I balanced the coffee tray carefully in my hands, walking into the meeting room with steady steps. The air was really full with the scent of expensive cologne and sharp professionalism. Tristan stood at the head of the table, listening as one of the clients spoke. I kept my head down, focused on my task. This was routine. I had done it countless times before. Everything was fine. Until it wasn’t. As I turned to leave, someone bumped into me—hard. The tray wobbled. The coffee cups tipped. And before I could react, hot liquid splashed all over a client’s expensive suit. A terrible silence filled the room. I froze. My heart pounded. The client gasped, jerking back in his chair. “What the hell?!” I opened my mouth to apologize, but then I felt it. A piercing stare. I turned slightly, my stomach sinking. Tristan was looking at me. His expression was unreadable, but his dark eyes burned into mine. I swallowed hard. “I’m sorry,” I said quickly, grabbing napkin
Three months. It was three months ago, now, since I'd let this happen. Since I'd let Tristan touch me, ravage me, consume me in ways that I'd never considered letting. Three months since we established the ground rules: no emotions, no attachment, just sex. And yet still, I couldn't help staring at him. He was leaning over the office, heavily discussing something with some business ass in a suit that was two sizes too small, but I wasn't listening. I wasn't even pretending to listen. Because Tristan was a fucking problem. Him, Tristan, in a tailored suit that clung to his beautifully sculpted physique, jacket fitting perfectly over expansive shoulders, tie slightly undone as if he'd tugged on it in exasperation beforehand. Sleeves rolled up, forearms bare, veins protruding on his skin as he gestured, dominating the room without making the slightest effort. And his face. Cold. Focused. Completely detached. That sentence—cold, impatient, a bit cruel—shouldn't have coiled my stoma
Christmas was coming. The office was quiet, everyone leaving or half-working until the holidays themselves started. Ornaments thrown around everywhere—a tacky wreath on the front counter, a sad little Christmas tree in the break room. Nothing serious. Nothing homey. And Tristan? Tristan couldn't care less about Christmas. I'd known that before I opened my mouth, but still I was in his office, fumbling about like a fool, trying to find the guts to say it. I'd just handed in my report to him, should've been making a retreat, but I hung around instead. His eyes flicked up. Piercing. Waiting. "You have something more to say?" I swallowed. Why was this so hard? "I was just—uh—wondering." Tristan's brow jumped up. Waiting. I was sweating buckets, completely insane, like I was going to ask him out on a dumb date. Which, technically, I wasn't. Not exactly. "I was just wondering…." I swallowed. "How do you usually spend Christmas?" Tristan's expression didn't change, but something
I wiped my hands across my sweater to dry them and glanced at the screen. Tristan: How's the holiday going so far? I stared at it. I hadn't really heard from him much since the office shut down. It wasn't unusual—this was the longest either of us had ever been out of the office. And yet, the look of his name sent something burning slash through my chest. I answered quickly. Me: Loud. Chaotic. Mom yelling at the gravy. One second later: Tristan: Sounds like fun. I smiled already anticipating the dry-as-desert look on his face. Me: You tell me, but you'd really hate it. Too human and warm. There was a longer pause than that one. Then: Tristan: Still invited? I breathed in. Home for the Holidays I texted my address out hurriedly, before I could regret it. And then I just.stood there. For what was an eternity, I simply sat there, my phone in my face, irregular heartbeat, stomach twisting itself into impossible knots. He was coming. Tristan Wolfe was in my hometown for C
It wasn't the disaster I'd pictured in my head, but it wasn't silky smooth by any means. Because if there was one thing I'd learned tonight, it was this: Tristan Wolfe, cold CEO, menacing businessman, career-killer…was downright fucking awkward with my parents. I’d never seen him like this before. Usually, he was the most composed, in-control bastard in any room. His words were always measured, his confidence unshakable. But here? Here, he sat at my parents' dinner table, shoulders a little too straight, back a little too stiff, holding his fork like it was some kind of delicate weapon. My mom had been impressed with him at first, just because he had good table manners and was sporting a nice coat. And my dad? My dad was keeping him on the hot seat. So, Tristan," he said, stirring his drink slowly. "Tell me. How did you and Dylan meet?" I paused with a bite halfway to my mouth. Oh. Oh no. I could feel Tristan's tension beside me. He set his fork down carefully, answering with
He was fully in my space now, his hands pressing against the wall on either side of me, his body too warm, too solid, too fucking much. “You’re being awfully quiet, Dylan.” His voice was low, amused. “I—” My voice died in my throat. Because suddenly, his mouth was right there. Floating inches from mine, his breath on my lips, his eyes on mine like he was holding his breath waiting for something. Waiting for me to break. I clenched my fists. "Tristan—" And then—he kissed me. Hard. Hungry. Teeth scraping against my lower lip, his hands digging harder into my waist, yanking me toward him until there was no space left. I made a noise—a gasp, a curse—something, but he swallowed it whole, kissing me like he was trying to erase every thought from my head but him. And it was working. I was warm all over, my knees weak, my body totally betraying me. His lips moved lower, tracing over my jaw, down to the juncture of my neck, open-mouthed kisses pressed against my skin. I fucking s
