CHAPTER 5

BRANDON POV

The elevator doors opened onto the top floor with a soft chime.

I stepped out and the two assistants who had been waiting immediately straightened. Remington was already holding the door to my office open. I walked past him without a word and the heavy glass door closed behind me with a quiet click.

The office was exactly as I had left it that morning—vast, cold, and perfectly ordered. Dark oak floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides. The city stretched out below like something I already owned. And directly across from my desk, hanging where I would see it every time I looked up, was the painting.

Killian’s painting.

Two figures standing close in soft rain, faces turned away. I had bought it years ago through a private channel so he would never know. It was the only thing in the entire office that didn’t belong to the careful, expensive image I showed the rest of the world.

I sat down behind the long black desk and loosened my tie just enough to breathe. The image of him at the café was still sitting behind my eyes—his head tilted while he listened to his daughter, the small almost-smile, the way he had wiped a crumb from her mouth with his thumb like it was the most natural thing in the world.

That tenderness used to be MINE.

I opened the encrypted folder on my computer. The newest report from the investigator was already waiting.

Killian had taken his daughter to the park after the café. They stayed for forty-three minutes. He bought her an ice cream. He sat on a bench and sketched while she played. He looked tired. He looked thinner than the last set of photos. He still hadn’t sold a major piece in months.

I read every line twice.

My phone vibrated on the desk. My mother’s name lit up the screen. I stared at it for several seconds before answering, already knowing I wouldn’t like whatever she was about to say.

“Brandon,” she said, voice warm and already determined. “Are you free tomorrow evening?”

I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes for a moment.

“I’m busy.”

She gave a soft, knowing laugh.

“Don’t be difficult. I want you to come for dinner. Just family… and a few guests.”

I already knew what that meant. My jaw tightened.

“What kind of guests?”

There was a short pause. I could picture her standing in the formal living room of the Hale house, choosing her words carefully.

“The Whitmore family. Their daughter Claire has just returned from London. She’s been working with an art foundation. Very bright. Very lovely. I thought it would be nice if the two of you met properly.”

Of course.

I opened my eyes and stared at Killian’s painting while she continued speaking. Soft rain. Two figures who would never turn around. The same stubborn line of the shoulder I would recognize anywhere.

I didn’t want to go.

The last thing I needed was to sit at that long dining table, smile at a carefully chosen girl, and pretend I was interested in anything other than the man I had watched through a café window less than two hours ago. My mother still believed she could steer me toward something “normal.” She still believed the right woman would fix whatever she thought was broken in me.

“Mother,” I said quietly.

“Please, Brandon.” Her voice softened. “You haven’t sat at our table once since you came back. I miss having you there. Just come for dinner. That’s all I’m asking.”

I stayed silent for a long moment, eyes fixed on the painting.

I hated the idea of going.  

I hated the performance it would require.  

I hated that some part of me still couldn’t fully refuse her.

“What time?” I asked finally, the reluctance clear in my voice.

“Seven-thirty. And Brandon… wear something nice.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. I’ve really missed you.”

The line went quiet.

I set the phone down harder than necessary and kept my eyes on the painting. Somewhere across the city Killian was probably putting his daughter to bed, or standing in front of a canvas, or sitting beside the woman he had married—living the quiet life he still believed was protected from me.

I had watched him today.  

I had let the old ache settle into something colder and more useful.

Tomorrow night I would sit across from a perfectly suitable woman my mother had chosen and pretend I was capable of wanting anyone else.

And after that, I would start taking the first real piece of his carefully built life apart.

I locked the computer, stood, and walked to the window. The city lights glittered below like a map of every place he still thought was safe.

“Soon,” I said quietly to the glass.

Then I turned off the lights and left the office.