Chapter 28
THEO
Theo stands near one of the sponsor tables, nodding as Tall finishes telling a story that may or may not be entirely true.
“—and then he actually thanked me for the elbow to the ribs,” Tall finishes, deadpan. “Said it knocked his shoulder back into place.”
The donors laugh politely. Carter follows up with something self-deprecating. He’s charming, as always—maybe even more than usual—and the donors eat it up.
Theo adds a faint smile, sipping his water.
No one seems to notice that he has said little.
Which is fine. Ideal, really.
He’d been dreading this. The crowd, the pressure, the potential for forced conversation and awkward silences. But it’s not so bad, especially with his teammates here. The room is buzzing, glittering. Everything looks just shy of magical.
And Mila…
She’s across the room, standing near the stage with Jake, her silver dress hugging the curves that have haunted his nights since they met.
She’s the most beautiful woman in the room by a mile, and all Theo can do is stare like a man who already knows he’s in too deep.
He should walk over there. Needs to. His whole body is practically vibrating with the urge, just waiting for his brain to stop overthinking and—
"Theodore."
The voice slides through his thoughts, chilling his blood.
“I thought I saw you lurking over here. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your…friends?”
Every cell in Theo's body goes into lockdown. His spine turns to steel, his breathing shallow, that familiar cold dread creeping up his neck like fingers made of ice.
He turns. Slowly. Because maybe if he moves carefully enough, this won't be happening.
But there she is—his mother, in all her terrifying glory.
She’s a portrait of restrained opulence in a navy evening gown with sheer sleeves.
Diamonds glint at her ears and throat, catching the chandelier light like shards of ice.
In one hand, she carries an ornate Venetian-style mask decorated with lacy silver filigree.
Her dark hair is swept into a flawless chignon, smooth and immovable.
Her expression is cool and vaguely expectant, the kind that makes people straighten their posture and apologize before they’ve done anything wrong.
“Mother,” he says, surprised the word even comes out.
“Of course I’m here,” she says, as if she’s reading his mind. “I’m on the board.”
He forces a nod. Right. Of course she is.
He should’ve known. She never misses these kinds of events. This is her natural habitat—velvet drapes, polished crystal, conversations threaded with subtext.
His eyes dart past her automatically, scanning the crowd for the familiar sight of salt-and-pepper hair and that towering frame in a perfectly tailored tux. Searching for the hooked nose and those razor-sharp eyes that never miss a damn thing.
Not here.
She catches his frantic sweep of the room and her smile turns knowing. "Your father sends his regrets. Business, you know how it is."
Relief floods him so fast it leaves him lightheaded. Christ, he didn’t realize how tense he was until he wasn’t.
“Ah, but I made it.”
Theo hears him before he sees him. His shoulders tighten and stomach knots like he’s thirteen years old again.
He turns slowly, not because he’s afraid, but because bracing for impact is muscle memory now.
His oldest brother Conrad stands a few feet away in an onyx black tux, drink in one hand, arrogance in the other.
He looks exactly the same. Just…shinier.
Polished like a showroom car. His suit probably costs more than most people’s rent, and his smile is the same smirk—the one that never quite reaches his eyes.
“Conrad,” Theo says tightly.
Conrad’s gaze flicks over him dismissively. He lifts his drink, takes a measured sip, then adds, almost lazily, “It’s rare to see you without a stick in your hand. Still got all your teeth, brother?”
Theo swallows hard.
His mother is watching them, sipping her white wine like this is normal.
Like this is fine.
She titters. “It’s so rare I get to see two of my sons at once. You’re all so busy.”
“Yes, mother, some of us are busy running companies. Porky here is busy slamming people into walls like a gorilla,” Conrad sneers.
Hearing his obnoxiously cruel childhood nickname bandied about so casually in front of his teammates brings blood rushing to his face, thundering through his ears. Like pressure building behind a dam. His old instincts, old humiliations, roar through him.
He hates him. God, he hates him.
Not in the familial way people say they hate their siblings.
In the real way.
“Honestly, Conrad,” his mother says, sipping her wine, “must you always be so dramatic? Let your brother enjoy his...hobby.”
Behind him, Carter—absolute saint that he is—must sense the temperature drop and slides in with a joke about dessert. Tall offers a dry one-liner. Someone laughs. The moment glides on for everyone but Theo.
“Relax,” Conrad says, stepping in closer, his voice dripping with condescension. “You always get so tense when I’m around. It’s like you think I’m gonna make you read something out loud.”
Theo’s grip tightens around his glass.
Conrad leans in. Drops his voice just for him. “Still got that stammer? Or did another gorilla finally knock it out of you?”
Theo says nothing, lifting his eyes to meet his brother’s taunting gaze.
It would be so easy to shove him away. Say something sharp. Loud. Final.
But Theo’s been playing a different game for years. One that doesn’t give Conrad the satisfaction.
So instead, he smiles.
Not really a smile. More of a show of teeth. But it’s enough to make Conrad lean back, wary for the first time.
“Still nursing that Napoleon complex?” Theo says, voice cool as he lifts his chin and rises to his full height. He’s been taller since he was sixteen, broader too, and he lets the difference settle between them like a blade slid quietly across a table.
Conrad blinks, just once. Not much, but it’s a slip.
Theo turns before he can respond, quietly bidding his mother goodbye before he can draw more attention.
The air around him feels thin, the noise of the room muffled. He knows people are still talking. Laughing. Drinking.
It takes a full thirty seconds for him to remember how to breathe.
He looks toward Mila.
Still radiant. Still his anchor.
He focuses on her, grounding himself in the curve of her shoulders, the softness of her expression.
He came here for her.
And if tonight is about showing up—for her, for himself—then he’s not letting anyone, not even Conrad, ruin that.