Dylan’s POVI should’ve said no.I wanted to say no.But standing there, caught between Tristan’s impossible gaze and Oliver’s quiet, waiting confidence, my mouth wouldn’t cooperate. My heart was a fucking mess, hammering too fast, too loud, drowning out the one part of me still clinging to reason.The silence stretched—awkward, heavy, choking. Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke. And me? My brain was spinning out in a million different directions at once.I should walk. Should pack my shit, toss Tristan’s precious files on his desk, and leave this entire mess behind. I should.But I didn’t.Because even now—especially now—I couldn’t stop remembering.Every moment. Every mistake. Every fucking time I let myself hope—only to get burned.I remembered the first time I met him. Suit crisp, voice cold, eyes sharp enough to cut through steel. He didn’t smile. Didn’t look at me twice. I was just another assistant—another cog in the machine. But even then—even then—he got under my sk
Dylan’s POVThe second the words had left my lips—"I accept."—it was like the whole fucking room shifted.No going back. No pretending this had never happened.And Tristan? He didn't say a word.Not a single goddamn thing.But his face—fuck. If looks were deadly, I'd have been a pile of smoldering ash on the high-end marble. His jaw was so tight, I knew he was going to snap a tooth, and his fists—oh, those were curled up like he was about to shatter something. Or someone.Probably me.Good. Let him break the fuck out.Oliver, on the other hand, was the epitome of smug contentment. That sly smile—too easy, too smooth—spread at the corners of his mouth like he'd already got what he wanted. And perhaps he had. I mean, I agreed, didn't I?Fuck it.I spun on my heel, making a beeline for the door before my idiot, traitor heart could change its mind."Dylan."His low, slicing voice cut across the room, freezing me in my tracks.Of course. Of fucking course.I didn't turn around. I should ha
Dylan’s POVIt’s been two weeks away from Tristan…. Day one working for Oliver, and I’m doing fantastic.It had been two weeks since I quit. Two weeks since I walked out of Tristan Wolfe’s office without looking back—without giving him the chance to stop me.And maybe I was fucking stupid, but part of me still thought he would. That he’d call. That he’d show up. That he’d do something.But he didn’t.Not a text. Not a word. Not a single sign that he gave a shit I was gone.So, yeah. Fuck him.I’d moved on. Or at least—I was trying to.Day one working under Oliver was… weird. Not bad. Just—different.His office wasn’t as cold as Tristan’s. No sleek glass walls, no sterile, soulless vibe that made me feel like an intruder in my own fucking life. Instead, everything here felt warmer. More chaotic. Like the entire place ran on caffeine and vibes.People smiled. Smiled. Like, actual smiles—not those tense, fake-ass grimaces everyone wore around Tristan like he might snap their necks for br
Tristan’s POVThe coffee tasted like shit.I set the cup down with a sharp clink, fingers flexing against the desk. The bitterness sat on my tongue, too much and wrong. It wasn’t the coffee’s fault. Same brand. Same machine. Same cup.But it wasn’t the same.Nothing fucking was.I exhaled through my nose, glancing at the empty space outside the office. His desk was still there. His chair, his neatly stacked papers, even the damn pen he used to chew on when he thought I wasn’t looking.But no Dylan.No low muttering as he read through reports. No quick, sharp sighs of frustration when someone emailed him something stupid. No perfectly timed reminders before I even had to ask.Just silence.Over filling. Suffocating.I turned back to my screen, eyes scanning the report in front of me. I read the same line four times before realizing I wasn’t absorbing a single fucking word.Useless.The whole goddamn morning had been useless.Meetings I didn’t give a shit about. Paperwork Dylan used to
Dylan’s POVOliver did not give up.Not for a fucking second.Day by day, minute by minute, he was there. Pushing. Probing. Clouding the waters between boss and. whatever.I should have known better.The way he leaned in a little too close when he spoke. The way his hand touched my wrist when he handed me something. The way his eyes stayed on me for a fraction of a second longer—hard, calculating, aware.I ignored it.Told myself I was seeing things.But Oliver wasn't subtle. He wasn't Tristan.Tristan, who had spent years building walls. Who had moved as if it would kill him to touch me. Who could fuck me wild one night and take calls I wasn’t allowed to hear the next morning.Oliver wasn't like that.Oliver wanted me to know.He made it plain in ways Tristan never did.It was the manner in which he brought me food to my desk before I even realized that I was hungry. "Eat, Dylan," his handwriting would say, like I was some kind of child who needed reminding.It was the manner in whic
Dylan’s POVOliver sat propped up beside my desk, easy confidence and smooth arrogance emanating from him, as if he fucking owned the world. As if he fucking owned me."Big night tonight," he said, stirring coffee in his cup. His unreadable, sharp eyes were pinned on me. Watching. Waiting. "You should go."I didn't even look up from my laptop. "Work event?""Technically."I breathed in through my nose, flipping through messages I wasn't actually reading. "Then I'm figuring I don't have a choice.""It's always your choice," Oliver told me, pushing off the desk and moving around my chair. His fingers brushed along the back of it, too close, too comfortable. As if he was checking."But I'd… rather if you came.""It's just about work now.".I wasn't stupid—I knew Oliver's play. The taunts. The smirks. The way he looked at me like I was a puzzle to be solved, piece by piece.And some part of me should have said no.Should have ended this before it could even go any further.But the other p
Tristan’s povI saw him the second I walked in.Didn’t matter that the restaurant was packed, didn’t matter that the music was low and the lighting was soft and the air smelled like wine and expensive perfume.I saw him.I couldn’t not see him.Dylan.Sitting at a table, shoulders relaxed, head tilted slightly as he listened to something Oliver was saying. A ghost of a smirk on his lips as he swirled his wine glass.Too comfortable.Too at ease in a way that made something ugly twist in my gut.Like he belonged here.Like he hadn’t unraveled me and left me to fucking bleed out in my own goddamn office.And Oliver.Close.Too fucking close.Elbow propped on the table, leaning in, fingers tracing absently along the stem of his own glass. His gaze never left Dylan’s face, voice too low for me to hear over the murmur of conversation, but whatever he said—Dylan tilted his head slightly, body shifting just a fraction closer, just enough to make my breath fucking catch.The movement was sma
Dylan’s PovThere were so many other thing I could do, literally anything other than stand here like an idiot between the two men currently locked in a silent fucking standoff.But I didn’t.Because I was too busy feeling the heat radiating off Tristan, too aware of the way Oliver was watching him like a cat with a trapped mouse.I wasn’t stupid.I knew what this was.Oliver was poking. Testing. Pushing.And Tristan?Tristan was barely keeping himself from snapping.His entire body was coiled tight, tension rippling under his sharp suit like he was two seconds away from throwing a punch.And the part that made me angrier?I felt it.The way his presence sank into me. The way my body reacted before my brain could.Like even now, even after everything, he was still mine.And I fucking hated it.Oliver smirked.Because of course he did.“Relax,” he murmured, swirling the last of his wine before downing it in one smooth motion. “You’re making a scene.”Tristan’s jaw twitched.I knew that
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