Harvard.It took me a second, then I realized where I'd heard it, and immediately I felt queasiness.I stood on campus, with people, overlapping conversations, wind biting and nipping, pavement under feet where people rushed between classes. It felt too real, the familiar feel of the pack on the shoulder, coffee smell from the student union from afar.And then—A name.“Tristan Wolfe.”I froze.I turned toward a familiar face. "Who's that?"The way he gazed at me was quite insulting.“You don’t know who Tristan Wolfe is?”I shook my head and a shiver rose onto my spine.There was not a vocal reply, because I had been grabbed and jerked towards him.“Come on, take a look, then.”I barely had time to comprehend what I had heard when we were slashing across the quad, pushing our way between groups of students, towards the gym. The louder we got, the more raucous the sound sounded—the unmistakable boom and crash of a basketball being played.Mason shoved the doors wide open.And there he
The next morning, Tristan was packing his things.I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him with a growing frown.“You’re really leaving?”He didn’t even look up, shoving a sweater into his bag. “I have to see my father.”The words were flat, detached. Like the topic meant nothing to him.Something about it sat wrong in my chest.I wanted to say more—How long would you be away? Would you call me? Why the damn hell do you sound like you'd rather die by a bus than come and see your own dad?But I didn't.Because I wasn't really allowed to say things like that.Instead, I asked: "You can't stay an extra few days?"He hesitated, hands tightening around the strap of the bag, but he didn't look back."Not this time."And then, suddenly, he was gone.I was out the entire day.Not in a super obvious manner—at least, I didn't think so—but my mom picked up on it immediately.We were in the kitchen when she finally confronted me, drying off a plate with slow, deliberate movement
Tristan's POVIt's everywhere.Every news network, every celebrity website, every goddamn social media—everyone's discussing it.TRISTAN WOLFE CALLS OFF ENGAGEMENT IN SHOCK PUBLIC ANNOUNCEMENT.OLIVER SINCLAIR EMBARRASSED AT GRAND OPENING.THE MYSTERIOUS MAN WHO STOLE HIS HEART.I could've predicted this. Should've realized the second the words left my mouth that it wouldn't be a ripple—it'd be a fucking tsunami.But I hadn't thought of the press. Hadn't thought of the board. Hadn't even thought of my father.Because all I'd been thinking was him.Dylan.And now?He won't answer.I tense my hand into a fist around my phone, scanning the last text I'd sent him.Talk to me. Please.Nothing.I don't know what's worse than the entire world having an opinion about my life these days, or the fact that the one person I actually care about won't even give me a text message back.My head is pounding. I haven't slept. Haven't eaten. The last thing in my body was whiskey, and it did nothing what
I feel the intent of his words settle over me like a suffocating blanket. I don’t want to deal with this. I don’t want any part of it. I just want to be left the fuck alone.But the truth is, I’m already in it. And I’m not getting out. Not now.Not after everything.The room is too quiet after Oliver’s words. Too all sorts of weird. Too fucking much. My phone keeps buzzing on the table, screen lighting up with missed calls, messages, notifications that I already know will be a mess to deal with. But I don’t reach for it.I just stare at Oliver, because something in his expression tells me that whatever he’s about to say next? It’s worse than anything flashing across the internet right now.I swallow, my voice rough. “What do you mean, ‘do you know what Tristan’s done to himself?’”Oliver doesn’t answer right away. He just shakes his head, like he can’t believe I don’t already know. Like I should have put the pieces together. His hands drag through his hair before he exhales sharply. “
(Dylan’s POV)It’s two in the morning, and I can’t get the images out of my head. The chaos. The noise. The cameras flashing. The look on Tristan’s face when he—when he said it. I still don’t know what to make of it. I’m lying there, sprawled on the couch, a glass of whiskey in my hand, but I can’t even bring myself to drink it. I’m just… still. I feel hollow, like I’ve been turned inside out.There’s a knock at the door.I groan, rubbing my eyes. Of course, there’s a knock at the door. It’s late. Too fucking late. But I know exactly who it is.Oliver.I sit up, tossing the glass on the table, before I even process the fact that I’m getting up. My brain is still too scrambled, too fucking full of the mess that has been my life these past few weeks.I open the door before he can knock again, but when I see him standing there, all I feel is exhaustion. He doesn’t look much better than I do—disheveled, a look of regret in his eyes, but there’s still that sharpness to him. That sharpnes
