I hadn’t touched one in years, but tonight restraint felt pointless. The craving wasn’t for nicotine—it was for release from the pressure coiling in my chest.
I pulled out my phone.
My thumb hovered over the last name at the bottom of my contacts.
Avery.
I stared at it longer than necessary. Thought of calling. Thought of demanding answers. Thought of saying things I hadn’t allowed myself to feel.
In the end, I didn’t dial.
I typed instead.
[Avery. Tomorrow is Sebia’s eightieth birthday. Don’t cause trouble. Keep your distance from Nina and the child.]
The message sent.
I stared at the screen, chest tightening.
For a moment, I wasn’t sure if it was the cold night air—
Or something else entirely.
No.
Not panic.
Something heavier.
Something I didn’t have a name for yet.
Zachary’s POV
Patriarch Sebia’s eightieth birthday was not merely a celebration—it was a ritual.
An event where every expression was calculated, every smile rehearsed, every gesture weighed for consequence. This was the kind of gathering where reputations were reinforced or quietly buried, where one wrong word could echo through boardrooms and bloodlines for years.
Perfection wasn’t optional. It was mandatory.