Damon The morning sun filtered through the tinted glass of my Maserati as I pulled into the underground lot beneath Donovan’s Capital’s headquarters. The familiar rumble of the engine settled into a purr before I cut it off, silence folding around me. I checked my watch. 9:17am. Early enough to catch Mike before his day spiralled into back-to-back crises, late enough that the interns wouldn’t be clogging up the espresso machine in the executive lounge. The elevator ride to his floor was quiet. Polished brass mirrors reflected my clean-cut navy suit, crisp white shirt open at the throat, and the faint scar across my jawline, a reminder from years back, another life I rarely revisited. The doors slid open to reveal Donovan Capital’s minimalist reception, all slate floors, white marble counters, and hushed conversation. Mike’s assistant, a petite woman with braids coiled tightly against her scalp, gave me a polite nod. “Mr. Damon Grey to see Mr. Mike,” she said into the phone, her to
Lucian The soft buzz of my phone broke the rhythmic scratching of my Montblanc pen against legal documents. I glanced at the notification: an encrypted message from Eliza, my PR relations manager. All ready. Photographer briefed. Pickup scheduled for 1pm. I smiled faintly, my thumb tapping the phone case as I leaned back in my office chair. Sunlight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting clean golden beams across my polished mahogany desk. The city lay beneath me like a chessboard, each block and skyscraper a piece under my control. “Micah,” I called, my voice echoing through the partially open office door. Micah appeared almost instantly, his suit immaculate, posture rigid. “Yes, sir.” “Move my 1pm investor check-in to tomorrow. Have the car ready in thirty minutes.” Micah didn’t blink, merely inclined his head. “Yes, sir.” I watched him leave, then turned my gaze back to the city, imagining Max’s small, trusting eyes lighting up when he saw me waiting outside
Eloise I closed the atelier door behind him with trembling hands, feeling his presence seep out into the cold street air, leaving a blackened void in its place. My chest burned as I leaned against the wood panel, head tilted back, eyes fluttering shut. For a moment, all I could hear was the hammering of my own heartbeat and the buzzing silence that followed him everywhere. Lucian’s cologne still clung to the air, oakwood, bergamot, a hint of leather polish. Memories erupted unbidden, painting across my mind like old photographs dipped in acid. I saw his arms wrapped around my waist the first day he showed me the rooftop view of his apartment, whispering promises into my hair. I saw his mouth slanting over mine, his palm braced against my throat in the dim kitchen light when he kissed me against the fridge. I saw his eyes gleaming with silent admiration as I lifted Max out of his crib the first day we brought him home. But then, like lightning splitting an old tree, his betrayal c
Lucian I didn’t bother announcing my arrival. The receptionist at the front desk of Eloise’s atelier tried to stop me, murmuring something about appointments and privacy, but a single look from me had her faltering, eyes dropping to the marble floor as I brushed past. The place was modest, too modest for Eloise’s potential. Whitewashed walls adorned with pinned sketches, fabric swatches, small display mannequins wearing partially finished garments and jewellery hybrids. She had always liked working in spaces like this, cluttered with life, her creative chaos everywhere. A thin scent of sandalwood incense mingled with oil paints and wax polish. It was almost nostalgic. Almost. I spotted her near the back, hair piled in a messy bun with strands slipping down her nape, wearing a fitted black turtleneck tucked into tailored cream trousers smeared faintly with graphite. She looked up as my footsteps echoed off the studio’s concrete floors. For a split second, her eyes widened, no warmt
Eloise I never imagined rock bottom would feel like this. Yeah, my life was steady drama but this? This is nothing I expected of. My phone buzzed against the kitchen counter again, vibrating in short frantic bursts. Another notification. Another headline. I didn’t need to read it to know what it said. They were all the same these days. “Disgraced Designer’s Mental Breakdown: Sources Close to Eloise Sinclair Reveal Her Jealous Rage.” “Lucian True Fights for Custody Against ‘Unstable’ Ex.” “Jennifer Sinclair: I Tried to Save My Sister From Herself.” I shut my eyes, pressing my palms against the cool marble counter, letting the numbness seep through my bones. The house was silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the wall clock above the stove. Tick, tick, tick. Each second marked another moment of my life slipping out of my control. At some point I imagined running, my mental health was stake and so is Max, I might allow them steal my designs and go
Mike The rumble of my old Harley roared through the deserted underpass as I slowed, parking behind a graffiti-splattered pillar just across from Lombard & Fifth, the glass-fronted café where Jennifer’s fixer liked to operate. The early morning mist curled around the city streets, fogging the traffic lights and half-burying the skyline beyond grey. I killed the engine, the sudden silence broken only by the tick-tick of cooling metal. My fingers tightened around the worn grips of my gloves. Eloise’s voice haunted me still, raw and cold, echoing through the caverns of my chest like a curse: “How long have you both been playing me?” I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing the memory away. Words wouldn’t fix this. Nothing I said could erase the betrayal in her eyes that day. I needed something more. Proof. Pulling my hood low over my forehead, I stepped off the bike, boots crunching against broken concrete and scattered cigarette butts. My leather jacket reeked of fuel and damp air. The café