Legacy

Devon didn’t sleep the night he returned home.

He had tried, God, he had tried. But no amount of warm showers or herbal tea could undo the events of that night or silence the memory of lips he couldn’t forget. Every time he closed his eyes, flashes returned: the man’s breath hot on his skin, their bodies tangled beneath hotel sheets, the rush and shame bleeding into one another like ink in water.

Now, three days later, he sat on the edge of his bed, fully dressed in a navy button-down and slacks, staring blankly at his phone. No texts. No missed calls. No strange numbers.

A relief. Supposedly.

He’d combed through his device multiple times, just in case. The contact list was clean. Deleted messages: nothing unusual. His wallet had all its contents, his cards untouched, his wristwatch unscathed. Whoever the man was—he’d vanished cleanly, like a ghost who’d only borrowed the night.

But the ghost had left a mark.

Devon rose, crossing to the tall window that overlooked the Hamilton estate’s eastern lawn. Sunlight streaked across the trimmed hedges and gravel walkways, where gardeners moved with quiet purpose. Everything about this place screamed order, perfection, and legacy.

Legacy. That word again.

He rested his forehead against the glass. In forty-eight hours, he would be engaged. To Anabelle Lawson. A woman he barely knew beyond rehearsed smiles and polite conversation. She was beautiful, sure. Cultured. Daughter of a man his father respected—a rare feat in itself. But none of that changed the truth: Devon had no idea who he was supposed to be when he stood beside her.

A loyal fiancé?

A Hamilton heir?

A man who woke up tangled in hotel sheets with another man?

He shut his eyes tightly.

“This didn’t mean anything,” he whispered aloud. “It was a mistake.”

That night had been about rebellion, about escaping his father’s expectations, about losing himself in something reckless and stupid. It hadn’t been about desire. Or identity. Or anything deeper than the bitter taste of whiskey and the heat of skin against skin.

But deep down, Devon knew better.

It wasn’t the physical act that haunted him. It was the way he had responded to it. How easily it had all happened. How natural it had felt. That terrified him more than the possibility of scandal or exposure.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Devon?” came Mrs. Pearl’s voice, muffled but warm. “Breakfast is ready.”

He cleared his throat. “Coming.”

The dining room was quiet when he entered. Mrs. Pearl had already laid out breakfast, French toast, scrambled eggs, berry preserves. His father wasn’t there, of course. Mr. Hamilton rarely joined meals unless there was someone to impress or berate.

Devon sat down and picked at his food.

Mrs. Pearl hovered nearby, wiping her hands on her apron. “You’ve been quiet lately,” she said gently. “Is it the party?”

He offered a faint smile. “Something like that.”

She paused, then walked over and touched his shoulder lightly. “Whatever it is, don’t carry it alone, dear.”

He glanced up at her, grateful for the words, but unsure how to respond. If she knew… God, if anyone knew…

“I’ll be fine,” he said instead. “Thank you.”

By late afternoon, the house was a flurry of movement. Caterers arrived for the engagement party walkthrough. Florists delivered massive arrangements of cream roses and eucalyptus branches. A string quartet rehearsed in the main hall. Staff bustled between the kitchen and ballroom, setting up polished silverware and crystal flutes.

Devon wandered the estate like a ghost in his own home.

He passed through the library, the solarium, the west hall, all places he’d known since childhood, feeling like a stranger everywhere he turned. Everyone else seemed excited for the big day. Only he carried the weight of pretending.

When he passed the mirror in the gallery hallway, he paused.

His reflection stared back: tall, composed, expensively dressed.

He looked like his father.

The thought chilled him.

That night, he stood on the balcony outside his bedroom, watching the moon rise above the Hamilton gardens. His phone sat beside him on the stone ledge. Silent. Still nothing.

He told himself again that this was a good thing.

There were no calls, no consequences, zero messes to clean up.

But there however was a strange tightness in his chest, one he couldn’t name. Could be regret, or maybe longing. Or even just the aching knowledge that what he wanted—what he truly wanted—had never been his to want in the first place.

He took a long breath and then picked up his phone.

He almost texted Anabelle. Just to say something, anything. But what would he even write?

> “Looking forward to the engagement?”

Felt too hollow.

> “We should talk.”

This one was kinda too serious.

> “Do you even want this?”

Too honest.

And in the end, he locked the phone and set it back down.

A breeze swept across the balcony, and Devon closed his eyes, letting it brush against his face like a whisper.

In a few days time, he would be standing under crystal chandeliers, surrounded by applause and praise. He would smile, take Anabelle’s hand, and pretend like he was exactly where he was meant to be.

And he would forget the stranger. He had to.