Chapter Eleven—Riley
Iwake up reaching for a body that isn't there.
The sheets are cool on my side, and for one stupid second my hand keeps searching before my brain catches up.
I pull it back like I've been burned. Four days since the rooftop, since the hot tub, since the three of them turned every rule I had into ash.
Four days since we all agreed it was a mistake and promised it wouldn't happen again.
I roll out of bed and do the only thing that still feels safe: I open my laptop and lose myself in work.
I reorganize every client folder on my desktop, color-coding them by urgency, then by mood, then by how much I hate the brand guidelines.
It's mindless. It's perfect. Anything to keep my hands busy and my mind from replaying the way Andrew said my name against my skin or the way Liam's laugh hummed warm in my ear.
By the time I finally look up, sunlight is cutting across the living room. I tell myself I'm ready for whatever today throws at me.
I'm wrong.
At ten we gather around the dining table like professionals who definitely didn't spend one reckless night forgetting every boundary we had.
Ethan has the revised Harrington deck already projected on the TV, red annotations crisp and merciless.
Andrew sits directly across from me, jaw tight, sleeves rolled like he's bracing for a fight.
Liam drops into the chair beside mine, close enough that I feel the heat of his arm without it actually touching.
Nobody says anything for a moment. The hum of the projector fills the silence.
Ethan doesn't waste time. “Connor sent updates overnight. We need alignment before Friday's dinner. Partnership messaging, rezoning timeline, family-values optics. Riley, you're still the anchor on the personal side.”
I keep my voice even. “Got it. Supportive sister, proud of her brother's vision, happy to be here. Light touch.”
Liam leans back, that dangerous grin already forming. “Light touch. Sure. Just don't smile at Harrington the way you smiled at us the other night. Man might propose on the spot.”
Heat flashes up my neck. “I'll try to contain my devastating charm. Wouldn't want to ruin the deal because I accidentally looked approachable.”
Liam taps his pen against the table. “Good plan. Harrington strikes me as the type who'd accidentally fall in love with you and forget to sign the contract.”
Andrew doesn't laugh, but the corner of his mouth shifts like he's trying not to.
Ethan doesn't look up from the screen. “Focus.”
“I'm focusing,” Liam says. “On risk mitigation.”
Andrew's pen stops moving. His eyes lift to mine, dark and unreadable. “We need to be consistent on the Eastside timeline. If they push on delays—”
“They won't,” Ethan cuts in smoothly, “if we don't give them an opening. Stick to the script. No deviations.” His gaze flicks to me, then to Andrew, then back to the screen. “Especially on anything that could be construed as personal.”
I stare at the center of the table. The projector hums.
I lean forward, elbows on the table. “Relax, Ethan. I'm not planning to stand up and announce we all had a very thorough team-building exercise last week.”
Liam laughs under his breath, quick and dry. “Team-building. That's polite.”
Andrew exhales through his nose. “We agreed it was a mistake,” he says, voice stripped down to something flat and gentle. “Let's act like adults who can keep a promise.”
I hear Liam set down his pen.
I meet his eyes across the table. “Then maybe stop looking at me like you're still tasting me, Andrew.”
Liam whistles softly. “Jesus, Riley.”
“Too much?” I ask.
“Not enough,” he mutters.
Ethan doesn't flinch, but his fingers tighten around his stylus. “Focus,” he says, the single word enough to pull the room back in line. “Harrington is obsessed with stability. Any hint of friction and they'll start asking questions we don't want to answer. We present as a united front. No cracks.”
Andrew gives one short nod. “Copy that.”
Ethan clicks to my section.
I keep my voice easy. The talking points come out clean—Connor's vision, family values, the kind of optics the Harrington group actually responds to. I've said these things enough times now that they sit in my mouth like they're mine.
Liam picks up the thread without being cued. He makes the rezoning timeline sound like common sense, like the only reasonable conclusion. I watch it land on the right faces.
