Dwight’s POVThe rhythmic clinking of metal against metal fills the air, a soft cadence that calms the storm behind my ribs. I’ve been here for hours, maybe longer. Time has folded into itself, unraveling only in the form of the golden loop I’m working on—intricate, flawed, human.It’s supposed to be a ring, but it’s more than that. It’s a tether. Something to keep me grounded when everything else feels like it’s slipping.My fingertips are blackened with soot and metal polish. I haven’t eaten. My back aches, and I can feel the stiff pull of a burn on the side of my wrist from where I grazed the torch earlier. Still, I don’t stop. I’m not ready to face the world waiting outside this place.This workshop is tucked far enough away from the main building that I rarely get disturbed. It’s smaller, more private. It smells of cedarwood, oil, and scorched silver. I didn’t even bring Carter here. Only a few know it exists. I needed a space that didn’t scream success or wealth or responsibilit
Dwight’s POVThe last of the heat hisses away beneath the gold band as I quench it, setting the tongs down and peeling off my gloves. My workshop has grown cold, the shadows long and stretched. The overhead light buzzes faintly above me, casting a muted glow over my tools and the half-finished designs strewn across the bench. For a moment, everything is quiet. Still.But then I hear it.The low hum of an engine outside. Idle. Steady.I stiffen.There aren’t supposed to be any cars out here—at least not this late, not this deep into the property. This workshop is tucked far behind the main Glimmr building, its location carefully omitted from all but a select few internal maps. Carter doesn’t even have the coordinates. The place is meant to be my sanctuary.I slip off the apron and wipe my hands on a cloth, my ears straining to catch more.Silence again.I step outside into the night. The air is sharp with the promise of rain, cool against my sweat-damp skin. The gravel crunches beneath
Ethan's POVThe fire’s gone. Days have passed. But in my head, it still burns. And the memory of the fire crackling and hissing as I'd watched the short clip leaves me in complete satisfaction.I’m in my apartment tonight. Curtains drawn tight. The only light comes from this weak, flickering lamp in the corner. Shadows stretch across the floor like they’re reaching for me.I let them.I like the quiet. The isolation. It gives me room to think — and God, I’ve been thinking.My laptop glows in front of me. News reports. Articles. Whispers on social media. All of them screaming about Glimmr. About the fire. About the damage.No leads. No suspects.The thugs — they’d really been good at their job.They'd truly delivered. Exactly how I wanted it.I run a hand through my hair — it’s a mess — and let a slow smirk tug at my mouth.Two workshops. Reduced to ash. Dwight’s precious little empire gutted overnight. Everything he built — torched.And yet… I still feel empty.Because he’s still brea
Leah's POVCece wraps her fingers around her coffee cup as I stand to leave. There’s warmth in her gaze, but she doesn't push me to stay longer. She never does. That's the thing about Cece—she's always known when to speak, when to stay silent, and when to step aside. There are parts of my life I don't even need to explain to her anymore. She just knows.“Call me when you get home?” she says, eyes flicking up.I nod. “I will. Thanks for this. For... grounding me.”She smiles, but there's something pained in the curve of her lips. “Go. Don’t keep him waiting. You know how he gets.”I do.The thought alone is enough to quicken my steps. I slide into my car and head home, my fingers already twitching for the straightener. It's ridiculous, really—how many years have passed since I moved out of my father's house, since I began building a life of my own? And yet, the moment a dinner invitation arrives from him, I revert. Instinctively. Unquestionably.The apartment is quiet when I step in. M
Leah's POVThere's a moment of silence between us as Father studies the menu. I stay quiet, knowing that he doesn't like to make small talk when browsing through the options of the meal to order.However, he asks without looking up, "How have you been?"I blink. I must've misheard.That question doesn't come from him. Not first, not ever. Especially not when browsing through the menu."I've been… okay," I reply slowly, still not fully believing this is happening.He nods, glancing at me, his green eyes, very much like mine, assessing me before he returns to the menu.I steel myself for the moment he glances over it and waves it aside to order for both of us. It's how these dinners usually go. He selects, I smile and thank him, and the night continues under his direction.Except this time, he sets the menu in front of me."You should try something you like," he says. "They have an interesting range. Judith said the duck is nice, but I saw burgers too."I raise an eyebrow. "You're not o
Leah's POVThe city glimmers beneath me, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows as I move through my penthouse. The marble tiles are cool against my bare feet, the soft hum of ambient jazz weaving through the quiet as I begin my nightly routine.In the en-suite bathroom, warm lights glow from behind a gilded mirror. I stand before it, slowly removing the remnants of the evening. Each product—cleansing oil, foaming wash, rose-infused toner—lines the counter like an artful arrangement, the routine itself a ritual of comfort. The heated towel beneath my fingertips is plush, indulgent. But tonight, the luxury feels secondary. My mind lingers elsewhere.Dinner with Dad.His warmth, though subtle, had unsettled me more than his silence ever did. It wasn’t just the way he asked about my welfare or offered to refill my glass—it was the effort. The intentionality behind every quiet gesture. For a man like Felix Carrington, even the smallest shift felt seismic.I dab my face dry and change into sof
