Tristan

This was not how I wanted to spend my night.

The bass thundered beneath my feet like a feral pulse, rattling up my bones and lodging itself in my chest. The air itself was an affront, dense, hot, and so thick I half-expected it to leave a residue on my skin.

Around me, bodies moved in a mess of graceless collisions. They swayed and stumbled, hands grabbing at whatever flesh they could find. It was pathetic, really—adults, no less, floundering through a parody of pleasure, pretending this pit of debauchery was the highlight of their miserable lives.

The stage was its own disaster. Women draped in glittering shreds that barely passed as clothing contorted themselves around poles and each other in movements that were meant to be seductive but came off more like a drunken interpretive dance.

The worst part? It worked for their audience. Men stared, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, as though they'd discovered a new religion.

Pathetic.

I tore my gaze away and took a measured sip of the amber liquid in my glass. The burn seared down my throat, promising relief that never came. If anything, it left a bitter, sour taste on my tongue that matched the acid simmering in my gut.

Why the hell had I come here?

The heat, the noise, the dissonant laughter, the grinding bodies, this place was a breeding ground for mediocrity. Everyone here was trying too hard to feel something, anything, but all I saw were empty lives drowning in their own excess.

I turned towards the exit, suddenly sick of it all. My time was too valuable to waste here, surrounded by people pretending this—this—was living.

I pushed through the crowd, each step lighter as the door came closer. One breath of clean air, one second outside this hellhole, and I could forget the entire night ever happened.

But just as I reached the door, a painfully familiar voice split through the noise.

"Larsen, my friend!"

I stopped.

The sound scraped against my nerves like fingernails dragging across glass and I could already feel my stomach churning with contempt as I turned my head toward the source.

There he was, a vision of disaster in human form, Viktor Novák.

Great.

I forced myself to look at him, plastering on a tight, practiced smile. In this world, one must sometimes endure the company of fools to achieve one's ends. And I was nothing if not pragmatic. Viktor grinned back at me, wide and unflappable, as though we were lifelong friends instead of tolerable acquaintances.

"Tristan Larsen, the man who graces us with his presence tonight!" He stepped forward, his arms already outstretched like I might hug him. I didn't. He laughed anyway, slapping my shoulder with enough force to make the glass in my hand wobble. "What do you think, eh? Quite the event, yes?"

"It's... something." My voice was dry, and I wasn't entirely sure he caught the sarcasm. Viktor wasn't the kind of man who read between the lines. He was the kind who bulldozed right over them.

He laughed again, loud and unashamed, as if I'd just told the greatest joke. "Something! I'll take that as a compliment." He gestured toward the stage, where the women had devolved into something even more indecent. "It's art, my friend. A celebration of freedom, of expression, of life! Don't you think?"

"Freedom," I echoed, swirling the liquid in my glass, "is one word for it."

He didn't notice the way my lips barely curled around the words, too wrapped up in his own theatrics. Viktor Novák was a man who built his empire on grit and greed, not taste. His idea of art was anything loud, expensive, and impossible to ignore—qualities that, unfortunately, also applied to the man himself.

As he rambled on about auctions and patrons and God knows what else, I let my eyes drift over the crowd. A sea of meaningless faces. Too much skin, too little purpose. I could feel the disgust settling deeper in my chest with every second. Was this really supposed to be fun?

"Well, well, well." Someone suddenly drawled behind me, cutting through the fog of noise and Viktor's relentless voice. "If it isn't the man of the hour."

That voice...

A slow, knowing grin tugged at the corners of my mouth as I turned.

Killian Fobster.

Up close, he looked exactly how I imagined: polished, proud, and brimming with that irritating air of smug entitlement that men like him wore better than tailored suits. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear he'd walked straight off the cover of Smug Bastards Monthly.

And judging by the gleam in his eye, he knew it too.

He leaned back against the railing, his posture loose and lazy, as though this circus of desperation were beneath him. The tailored suit was predictably flawless, black on black, because of course it was. His dark hair was swept back in a style that had probably taken longer than he'd admit, and his eyes—sharp, dark blue, and cold—were locked on me like a predator who thought he'd found his equal.

"Ah, Fobster," Viktor said, his smile broadening. "Always a pleasure. Thank you for joining us tonight."

Killian's response was a simple nod, a polite acknowledgment that was far from enthusiastic. "Of course, Viktor," he said, his voice smooth but with an edge of detachment. He turned back to me, his gaze never wavering. "I believe we haven't had the chance to properly meet."

I didn't extend a hand, and neither did he.

"You must be Killian Fobster," I finally said, my voice as flat as my expression. "The man who's too busy managing his online reputation to manage his business portfolio."