Andrew moves into the acquisition numbers without looking up. He's steady with figures—confident in a way that has nothing to do with performance—until he says the words “long-term commitment” and his eyes come up to mine for half a second.
He catches himself. Looks back down.
I write something in the margin I'll never read again.
We're on slide nine when my pen dies. I reach for the one sitting between us at the same moment Andrew does. Our hands nearly collide. He pulls back first.
Too fast. Like touching me would break whatever fragile truce we’ve built.
I pretend not to notice, even though my pulse is spiking.
His breath hitches before he covers it.
Without looking up, I annotate the slide.
Two slides later I spot a discrepancy in his projected figures and correct it out loud.
Andrew goes still.
“You're right,” he says after a beat, voice quiet. “As usual.”
The way he says it isn't about the numbers. It's about everything we're not saying. Liam studies the ceiling. Ethan makes a note on his tablet with the kind of focus that means he heard every syllable.
“Let's wrap this,” Ethan says. “We run the same play Friday. Professional. Controlled. No surprises.” His eyes find mine. “That includes all of us.”
Chairs scrape. Laptops close. Liam takes his time with the papers, shuffling them into a neat stack without any particular hurry. Andrew stands too fast and heads for the gym without looking back. Ethan stays seated, watching me gather my things.
“You caught every appendix point again,” he says quietly once the others are gone. “Even the ones Connor buried on page twelve.”
I shrug, trying to keep it light. “Someone has to.”
He nods once, the smallest hint of a smile touching his mouth. “It's useful. Makes the meetings sharper.” He pauses. “You make all of us better in there.”
It's not a line. He means it clinically, the way he means most things. That lands even harder.
He leaves without pressing. I stay at the table another ten minutes, pretending to review notes while my chest refuses to settle.
My phone buzzes on the table—Jules. I silence it without reading the message.
She’s been texting more frequently since I told her the guys moved in.
Her last one was blunt: “You are playing with fire and you know it.” She watched the whole Andrew implosion in college.
She knows exactly how that story ended and what I promised myself after.
I’m not ready to explain any of this to her yet.
At some point Liam comes back through to grab his keys. He stops in the doorway, looks at me for a second, then says, “You okay?”
“Great,” I say.
He doesn't believe me. He leaves anyway, which is the right call.
That evening I sit on my bed with my planner open.
The cursor blinks in a half-drafted email to Connor's assistant.
I close it and open the calendar instead.
Block the client calls. I type the venue confirmation, delete it, type it again.
Answer two of the three emails I've been avoiding. The third one I close without reading.
Professional distance. That's all this is.
* * *
Three weeks in and I've gotten good at it.
The second Harrington dinner is on Friday. I sit across from a man named Gerald who works in legal and spends forty-five minutes explaining why he doesn't trust digital contracts. I nod at the right moments. I ask the right questions. I am exactly what Connor needs me to be.
At some point, reaching for the bread basket, my hand and Andrew's arrive at the same time. Third time this week —pen, carafe, now this. He pulls back first. Always does. Gerald doesn't notice.
Ethan does. I catch him watching from the end of the table—just for a second, eyes moving from my hand to Andrew and back. When I glance over he's already looking at his plate.
He eats his dinner and says nothing for the rest of the night. I keep waiting for it. He doesn't. That's the part that follows me home.
Back at the penthouse I change out of the dress and sit on the edge of my bed. I should check the calendar. Block the calls around dinner number three. Figure out what I'm supposed to wear to a real estate gala on the strip with three men who've seen me in considerably less.
I open the planner.
My eyes land on the little red dot that should have appeared four days ago.
Late.
Stress, I tell myself. The dry heat. The recycled air. The complete absence of anything resembling a normal sleep schedule. Vegas does this to people. Bodies go off rhythm here. It doesn't mean anything.
I close the planner and set it on the nightstand.
It doesn't mean anything.
I repeat it until the words almost feel true.