Leah's POVI linger by the window longer than necessary, clutching my now lukewarm mug of tea. I find myself shifting back to thoughts of Dwight.He hadn’t called.Carter had picked up when I called the office. Polite but clinical, offering no details other than "He's in a meeting." And after that—nothing. No follow-up. No text. No call. No acknowledgment that I’d reached out at all.The ache in my chest is one I’m becoming familiar with. It’s not loud. It doesn’t scream or demand attention. It’s subtle—like a soft pressing weight against my ribs, constant and steady.He’s avoiding me. I know it now.I leave the window and place the empty mug on the counter. The apartment feels too still now, too quiet despite the city noise spilling in through the glass. I can’t do this. I can’t sit here another minute wondering if he’s okay, if the fire has weighed on him, if he’s drowning in all of it alone.Decision made, I head back to the bedroom.I start getting ready for work.It feels strange
Ethan's POVI can’t sit still.The leather beneath me creaks every damn time I shift, but it’s not enough to keep me grounded. My knee bounces like a drumbeat I can’t silence, my hands clench and unclench around the phone that hasn’t given me a single update. Not one. Not from her. Not from anyone.I glance at the screen again. Nothing. Just the cold glow of the home screen mocking me.No missed calls. No new messages from Leah. Nothing.I swipe up, check our last conversation for the hundredth time. It was brief. Distant. Polite. The kind of message you send to someone you’ve decided not to love anymore. I start typing a new one—Call me when you can—but delete it before it gets the chance to sit in her inbox unread.She won't reply. She’s completely shut me out. Has probably moved on by now.I toss the phone beside me on the couch, but the emptiness of my palm instantly drives me insane. I snatch it back. My thumb hovers over the contact marked Unknown—a number I’ve memorized, though
Ethan's POVI can’t sit still.The leather beneath me creaks every damn time I shift, but it’s not enough to keep me grounded. My knee bounces like a drumbeat I can’t silence, my hands clench and unclench around the phone that hasn’t given me a single update. Not one. Not from her. Not from anyone.I glance at the screen again. Nothing. Just the cold glow of the home screen mocking me.No missed calls. No new messages from Leah. Nothing.I swipe up, check our last conversation for the hundredth time. It was brief. Distant. Polite. The kind of message you send to someone you’ve decided not to love anymore. I start typing a new one—Call me when you can—but delete it before it gets the chance to sit in her inbox unread.She won't reply. She’s completely shut me out. Has probably moved on by now.I toss the phone beside me on the couch, but the emptiness of my palm instantly drives me insane. I snatch it back. My thumb hovers over the contact marked Unknown—a number I’ve memorized, though
Leah's POVI linger by the window longer than necessary, clutching my now lukewarm mug of tea. I find myself shifting back to thoughts of Dwight.He hadn’t called.Carter had picked up when I called the office. Polite but clinical, offering no details other than "He's in a meeting." And after that—nothing. No follow-up. No text. No call. No acknowledgment that I’d reached out at all.The ache in my chest is one I’m becoming familiar with. It’s not loud. It doesn’t scream or demand attention. It’s subtle—like a soft pressing weight against my ribs, constant and steady.He’s avoiding me. I know it now.I leave the window and place the empty mug on the counter. The apartment feels too still now, too quiet despite the city noise spilling in through the glass. I can’t do this. I can’t sit here another minute wondering if he’s okay, if the fire has weighed on him, if he’s drowning in all of it alone.Decision made, I head back to the bedroom.I start getting ready for work.It feels strange
Leah's POVThe city glimmers beneath me, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows as I move through my penthouse. The marble tiles are cool against my bare feet, the soft hum of ambient jazz weaving through the quiet as I begin my nightly routine.In the en-suite bathroom, warm lights glow from behind a gilded mirror. I stand before it, slowly removing the remnants of the evening. Each product—cleansing oil, foaming wash, rose-infused toner—lines the counter like an artful arrangement, the routine itself a ritual of comfort. The heated towel beneath my fingertips is plush, indulgent. But tonight, the luxury feels secondary. My mind lingers elsewhere.Dinner with Dad.His warmth, though subtle, had unsettled me more than his silence ever did. It wasn’t just the way he asked about my welfare or offered to refill my glass—it was the effort. The intentionality behind every quiet gesture. For a man like Felix Carrington, even the smallest shift felt seismic.I dab my face dry and change into sof
