Chapter Forty—Riley
Ican’t stay in this penthouse another hour.
The Harrington message is still on my phone. I've read it four times and each time it lands the same way—clean and cold and completely my fault. They're asking about stability. Partnership integrity. Connor's been canceling meetings.
Because of me.
I stand at the window and look at the city and do the math I've been refusing to do. Three men who spent years building something real. A deal worth more than anything I own. A brother who's been shutting down professionally because he walked in on his partners in bed with his pregnant sister.
I've known this was coming. I've been watching it and hoping the feeling would pass. It hasn't passed.
I know what the right thing looks like.
I hate that I know.
I go to the bedroom and pull out my bag. The one I brought when I came for two months. I start folding things into it before I let myself think about it too long—because if I think about it too long I'll find a reason to stay, and I'm very good at finding reasons. I've been finding them for weeks.
My toiletries from the bathroom. The charger from the nightstand. The cardigan draped over the chair that's been there for two weeks because I kept meaning to put it away and didn't.
I work fast.
Portland. Third floor, sticky window, the coffee shop that gets my order slightly wrong.
I can be back there in four hours. I can send a message when I land.
I'm sorry. This was my mistake. The baby—we'd figure out the baby.
We could do this the normal way. One father.
Reasonable arrangements. Something that didn't require three men to set their lives on fire.
I zip the bag.
I don't let myself look at the room.
Downstairs, the lobby is all marble and recirculated air and strangers who have nothing to do with any of this. I set the bag down near a chair and open my phone and pull up flights.
Portland. One seat. Tomorrow would be better but there's a 4:40 that's still showing green.
I stare at it.
My hand is steady. My breathing is not.
Three hours and forty-five minutes. I know this route. Desert to mountains to coast to gray and wet and something that used to feel like relief.
Except I haven't felt that way about Portland in a while. I've been trying not to look at that too closely.
I think about my apartment. Third floor.
A window that sticks. The coffee shop that gets my order slightly wrong and I've never once corrected them because at some point it became mine.
The woman at the corner market who sets aside the good sourdough on Fridays.
A ficus I've kept alive for three years by accident.
A life I built small and careful and portable—easy to leave, easy to defend, never quite enough to make me want to stay.
Three open browser tabs on a baby registry I've been keeping like a secret.
Stroller comparisons. A convertible crib in white.
A note I typed in the margin: needs to fit through a standard doorway.
I've been thinking about the doorway. That's not something you do for a place you're planning to leave.
The 4:40 blinks at me from the screen.
Andrew didn't run. Seven years he was gone, and when the worst of this landed—Connor's face, the door clicking shut, all of it—he didn't run then either.
He stood there and took it and said I know and didn't flinch.
That's not the person who left me at twenty-one.
I don't know exactly when he stopped being that person, but I know what I've watched him be for the past few months, and it isn't someone I'm supposed to run from.
Portland was somewhere to go when I didn't know what else to do.
That's not the same thing as somewhere to stay.
I'm doing it again. Not running from something. Toward nothing. Getting out ahead of the damage so I can tell myself I was the one who chose to go.
I press my palm against my stomach.
Jules said I can literally hear it happening. Like it was already decided. Like she could hear me choosing before I knew I was choosing.
I close the app.
I grab my bag, throw in the few things I brought with me, and text the group chat before I can think too hard about it.
Riley: Coming to you. Hotel lobby in twenty. I need to see you.
The replies come back fast.
Liam: Thank fuck.
Andrew: On our way.
Ethan: We’ll be there.
I slip on my shoes and reach for the door.
“Riley.”
Connor’s voice. I turn.
He’s standing in the hallway, still wearing the same shirt from last night. His face has the look of someone who’s been rehearsing something and finally ran out of time.
“You’re leaving,” he says.
“I’m not running.” I keep my voice even. “I’m choosing them. I told you that yesterday.”
He steps closer, not blocking me, just not moving aside either. His eyes go to my bag, then back to my face. “You really believe four people can hold this together? A baby in the middle of it?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But I know what happens if I walk away. I’ve lived that. I’m not doing it again.”
