Smoke Before Fire

“Am I interrupting?” Ethan’s voice sliced through the room like a guillotine. He leaned against the doorframe, all sharp edges and tailored arrogance—his brother’s smirk, his brother’s eyes, even the same damn cologne. “Jake”. The name clawed up my throat, bitter as old coffee.  

My nails dug into my palms under the table. Relief? Anger? I couldn’t decide. Ethan was a grenade with the pin pulled, but at least he’d shut down Dr. Kent’s slimy “negotiations.”  

“M-Mr. Reagan!” Dr. Kent shot up, knocking his chair backward with a clatter. His forehead glistened under the harsh lights, and his laugh came out strangled. “What an honor!” He’d been less jittery earlier, when his hand “accidentally” brushed my thigh under the table. The Reagan Group owned nearly half his company. One frown from Ethan, and the man’s life’s work would dissolve faster than sugar in rain.  

Ethan didn’t blink. He prowled forward, his polished shoes ticking like a countdown. “Dr. Kent,” he said, icy calm. “You’ve got five seconds to explain why our fellow socialite looks like she’d rather swallow glass than sit here.”  

Dr Kent’s grin faltered. “It's definitely a misunderstanding! Sofia and I were just… aligning our visions. Strictly “professional”.” He stretched the word like taffy with his eyes darting to my crooked blazer—yanked on after I’d bolted from his intense presence a few minutes ago.  

The air tasted metallic, like blood or cheap office wiring. I demanded out. Now!  

I turned to Dr. Kent. “We’re done.” The bow I offered Dr. Kent was shallower than a puddle. Ethan got the same—no courtesy, just a glare. Let them posture. Let them rot.  

The hallway swallowed me whole, fluorescent lights buzzing like hornets. I stabbed the elevator button, my reflection in the steel doors a mess of smudged mascara and fury. “Breathe. Smile. Sell the lie.”

By the time the doors dinged open, my face was all porcelain calm—a skill honed through three start-ups and one catastrophic break up.  

“Back entrance. Now. If a camera so much as blinks, you’re fired,” I barked into my phone with my chauffeur at the other end.

The lobby was a circus of champagne flutes and hollow laughter. I threaded through the crowd, swapping air kisses and dodging hands. “Brilliant merger!”  “Stunning keynote!” Liars, all of them.  

The alley reeked of dumpsters and diesel. My town car idled, exhaust curling into the damp night. Marco, my driver, didn’t speak—just tossed me a pack of wipes. I scrubbed my hands raw, erasing Kent’s sweat, Ethan’s cologne, every trace of this god awful night.  

As the city blurred past, I cracked the window. The wind screamed louder than my thoughts. Somewhere out there, Jake was laughing. Always laughing.  

But tomorrow? Tomorrow, I’d burn Dr. Kent’s empire to ash if I could.  

The Night Club

The evening might have just ended for Sofia but as for Brian and Jake, the evening had just started. The sound coming from a club close by could be heard; The bass thumped so hard it vibrated in Jake’s molars. Bodies swayed under strobe lights in the abandoned meatpacking district warehouse—a “pop-up party,” Brian called it.

“Pop-up my ass!”, Jake thought. The place reeked of moldering concrete and spilled cognac, the air sticky with sweat and the kind of desperation that clung to rich kids slumming it for the night.  

His brother Brian was in his element, pressed against a redhead in a sequined tube top near the makeshift bar. Her laugh pierced the noise, sharp and performative, as Brian’s hand slid down her waist. Jake knew the drill: Brian would charm her, fuck her in some VIP bathroom, then ghost her by sunrise. The Reagan playbook.  

“Another?” A girl materialized beside Jake, holding out a bottle of bourbon with a smudged lipstick stain on its neck. Her pupils were blown wide, her smile a half-second too slow.  

Jake waved her off. He’d stopped trusting anything poured by strangers after the “gift” of fentanyl-laced champagne at his 25th birthday. Dad had paid off the EMTs, the cops, the tabloids. Another Reagan scandal buried.  