(Dylan's POV)I never imagined hearing those words once more. Not after all of it. Not after the deception and the heartache, the broken promises that had been set out before me like a bad joke. And yet there they were, tumbling from Tristan's lips, raw and desperate."Give me another chance.I had no clue what to do with that. I had no clue how to interpret the vehemence of it because all I could do was think about the last time he had talked so similarly.How he had gone about it so cavalierly, so cavalier, as if my heart—my trust—was something that could simply be returned with an apology. But I was too tired to be duped again.I couldn't suppress the bitter laugh that ripped from my lips, cutting through the space between us. "You want another chance? You had one. You had so many. And you discarded them all."I didn't even recognize my own voice. It was chill, removed. I had to make it so. I had to keep myself at arm's length, or else I was going to break.Tristan's expression eas
Dylan’s POVI couldn't breathe. My chest was tightening, lungs wheezing like they'd never drawn breath before. With every thump of my heart, there was a drumming in my ears, a continuous boom of terror, fear, and something I couldn't pinpoint.What the heck was going on?That wasn't genuine. Not here. Not in that way. Not before all the others. Not with the reporters, the flashbulb-snapping dogs, the craze clucking in the distance like some rabid animals.I had to leave.I couldn't stay.My body took over before my mind had even begun to catch up. One step, two, three, and then I was pushing through the crowd, the yells getting louder behind, but I wasn't listening. I couldn't.I simply had to escape.Away from Oliver. Away from his beautiful, chiseled face just shattered enough for me to get a glimpse of how fucking pissed he was. Away from the grip of shadows that had become a fucking underworld.Away from Tristan.But as I was running away, as I believed I'd reached the door to fre
Tristan's POVThe moment you're about to do something that changes everything, there's this moment—this acutefast breathless moment—where your head does the calculation on all the ways you can still change your mind. Where your body screams at you to stop, to rethink, to think twice.I'd done it before.I was seven the first time I learned what it was like to go off script.It was summer. My dad had brought me to one of those extravagant garden parties at one of his business acquaintances, a man whose handshake was too tight and daughter, Eleanor, whose curls were so beautifully brushed they didn't move, not even on a sweltering summer afternoon.I had been instructed very specifically by my father in advance. You'll be polite to Eleanor. You'll eat with her. You'll eat the same as she does. And when she talks about her new piano, you'll say you have one too.I didn't have a piano, however. I had a guitar.I didn't love the piano, didn't love Eleanor, but I loved that dumb guitar. And
Dylan’s PovI had not thought about Tristan.I wasn’t dreaming about him either, I was being responsible, grown and totally, possibly not losing my mind, and living like a zombie this past few months.I was most definitely okay.I was repeating that again and again to myself, like a mantra to remove the persistent thoughts.I had not called or talked to him since that evening, and I was doing a pretty good job of being too busy to remember.The opening of the art hotel had been just the diversion. Flashy and high-society, exactly the type of event to take my mind off all the things that made my head spin in circles.The sort of diversion that prevented me from wondering why I had this constant gnawing in my chest that work or liquor couldn't drown out.The room was full of a who's who of media barons, art snobs, and a sprinkling of socialites who never appeared to be lost for words but never appeared to have anything worthwhile to say whatsoever.There was media everywhere—the flash o
Fuck sleep.Seriously, fuck it. I close my eyes, and there he is. I open them, and I swear I can still smell him. My brain won’t shut the fuck up about him, and it’s becoming a goddamn problem.Not just in the usual ways—like the suffocating ache in my chest, or the endless loop of memories clawing at my brain. No, now it’s worse. Now, it’s in my work. My fucking work.And I don’t fuck up at work. Ever.Except lately? I do.And Bobby—my new, overly enthusiastic, way-too-perky-for-this-shit assistant—is paying the price.“Sir, I just need your signature—”“Then fucking ask for it instead of standing there like a lost puppy.”Bobby’s eyes widen a little before he scurries away, and yeah, okay, maybe that was unnecessary, but I don’t have the energy to care. I rub my temples, exhaling sharply. I can feel the stress thrumming in my veins, tight and unrelenting.Or maybe it’s not stress.Maybe it’s fucking Dylan.Again.Always.I shove back from my desk, chair scraping against the floor, t
I immersed myself in work. It was the only way I could keep my head from wandering—away from the one man that I couldn't have.It was easier to get lost in spreadsheets, emails, and event planning than face the fact that I couldn't move on. That Tristan continued to insert himself in my mind like a ghost that I couldn't shake.Work was a buffer. A distraction.But no matter how many times I double-checked the guest list for the Art Hotel's grand opening or went through the seating arrangement drill for the umpteenth time, the aching did not subside."Dylan." Oliver's voice was like a rope, pulling me out of drowning. I did not bother to look up from my laptop."Yeah?""You've been sitting at that computer for hours." He stood in the doorway, his stance relaxed, but there was something in his eyes I couldn't quite identify.I let out a sigh, but didn't pause typing. "I'm busy.""No, you're hiding." He didn't give me time to answer, his tone already gentler. "You can't work yourself int