CHAPTER 2

BRANDON POV 

 The private jet touched down at Teterboro under a sky the color of bruised steel. The moment the cabin door opened and the stairs lowered, two men in tailored black uniforms were already waiting on the tarmac. They straightened the second they saw him.

 “Welcome home, Mr. Hale,” the taller one said, voice clear and respectful.

 “Welcome back, Mr. Hale,” the second echoed, eyes lowered just enough to show deference.

 I stepped down without acknowledging them beyond a brief nod. The black Maybach idled a few feet away, engine purring, rear door already held open by the driver. I slid inside. The door shut with a heavy, expensive sound. Only then did the car pull away from the jet.

 Manhattan rose ahead of us like it had been waiting. The city looked the same and completely different at the same time. I watched the skyline slide past the tinted windows and felt the old, familiar pull settle deeper under my ribs.

 The car did not take me to my penthouse. It headed straight for the Upper East Side, toward the house I had grown up in.

 The Hale residence occupied nearly half a block of quiet, tree-lined street. Limestone walls rose four stories high, every window glowing with warm light. A circular driveway swept up to the front entrance, and in the center of that driveway stood a large marble fountain. Water spilled from three tiered basins in a constant, soft rush. Along the far side of the property, under a long open-air garage, sat my father’s fleet of cars—three black Rolls-Royces, two Bentleys, a dark red Ferrari, and a vintage Aston Martin he only drove on weekends. He liked people to see them. He liked the way neighbors slowed their steps when they passed.

 The front doors opened before the car even stopped. My mother stood there in a soft ivory dress, pearls at her throat, both hands already reaching for me. Ten years had added fine lines around her eyes, but the warmth in them was exactly the same.

 “Brandon,” she said, and pulled me into a tight hug. Her perfume wrapped around me—the same scent she had worn since I was a child. “You’re really home. God, let me look at you.”

 She held me at arm’s length, eyes shining as they moved over my face, my shoulders, the expensive cut of my coat.

 “You’ve gotten broader,” she said softly. “And taller somehow. Or maybe I just forgot how tall you always were. Come inside, sweetheart. You must be exhausted.”

 I let her keep one of my hands as she led me into the wide marble foyer. Over her shoulder I saw my father standing near the entrance to his study, hands in the pockets of his tailored trousers, expression unreadable.

 “Richard,” my mother called, “come say hello to your son properly.”

 My father gave a short nod.

 “You made good time,” he said. “The board will want to see you first thing Monday.”

 My mother shot him a look, then turned back to me with a brighter smile.

 “Ignore him for five minutes. Come sit. Tell me everything.”

 We moved into the formal living room first. The furniture was the same heavy, dark wood pieces that had been there since I was a boy, polished to a high shine. A fire burned low in the fireplace even though it wasn’t particularly cold outside. My mother sat close beside me on the long sofa, still holding my hand like she was afraid I might disappear again.

 “I can’t believe it’s been ten years,” she said. “I know you called. I know we talk on the phone almost every day. But it’s not the same as having you in this house. I used to walk past your old room and just stand in the doorway sometimes. It still smells a little like you. Or maybe that’s just my imagination.”

 She laughed quietly, a little embarrassed, and squeezed my fingers.

 “How was Seoul? Did you eat properly? You look thinner around the face. And the weather—was it as humid as they say? I worried every summer.”

 I answered her questions one by one. The flight had been smooth. The penthouse in Seoul had been comfortable. Yes, I had eaten. No, I hadn’t gotten sick. She listened to every word like it mattered more than anything else in the world.

 My father remained standing near the fireplace, checking his watch once.

 Eventually the staff called us in for dinner.

 The formal dining room looked exactly as it always had—long mahogany table, crystal chandelier, heavy silver that only came out for special occasions. Roast lamb, roasted vegetables, warm bread, and a wine older than I was. My mother kept filling the silences with soft questions. How the staff in Seoul had treated me. Whether I had made any real friends there. If the city had felt lonely.

 My father spoke only of business.

 “The Asian numbers came in stronger than projected,” he said, cutting his meat with precise movements. “The Seoul office exceeded every target. You’ll need to review the Singapore proposal before the end of the week. I want your signature on it.”

 My mother set her fork down with a soft clink.

 “Richard, please. Brandon just got off a sixteen-hour flight. Can we talk about something other than business for one night?”

 My father glanced at her, then back at me.

 “Sentiment doesn’t keep an empire standing. Preparation does.”

 My mother ignored him and turned fully toward me again.

 “Have you been seeing anyone?” she asked gently. “A girlfriend? You’ve been away so long. I keep hoping you’ll bring someone home one of these days. I’d love to meet her.”

 I took a slow sip of wine.

 “No one serious,” I said.

 She sighed, but the sound was fond.

 “You’re too much like your father sometimes. All work and no softness. Promise me you’ll try to have a life outside those offices.”

 I looked across the table at my father. His eyes met mine for a brief second—cool, assessing, the same eyes that had looked at me when I was six years old and had said words I was never supposed to say out loud. Something old and ugly twisted low in my stomach. I held his gaze and said nothing. The memory stayed locked behind my teeth where it belonged.

 The rest of the meal stretched in the same pattern. My mother asked, about whether I still played piano when no one was listening, about the view from my old penthouse windows. My father returned again and again to numbers, timelines, and the board’s expectations. I answered both of them with the same careful calm I had practiced for years.

 When the last plates were cleared, I folded my napkin and stood.

 “I should go,” I said. “I want to get settled at my place tonight.”

 My mother’s face fell.

 “Stay the night, Brandon. Your old room is exactly the way you left it. We haven’t touched a thing. Just one night. Please. It’s been ten years.”

 I looked at her and felt the familiar ache. She would have accepted every version of me without question. The man at the head of the table had made certain I learned early what was allowed under this roof and what was not.

 “I sleep better in my own place,” I told her gently. “I’ll come for lunch later this week. I promise.”

 She walked me to the door, kissed my cheek, and held on a second longer than necessary. My father offered another brief nod from the hallway and disappeared back into his study. The Maybach was already waiting at the curb.

 The ride across the park felt longer than it should have. When the private elevator opened directly into my penthouse, the lights rose in a soft cascade. The place smelled faintly of lemon oil and quiet money. Dark oak floors stretched in every direction. Walls the color of wet stone. Furniture that looked like it had been carved from shadow and light. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped three sides of the main living space, the city glittering beyond them like scattered diamonds.

 I set my duffel down and walked through the rooms slowly.

 In the living room, above the long low sofa, hung the first of Killian’s paintings. A large canvas of a rain-slicked street at night, blues and grays bleeding into each other, a single figure walking away under a broken streetlamp. I had paid six times the asking price through an anonymous bidder just to have it.

 In the study, behind the wide black desk, hung the second—an abstract of tangled limbs and warm light that most people would never recognize as two bodies. Only I knew what it was.

 I went into the bedroom last. The other two waited there. One hung above the headboard. The other faced the bed from the opposite wall so that it would be the first thing I saw every morning. Four pieces of him living inside these walls. Four quiet proofs that the obsession had never loosened its teeth.

 I poured a glass of whiskey I did not drink and stood in front of the painting above the bed for a long time. Somewhere in this city Killian was putting his daughter to bed, or cleaning paintbrushes, or sitting beside the woman who wore his ring. Somewhere he believed the past had stayed buried.

 He was wrong.

 I set the glass down and lay back against the pillows, eyes still fixed on the canvas.

 And this time I was not leaving until I had him.