Leah's POVThere's a moment of silence between us as Father studies the menu. I stay quiet, knowing that he doesn't like to make small talk when browsing through the options of the meal to order.However, he asks without looking up, "How have you been?"I blink. I must've misheard.That question doesn't come from him. Not first, not ever. Especially not when browsing through the menu."I've been… okay," I reply slowly, still not fully believing this is happening.He nods, glancing at me, his green eyes, very much like mine, assessing me before he returns to the menu.I steel myself for the moment he glances over it and waves it aside to order for both of us. It's how these dinners usually go. He selects, I smile and thank him, and the night continues under his direction.Except this time, he sets the menu in front of me."You should try something you like," he says. "They have an interesting range. Judith said the duck is nice, but I saw burgers too."I raise an eyebrow. "You're not o
Leah's POVCece wraps her fingers around her coffee cup as I stand to leave. There’s warmth in her gaze, but she doesn't push me to stay longer. She never does. That's the thing about Cece—she's always known when to speak, when to stay silent, and when to step aside. There are parts of my life I don't even need to explain to her anymore. She just knows.“Call me when you get home?” she says, eyes flicking up.I nod. “I will. Thanks for this. For... grounding me.”She smiles, but there's something pained in the curve of her lips. “Go. Don’t keep him waiting. You know how he gets.”I do.The thought alone is enough to quicken my steps. I slide into my car and head home, my fingers already twitching for the straightener. It's ridiculous, really—how many years have passed since I moved out of my father's house, since I began building a life of my own? And yet, the moment a dinner invitation arrives from him, I revert. Instinctively. Unquestionably.The apartment is quiet when I step in. M
Ethan's POVThe fire’s gone. Days have passed. But in my head, it still burns. And the memory of the fire crackling and hissing as I'd watched the short clip leaves me in complete satisfaction.I’m in my apartment tonight. Curtains drawn tight. The only light comes from this weak, flickering lamp in the corner. Shadows stretch across the floor like they’re reaching for me.I let them.I like the quiet. The isolation. It gives me room to think — and God, I’ve been thinking.My laptop glows in front of me. News reports. Articles. Whispers on social media. All of them screaming about Glimmr. About the fire. About the damage.No leads. No suspects.The thugs — they’d really been good at their job.They'd truly delivered. Exactly how I wanted it.I run a hand through my hair — it’s a mess — and let a slow smirk tug at my mouth.Two workshops. Reduced to ash. Dwight’s precious little empire gutted overnight. Everything he built — torched.And yet… I still feel empty.Because he’s still brea
Dwight’s POVThe last of the heat hisses away beneath the gold band as I quench it, setting the tongs down and peeling off my gloves. My workshop has grown cold, the shadows long and stretched. The overhead light buzzes faintly above me, casting a muted glow over my tools and the half-finished designs strewn across the bench. For a moment, everything is quiet. Still.But then I hear it.The low hum of an engine outside. Idle. Steady.I stiffen.There aren’t supposed to be any cars out here—at least not this late, not this deep into the property. This workshop is tucked far behind the main Glimmr building, its location carefully omitted from all but a select few internal maps. Carter doesn’t even have the coordinates. The place is meant to be my sanctuary.I slip off the apron and wipe my hands on a cloth, my ears straining to catch more.Silence again.I step outside into the night. The air is sharp with the promise of rain, cool against my sweat-damp skin. The gravel crunches beneath
Dwight’s POVThe rhythmic clinking of metal against metal fills the air, a soft cadence that calms the storm behind my ribs. I’ve been here for hours, maybe longer. Time has folded into itself, unraveling only in the form of the golden loop I’m working on—intricate, flawed, human.It’s supposed to be a ring, but it’s more than that. It’s a tether. Something to keep me grounded when everything else feels like it’s slipping.My fingertips are blackened with soot and metal polish. I haven’t eaten. My back aches, and I can feel the stiff pull of a burn on the side of my wrist from where I grazed the torch earlier. Still, I don’t stop. I’m not ready to face the world waiting outside this place.This workshop is tucked far enough away from the main building that I rarely get disturbed. It’s smaller, more private. It smells of cedarwood, oil, and scorched silver. I didn’t even bring Carter here. Only a few know it exists. I needed a space that didn’t scream success or wealth or responsibilit
Dwight’s POVThe coffee on my desk has gone cold. I haven’t touched it. I don’t even remember when I ordered it—Carter must’ve dropped it off hours ago, before retreating with that look of quiet concern he doesn’t dare speak aloud. The surface has a faint film now, oily and still. It’s a small detail, insignificant, but it gnaws at me. Just another thing left unattended. Another thing that slipped past my grip.I haven’t eaten. Can’t. The reports in front of me blur, the black ink melting into the white paper like shadows bleeding into snow. I read and reread the same line over and over, but nothing sticks. My brain refuses to process it. The numbers, the projections, the incident breakdowns—they’re all just noise.My mind keeps drifting. Backward. To her.To Leah.The fire was here. In New York. Not overseas. Not one of our satellite facilities in developing regions where corruption, corner-cutting, and poor infrastructure might make for a believable excuse. No. This wasn’t negligenc