He chuckled lightly, not offended, but entertained by my jab. "And you must be Larsen," he replied, drawing my name out slowly, as if savoring the sound. His voice was like polished steel, cool but undeniably sharp. "The man who turns reckless spending into an art form. How's that working out for you?"

I raised an eyebrow, my own smile a fraction of an inch away from a sneer. "Someone has to keep the lights on in places like this," I said, glancing at the opulent surroundings. "I didn't realize you were sitting this one out, though. Running low on nerve, or just on budget?"

His eyes gleamed, but the smirk didn't quite reach his eyes. "Ah, that's one way to spin it," he said with a small, almost imperceptible shrug. "But I like to think of it as knowing when to walk away. Not everyone can handle the pressure of overpaying for something they don't need."

I couldn't help but laugh softly. "You call it strategy, I call it cold feet."

He didn't flinch. In fact, he stepped closer, his body language relaxed, but his words carried weight. "I could've outbid you," he said smoothly, his voice a little lower. "But why should I? You didn't win because you wanted it. You won because I made you want it."

"Don't flatter yourself," I said evenly. "I bought it because I could. That's the difference between us, Fobster. I don't hesitate or second-guess myself halfway through because I hit budget."

His jaw tightened, just slightly, and I knew I'd hit home. Killian Fobster hated losing almost as much as he hated my guts. It didn't matter if it was business, art, or a parking space; he thrived on competition but couldn't stomach defeat.

His lips curled into a thin, tight smile. "A budget, Larsen, is what separates the disciplined from the desperate. But I suppose that concept might be foreign to someone who treats their bank account like a clearance bin at an art auction."

"Is that what we're calling it now?" I countered, unbothered. "Discipline? Looked a lot like you freezing up when the stakes got too high." I leaned in slightly, just enough to lower my voice. "Admit it. You wanted to win. And when you realized you couldn't, you pulled the ripcord like the coward you are." I straightened. "But hey, at least you're consistent. Giving up must be second nature by now."

Killian's eyes darkened, and he opened his mouth, no doubt ready to deliver one of his carefully sharpened quips, when Viktor—sensing the tension—stepped between us.

"Gentlemen! What is this?" he chuckled, clapping both of us on the shoulders with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Two industry giants standing here with such serious faces? Come now, we're here to enjoy ourselves!"

Killian's expression shifted immediately, smoothing into one of polite charm. He met Viktor's gaze with a practiced smile. "Just a bit of friendly banter, Viktor," he said easily, the sharp edge gone from his voice. "No need to worry."

Viktor grinned, clearly not noticing the underlying tension. "Of course, of course! But you two, you need to lighten up. I have a private lounge set up for us—much more relaxed, much less... public. Come on, let's go."

Before either of us could protest, Viktor's hands were on our backs, steering us through the crowd. Killian shot me a glance over his shoulder, the look sharp, loaded with a promise that this wasn't over. I returned it with a raised brow and a faint, sardonic smile, the challenge clear in my gaze.

Viktor led us down a dim hallway to a private room lined with heavy leather chairs and crystal decanters on a polished oak bar. The room was quieter, insulated from the thumping bass of the party, but the tension between Killian and me didn't dissipate. If anything, it thickened in the confined space.

"Ah, there we are," Viktor said, clapping his hands together. He threw himself into one of the leather armchairs with all the grace of someone who didn't care whether they made an impression. "Now sit and have a drink. You two are some of the sharpest minds I know—you should be allies, not enemies."

Allies?

Killian and I exchanged glances as we sat in opposite chairs.

That wasn't happening.

"Oh!" Viktor continued. "And I know just the thing to break the ice!" Another dramatic clap of his hands, and the ensuite door creaked open, revealing a flock of half-naked women that sashayed in one by one.

I kept my expression neutral, though the sudden spike of tension in my chest was hard to ignore.

Across the room, Killian exhaled sharply, his posture going rigid. "Viktor."

Viktor blinked, his grin never faltering. "What? It's just a little fun."

"I have a wife."

I couldn't resist the jab. "I'm surprised you found someone who tolerates all that arrogance you carry around."

Killian's eyes flicked to me, but he ignored my comment, brushing off the woman who had attempted to drape herself over him like an accessory. "And I'm sure someone out there could handle your ego, Larsen," he said, his voice laced with subtle mockery. "Though, I doubt anyone could tolerate that charming personality of yours for more than five minutes."

I leaned back, a small, knowing smile tugging at my lips. "It might interest you to know, Fobster, that I'm married."

His mouth twisted into a wry grin. "My condolences to her."

I chuckled. "I'll pass on your regards. Though it's a shame your wife wasn't here tonight—you could've used her as a buffer to keep from embarrassing yourself."

