview mirror. “Sorry, Mr. Thorne. Your brother was very insistent that I keep our destination a secret.”
Of course he was.
As the car glides through the city, slowly taking on the glint of streetlights as night falls on LA, I try several more times to figure out where we’re going.
Each time, I’m met with a careful, stoic silence from Beckett’s man.
At one point, he even clicks his tongue at me, like he’s scolding me.
Eventually, I resign myself to the fact that Beckett is determined to keep this outing shrouded in secrecy.
The car pulls up to a luxurious building, its sleek facade illuminated by discreet, sophisticated lighting. The driver opens the door for me, and I step out into the cool night air. The entrance is unassuming, but there’s an undeniable air of exclusivity.
As I make my way inside, the atmosphere changes.
Low, ambient lighting casts a warm glow over the tastefully decorated interior.
The subtle murmur of conversation and clinking glasses fills the space, just audible below the bass thumping through the speakers.
It takes a second for my eyes to adjust, but when they do, the upscale allure of the place becomes apparent.
“Tristan!”
Beckett’s voice catches my attention over the noise. He’s across the room near the bar, waving me over.
I approach him. He grins widely. “We’ve got a private room in the back,” he says.
I nod in acknowledgment, following Beckett through the crowd. The pulsating beat of the music reverberates through the soles of my shoes as we navigate the room.
He leads me to a discreet entrance near the back, and as we step inside, the transition is immediate. The noise outside diminishes, replaced by a muffled, rhythmic thud. The private room unfolds before us, a haven within the lively establishment.
As I enter the private room, the subdued lighting casts a soft glow on the rest of my brothers, who occupy the plush leather seats around the circular table.
In front of them, on an illuminated stage, three scantily-clad women dance, their hips swaying rhythmically as they wind their way around a metal pole.
Beckett, ever the showman, takes a dramatic bow, indicating the room as if it were a royal chamber.
“Welcome to the VIP zone,” he announces, his grin widening. “Have a seat. The night is young, and the fun is just beginning.”
Gabriel drums his fingers on the table, a weary scowl on his face. “Can we get this over with? Some of us have early mornings.”
Beckett chuckles. “Gabe, my man, live a little. It’s not every day your brother gets married.”
Gabriel mutters something under his breath about responsibilities and being a single dad.
“Speak up, Gabe.” Beckett lightly punches his shoulder, a playful gleam in his eye. “Share with the class.”
“I said, I don’t do this shit anymore,” Gabriel grumbles. “I’ve got a kid at home.”
“And that’s a damn travesty,” Beckett retorts, then quickly amends, “The first part. Not the kid part. Peyton is the best.”
Gabriel raises an eyebrow, apparently unamused. “Yeah, that’s what I thought you said.”
“Seriously, though. You ought to get back out there, man. I mean… it’s been five years.”
“You could try dating,” Reid comments, and Gabriel turns a glare on him.
He probably expects this kind of needling from Beckett, but coming from Reid it’s more impactful, especially considering that Reid has basically sworn off love since getting his heart broken. He’s never gotten over his ex, Sienna.
“Dating?” Gabriel repeats. “When am I supposed to find time for that? Between work and Peyton—”
Beckett arches a brow at him. “That’s an excuse, and you know it. You’ve got us to help with work, and Margaret to help with Peyton. Margaret is a great nanny, and you’re an amazing dad. You can make a little time for yourself, you know.”
A muscle twitches in Gabriel’s jaw, and he breathes out slowly through his nose.
“Five years is a long time,” Reid mutters, shaking his head. Honestly, I’m not quite sure he’s talking to Gabe or himself.
“Have you even fucked a woman in all that time?” Beckett adds, and I roll my eyes. Nothing subtle about that at all.
Gabriel’s eyes flash. “None of your damn business.”
“Lay off him, both of you,” Dominic cuts in. “It’s not the time nor the place.”
At his stern warning, everyone goes silent. Gabriel, visibly irritated, knocks back his glass of whiskey, draining it.
“Need another drink?” Reid asks, seizing the opportunity to change the subject. “I could use one myself. I’ll go put in an order.”
Five minutes later, he comes back with a round of Old Fashioneds, and the tension dissipates.
The dimly lit room pulsates with the rhythmic beats, and the scent of expensive whiskey fills the air as we sit around the table, watching the private stage as the girls dance.
They move with grace, their figures illuminated by colored lights.
Beckett leans back in his chair. “To Tristan, the soon-to-be-married man. May your marriage be as smooth as this bourbon.”
The clink of glasses resonates as we raise our drinks in a toast.
“Doubt it, unfortunately,” Dominic quips as we lower our glasses. “Chloe Dawson doesn’t seem to be your biggest fan, Tristan.”
“We have a bit of a history,” I admit. “But, you know. It’s business.”
“Oh, right.” Beckett snorts. “That’s so fuckin’ romantic.”
I huff a humorless laugh at Beckett’s comment, taking a sip of the Old Fashioned. The whiskey burns down my throat, a familiar warmth settling in. “Well, Dad didn’t specify in the will that I had to find true love, so it’s sort of beside the point whether it’s romantic or not.”
“Is it worth it?” Reid asks, raising an eyebrow.
“For the CEO position? Of course it’s worth it.” I keep my gaze focused on the stage, worried that Reid might pick up on the conflicting emotions on my face.