Across the room, Brian’s mouth was now locked on the redhead’s, her fingers tangled in his hair like she wanted to scalp him. Jake turned away, grinding his teeth. “Classy, Bri. Real subtle.”

The gunshot cracked through the music like a split bone.  

For a heartbeat, the room froze—a grotesque tableau of mid-grope and spilled drinks. Then screams erupted as the strobes died, plunging the warehouse into sulfur-yellow emergency lights.  

“EVERYONE DOWN! NOW!”  

Jake hit the floor, concrete biting his knees. Bodies dropped around him, phones skittering like glowing cockroaches. The redhead was sobbing into Brian’s chest, mascara bleeding down her cheeks.  

“The fuck did you do?!” Jake hissed.  

Brian’s grin was feral. “Relax. Cops just want a show.” He nodded toward the rusted fire exit, half-hidden behind a defunct conveyor belt. “Move.”  

They army-crawled through puddles of vodka and worse, Brian shoving the redhead away when she clawed at his sleeve. “Sorry, sweetheart. You’re not on the guest list.”  

Jake’s Gucci shirt tore on a jagged metal beam, but the exit was close—10 feet, 5. Behind them, boots stomped and radios squawked. “Two males fleeing east side! Suspects in black—*”  

Then they were outside, the November air slapping Jake’s face like a pissed-off lover. The alley stank of urine and rotting fish. Brian’s black Maybach idled at the curb, their driver, Igor, pale behind the wheel.  

“Go! Go!” Brian barked, vaulting into the backseat. Jake followed, slamming the door as tires screeched.  

“They’re behind us,” Igor muttered, eyes darting to the rearview. Red and blue lights strobed in the distance, gaining.  

Brian leaned forward, knuckles white on the headrest. “Lose them. Now.”  

Igor gunned it, weaving through SoHo’s labyrinth of one-ways. The Maybach’s engine screamed, clipping trash cans and scattering rats. Jake gripped the door handle, his stomach lurching as they fishtailed onto Houston Street.  

“Since when do cops raid “your” parties?” Jake snapped.  

Brian lit a cigarette, hand steady. “Since the DA’s kid OD’d at the last one. Dad’s handling it.”  

“Handling—? They “shot” at us, Brian!”  

“Blank. Probably.”  

A siren wailed, closer now. Igor swore in Russian, cutting down a narrow alley. The car shuddered, side mirrors snapping off against brick.  

“They’re still on us!” Jake craned his neck. Two cruisers, unmarked, relentless.  

Brian exhaled smoke, rolling down his window. Cold air whipped in, carrying the metallic tang of the Hudson. “Take the pier.”  

“What?”  

“The pier. Now.”  

Igor hesitated, then yanked the wheel hard right. The Maybach lurched onto the West Side Highway, speedometer kissing 100. Jake’s skull cracked against the window. “You’re out of your goddamn mind—”  

“Trust me.” Brian’s voice was calm, ice beneath the chaos.  

The pier materialized ahead—a skeletal dock jutting into inky water. Igor slammed the brakes, tires screeching as they skidded to a halt.  

“Out.” Brian kicked his door open, grabbing a duffel from the trunk.  

Jake followed, legs trembling. “What’s your play here, huh? Swim?”  

Brian unzipped the bag, pulling out two prepaid burner phones and a wad of cash. He tossed a phone to Jake. “Boat. Two blocks north.”  

Igor revved the Maybach, peeling back toward the cruisers. A distraction.  

They ran, soles slapping wet asphalt. Jake’s lungs burned, his brother’s silhouette a shadow ahead. The sirens faded, then surged—they’d taken the bait.  

The boat was a rusted fishing trawler, its cabin dark. Brian vaulted the railing, jamming a key into the ignition. The engine sputtered, coughed, roared.  

Jake collapsed on deck, sweat and harbor mist clinging to his skin. “You planned this.”  

Brian smirked, steering them into open water. “Always have an exit, brother.”  

The city skyline shrank behind them, its lights smearing like wet paint. Jake’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking.  

“They’ll find us,” he muttered.  

Brian lit another cigarette, the flame trembling faintly in his cupped hand. “Let them try.”