Killian's smirk widened. "Bold words from a man who spent a small fortune on a painting just to prove a point."

"Bold?" I countered, leaning forward now, my tone light but laced with mockery. "No, Fobster. Bold is a man walking into an auction with a champagne taste and a beer budget. Remind me—how much of that painting did you actually bid for before running out of gas?"

The corners of his mouth twitched, a crack in his otherwise polished facade. "I didn't 'run out of gas.' I chose not to waste my money."

"Ah, yes. Strategic retreat," I said dryly. "Must be nice, dressing cowardice up as wisdom. Does it come naturally, or did you take a course?"

Before Killian could retaliate, Viktor clapped his hands again, louder this time, cutting through the tension like a blunt instrument. "There we go! Banter, wit—this is what I mean! You two could be unstoppable together! Now, drink! Relax! Enjoy the company—less repartee, more..." he trailed off, gesturing vaguely toward the women who were still perched around the room, looking more like decorative objects than people.

Killian sighed. "Viktor, I'm married."

"As am I," I added.

Viktor's grin only widened. "Married? What does it matter? Come now, gentlemen! You're both powerful, successful men. You deserve a little indulgence. Relax! Enjoy the moment!"

Killian's expression darkened, his easygoing facade cracking for the first time. "You're not hearing me, Viktor. I'm married. Happily. And if my wife finds out I entertained this circus, she'll kill me. Now, send them away. Or I walk out that door."

Viktor blinked, genuinely taken aback. He turned to me for support, as if expecting me to be on his side. "Larsen, surely you're not so uptight—"

"I suggest you do the right thing." I urged, cutting him off.

For a moment, Viktor looked genuinely irritated. Then, as if flipping a switch, he burst into laughter. "You two! So serious! Fine, fine." He snapped his fingers, signaling the women to leave. They filed out reluctantly, their heels clicking against the floor, shooting disappointed looks over their shoulders.

When the room was finally empty, Viktor exhaled dramatically, standing up. "No fun, either of you. Fine, enjoy your drinks, your morals, whatever." He turned and strolled toward the door. "I'll be downstairs if you change your minds."

Killian exhaled, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. "He's a piece of work."

I poured a generous measure from the decanter into my glass and tilted it back. "Understatement of the year."

"Careful," Killian said, eyeing the decanter. "That's stronger than it looks."

"Good," I muttered, pouring again and raising the glass in a mock salute before downing it.

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Suit yourself."

I didn't answer. I didn't need his approval or his concern. What I needed was to stop feeling like my chest was caving in. And if the alcohol was as potent as he claimed, then it was exactly what I needed.

Just as I reached for the decanter to pour myself another drink, my phone buzzed on the table, breaking the moment.

I frowned, irritated. Work, most likely—another report, another contract, another problem I didn't feel like dealing with. But the buzz felt insistent, so I unlocked the screen, a habit more than anything else, and the subject line made my breath hitch.

Evergreen Weekly Report.

A cold sensation slid down my spine, as if the weight of the world had decided to settle in my gut. I'd been waiting for this report all day. But now that it was here, I was filled with a sense of dread I couldn't shake.

I tapped it open with a swipe of my thumb, forcing my breathing to stay even. The first few lines seemed harmless—mention of Sienna's recent outings. The first photo loaded with a flicker of light on the screen. It was Sienna. At a shopping mall. Her arm looped through Candice's as they strolled through a mall. My eyes locked onto it immediately. She looked... happy. Genuinely happy. A kind of carefree joy I hadn't seen in too long.

My heart constricted painfully, the weight of her absence in my life crashing down on me. I scrolled down.

Another photo.

Sienna and Stefan in a small café, caught mid-conversation, a cup of coffee between them. The sting in my gut worsened. I scrolled further.

The next photo.

Sienna in a baby store.

My heart stuttered.

There she was, standing in front of a display at a baby store. Her fingers brushed over a tiny pair of shoes, no bigger than my palm.

The image blurred for a second before snapping back into focus. She was...smiling, but it wasn't the carefree, light smile I'd seen with Candice or Stefan. No. This smile was different. It was the kind of smile you wear when you've accepted something. Something that's coming, whether you're ready for it or not.

A sharp breath rattled through me, and I had to set the phone down before my hands started to shake.

She was carrying my child—our children —and she was out there, facing it head-on.

Without me.

I reached for my glass and took another burning gulp, but it did nothing to wash down the guilt crawling up my throat.

I should've been there with her. I should've been the one standing beside her, helping her pick out shoes and cribs and whatever else babies needed. I should've been the one holding her hand and telling her that everything was going to be okay.

Instead, I was here, miles away, getting drunk in a penthouse and pretending the weight of it all wasn't suffocating me.