He looks at me For a long moment. The argument goes out of him.
“I love you,” he says. “That hasn’t changed.”
“I love you too. But you don’t get to choose for me anymore.”
He doesn’t try to stop me when I open the door. He just watches me go, and I let that be enough for now.
The elevator ride down lasts approximately forever. I watch the numbers drop and try to breathe normally. My hands are steady. The rest of me isn’t quite.
The doors open into the lobby and I spot them before I’ve taken three steps.
They’re near the far end of the entrance. Liam is pacing—I know that walk, the one where his whole body can’t hold still. Andrew stands with his back against a pillar, arms crossed, watching the elevator bank. Ethan stands a half step behind them, phone in his hand, not looking at it.
Liam sees me first.
He moves before the others do. I’m barely across the lobby when he reaches me and pulls me into his chest hard enough that I have to catch my breath.
He doesn’t say anything right away. Just holds on, face buried in my hair.
He smells like coffee and hotel soap and something underneath that’s just him, and I press my face into his henley and hold on too.
“Fucking finally,” he mutters.
“I know.”
“I was going insane over here.”
“I know.”
He pulls back just far enough to look at me, hands bracketing my face. “You okay?”
“Better now.”
Andrew steps in. He doesn’t pull me away from Liam—he slides his hand around the back of my neck, thumb brushing along my jaw. He’s looking at me the way he does, like he’s counting to make sure nothing’s missing. I reach up and press my palm to his chest and feel him exhale.
Ethan waits. When Andrew steps back, Ethan cups my face with both hands and tilts my chin up. He takes me in carefully—there’s an assessment happening, and also something that’s been held too tightly for too long.
“You look tired,” he says.
“I’m fine.”
“Riley—”
“I’m fine.” I cover one of his hands with mine. “I promise.”
He lets out a breath. His forehead drops to mine for just a second.
Liam grabs my bag off my shoulder before I notice he’s doing it. “Suite’s upstairs. Come on.”
The elevator ride up is quiet. Liam keeps his shoulder against mine. Andrew’s fingers stay linked with mine. Ethan stands close enough that our arms brush the whole ride.
When we get inside and the door clicks shut, I set my bag down and turn to face them.
“I meant what I said to Connor.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “I’m not walking away from this. Not because things got complicated. Not because he’s angry, not because of the deal or the baby. I want this. All of it. All of you.”
Liam crosses the room and kisses me before I’ve finished talking.
He’s not careful about it. His hand finds my hair and his other arm pulls me in and I stop thinking about anything else.
Andrew moves behind me, hands at my waist, mouth at the side of my neck.
Ethan steps in when Liam pulls back—slower, one hand curving under my jaw.
The heat builds fast. Hands. Mouths. The solid press of all three of them at once. Someone’s fingers find the hem of my shirt and I arch into it.
Then Ethan’s phone rings.
He ignores it.
It rings again.He checks the screen. His jaw tightens.
“Harrington’s assistant,” he says, still not pulling back. The phone rings a third time.
Liam makes a sound against my shoulder that means several things at once. Andrew’s arms stay around my waist like if he doesn’t let go the moment can’t end.
“Answer it,” I say.
Ethan looks at me for a long second. His voice already shifting into that measured, professional tone as he steps away. “This is Ethan. Yes—tomorrow works. I’ll be there.” The call lasts forty seconds.
Liam rests his forehead against mine, his breathing still uneven. “Worst timing in recorded human history.”
“It's fine,” I say.
“It's deeply not fine,” he says.
“Liam.” I press my palm to his chest.
“I'm just registering a complaint. For the record.” He turns his hand over and holds on. “Okay. Registered.”
I reach for Andrew with my other hand. Ethan comes back and slides his fingers into mine on the other side. We stand there in the suite like that, all four of us connected, and I feel the moment shift into something different.
“Tomorrow,” Ethan says. “We figure out the rest of it tomorrow.”
Liam blows out a breath. “Together,” he says. Like a verdict.
“Together,” I say.
It doesn’t fix anything. But we’re still in the same room, all four of us, and that matters.