I wanted to pick up the phone and call her. Tell her that I was sorry. That I'd made a mistake. That I wanted to be there, to try.

But I couldn't.

Because even as the guilt clawed at me, the fear was still there, too.

I grabbed the phone again, needing something to ground me. The next photo loaded.

I froze.

No.

I blinked. Once. Twice. But the image didn't change. It stayed exactly the same.

Sienna. Sitting at a table.

With a man.

Xavier.

My stomach dropped.

No.

It had to be a mistake.

This couldn't be right. I blinked hard, my eyes darting over the image again. But no matter how many times I blinked, the reality remained the same. He was there, clear as day, sitting across from Sienna and she—oh God—she was smiling, laughing even.

My breath came shallow. The glass in my hand trembled as I set it down, but my fingers wouldn't stop shaking.

Why was Xavier in New York? Why was he with Sienna? How long had he been here?

The question hit hard, and suddenly I felt sick.

I didn't even know he was back.

She hadn't told me he was back.

Had she been hiding him?

How long had this been going on? My mind spun, grasping for answers that weren't there. Had he come back before I left? After? Had he been waiting for me to walk out so he could swoop in and—

No.

No, it couldn't be like that. Sienna wasn't like that.

But the photo... the photo said otherwise.

My stomach churned as I swiped down for more of the report. I needed answers. I had to understand.

The words on the screen blurred together, but one line jumped out at me: "A Doctor named Xavier Lee has been spending significant time with her at work. Sources suggest they are close."

They worked together?

Jesus.

I shoved the phone away like it burned, dragging my hands down my face.

My jaw locked. How the hell could she do this? How could she let him back into her life and not tell me? I'd been drowning without her, barely keeping myself together, and she'd been... Was that why she was so eager to go to work? So she could be with him?

I didn't even realize I'd started drinking again until the warmth hit my throat.

But it wasn't enough.

I poured another, my fingers trembling as I tried to steady myself.

Was this my fault? Had I pushed her into this? Was I not enough?

I picked up my phone again and fetched her number, the temptation to call her clawing at me. To demand answers. To beg for them.

My thumb hovered over the call button. I didn't want to believe it.

But the image—

I shook my head, trying to shove the thought away, but it was already there, sinking its claws in deep. My insides twisted. I felt so sick I could vomit. I grabbed the decanter and tipped it straight to my lips.

"Larsen." Killian's voice cut through the haze. "Slow down."

I didn't look up. I didn't acknowledge him. I tipped the decanter to my lips again, feeling the burn spread through me. The warmth should've been comforting, should've soothed the ache gnawing at my chest, but it didn't. Not even close. It didn't make the photo go away. It didn't stop the image of Sienna and Xavier from searing itself into my brain.

"Tristan, stop." Killian's voice came again, harder this time. "You need to slow down. That stuff's not water."

I didn't respond, didn't even glance at him. Another chug. Then another.

Why him?

The question looped through my head, stabbing at every corner of my mind.

Why Xavier? Why now?

Was he comforting her? Laughing with her? Touching her?

Oh God.

The world around me began to shift. The lights, the music—everything felt louder, more distorted, like I was spinning but going nowhere. My thoughts ran wild, chaos consuming me.

Why?

Why?!

"Alright, that's enough." Killian snapped, crossing the room with quick strides and yanking the decanter from my hand, before I could take another gulp.

"Give it back." My voice was a growl.

"It's not water, Tristan," he said, holding it out of my reach. "And if you don't stop, you're going to regret it."

My hands clenched into fists. "Give it back. This is none of your business."

"You're right," he said, his grip firm, unwavering. "But if you drop dead right here, I'll be the one stuck dealing with the aftermath. So, no. You're done."

I snapped. "I said, give it back."

"No," he replied, unflinching. "You're not doing this."

I could feel my chest tightening, the anger rising inside me like a tidal wave. "Don't push me, Fobster. I'm not in the mood."

"You think I care about your mood? You're not drowning your problems in this."

"You don't know what the hell I'm dealing with!"

Killian didn't flinch. If anything, his grip on the decanter tightened. "No, but I can see what you're doing. And it's not going to help."

Foiled, I pushed to my feet, but the alcohol surged through my system like fire, and the sudden motion sent the room tilting violently.

I caught myself against the chair, my pulse thundering in my ears. My chest was tight—too tight—and suddenly it wasn't just the alcohol making my head spin.

"Larsen." Killian was at my side now, grabbing my arm. "You're definitely not alright."

"Don't touch me!" I spat, shoving his hand away.

He moved back and I shook my head, trying to clear it, but the colors blurred and shifted, and the world wouldn't stop spinning.

I pushed past him and took my first step towards the bar, and then the second, and then...the world darkened.

"Tristan!!"