2. Caeleb

Excuse me, Emily whispers, her fingers brushing against my wrist with the delicacy of a feather. I have to go. Her words float in the air, as ephemeral as the evening breeze.

Rejection clings to me like the smoke from this stale cigar, acrid and unwelcome. Silver-fox, they call me, with that knowing wink and nudge-nudge, but this evening, the only sheen I feel is the oily film of sweat beading on my brow.

I watch her, my brow arching in disbelief. There she goes, her hips swaying deliciously like pieces of a puzzle I cant solve, as if the sparks we just shared were figments of my imagination.

She did say she didnt want to make a big deal out of this.

I smile sardonically. Guess we all know whos the fool tonight.

Emily darts through the grand doorway leading into The Presidencys opulent dining room, leaving me momentarily transfixed. My eyes linger on the spot where she disappeared, a ghost of a smile playing on my lips despite the sting of her abrupt exit.

Turning my attention back to the surroundings, I cant help but admire the hotels grandeur, a fitting backdrop for Cristinas fashion showcase. Cristina, with her passion for weaving nature and sustainability into every thread, has a knack for choosing venues that echo her ethos.

The Presidency, with its lush gardens and eco-friendly practices, mirrors her style perfectly—a symphony of elegance and earth-conscious design.

I remember the call from Cristina, an old friend whose requests are impossible to refuse. I need you to work your culinary magic at my fashion shows afterparty, she had said, her voice a mix of excitement and desperation.

How could I say no? Especially knowing that the event would be a confluence of high fashion and high cuisine.

Now, standing outside, Im grateful for my decision.

I knew I was a goner the moment I laid eyes on her earlier in the evening. She was an absolute vision in her shimmering viridian skirt, the fabric catching the light as if holding onto the last rays of a setting sun.

Looks like fashion isnt the only thing Cristina has an eye for, I mutter to myself with a wry grin, thinking of how Emilys earthy beauty is just right for the show.

Its amusing, in a way, how a twist of fate, a call from an old friend, and a fashion-forward venue have conspired to bring such an unexpected highlight to my evening. Emilys like a modern-day Cinderella, indeed. But, unlike the fairy tale, Im left without even a glass slipper to remember her by.

I sigh heavily. I think the only thing left to do right now is resort to a simple plan: go home, crash, forget.

It takes me an hour to get to my little studio apartment in the heart of NYC. A quick shower and a bowl of fettuccine later, Im ready to call it a day.

Just one more thing left to do. I fish my phone out and type a quick message to Fred, one of the best chefs at my little bistro in Manhattan. Hows Brian doing?

My son is at a sleepover with his kid.

His reply comes a second later. Hes in the middle of a fierce pillow fight. All good here, C. See you at work tomorrow.

I sigh as a narrow spear of contentment enters my soul. Im glad Brian is having a good time.

Okay, I mutter to myself. Best get some shut-eye.

But life, as always, is an expert at throwing me a curveball. The shrill cry of a call cuts through the air, drawing my attention back to my phone.

With a scowl, I stare at the screen illuminating the name Devina. Just the sight of it sparks a phantom itch under my collar, the cloying scent of her heavy perfume still haunting me from our last courtroom war.

I know better than to answer, especially with my mood as dark as a storm cloud. But caution? Thats never been my style. You, I growl into the phone, my voice rough as gravel. What do you want? Havent you already bled me dry? Or do you need my blood for your nightly rituals?

Her voice, syrupy sweet, oozes through the speaker. Just a friendly reminder about tomorrow evening. Brian is spending the evening at my place.

I dont need your reminders, I snap back, the words sharp and bitter. The dates burned into my calendar. In red, no less.

Red ink, huh? Fancy, Devina drawls, her voice dripping with faux sympathy. I picture her perfectly manicured fingertip tracing the embossed leather of the President, the very chair I used to drown my sorrows in during the prenup negotiations.

Now, its her throne in the high-rise condo that I bought, and apparently, wasnt mature enough to share.

Its called highlighting priorities. I grit my teeth. Like not letting my son become your next accessory.

The silence on the other end is almost audible. I can practically see the gears in her designer brain turning, searching for the right emotional weapon. Oh, dont be dramatic, Caeleb, she finally purrs, bringing Brian into this is just low.

Low? I scoff. Youre the one using our six-year-old as a bargaining chip in your latest quest for social dominance.

Bargaining chip? she feigns offense. I just want whats best for Brian, darling. And that, unfortunately, doesnt include living in your shoebox apartment with that … vibrant collection of mismatched socks.

I glance down at the offending sock mountain (clean laundry was another casualty of the divorce) and snort.

Are you sure you wont have another nerve-shattering headache tomorrow morning? I counter, my voice low and dangerous. Funny how they only strike when theres damning paperwork to sign.

Oh, honey, she coos, the sweetness dripping with venom. Dont play the victim. You were the one who insisted on that ridiculous ironclad prenup. Remember, the one that left you with your sock collection and a lifetime of therapy bills?

I swear, if I could shoot lasers from my eyes, the penthouse across town would be sporting a very expensive scorch mark right now. That prenup, I say, each word measured, was your idea. You spun it as protecting us both, while secretly lining your Birkin bag with my future.

Silence. This time, its pregnant, not icy. I can practically hear the wheels in her head spinning like a hamster on espresso.

Fine, she finally concedes, her voice clipped. Maybe I, uh, nudged things a little in my favor. But that was then, and this is now. Lets be adults, darling. Custody battle wont be pretty for anyone, especially little Brian.

Adults? I bark a laugh. You wouldnt know the definition of the word if it slapped you.

Look, she sighs, the faux-weariness dripping thicker than her self-tanner. Why cant we be reasonable? Shared custody, fancy schools, the occasional weekend at your … charming apartment. Think of Brian, Caeleb. Wouldnt he thrive in a stable environment?

Stable? I repeat, incredulous. Stable like the shifting sands of your designer mood swings? Stable like a yacht in a hurricane?

A beat of silence, then a grudging chuckle. Touché, darling. You always did have a way with words. But seriously, think about it. Shared custody. Its the mature thing to do.

I stare out the window at the city that used to be mine, at the life that used to be ours. Shared custody. The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, but the image of Brian, caught in the crossfire of her ambition, twists my gut.

He deserves better than this. Devina is a pain in my ass, but she doesnt hate her kid. And I dont need the added grief of dragging my boy through endless courtroom sessions.

Fine, I concede, the word tasting like ashes. Shared custody. But one condition.

Condition? she drawls, intrigued.

The Birkin comes with me. I swallow, the smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

A surprised laugh explodes from her end. Youre impossible, Caeleb.

And you, I counter, are predictable. Now, about that shared custody agreement …

With the phone to my ear, I walk to the window. The city lights wink at me. Brians laugh echoes in my mind, a reminder that even in the ruins of lost dreams, some things are worth fighting for, Birkin or no Birkin.

Its late when I go to bed. The next day is terribly busy, but I make time to pick Brian up from daycare. As soon as he sees me, he runs over and his small hand slips into mine. Guess what, Dad? he beams, eyes sparkling. Ms. Garcia says were building forts tomorrow!

My heart swells. Forts. Mismatched socks. Laughter that echoes through the tiny apartment. Maybe stable wasnt a luxury cruise in a calm sea, but it could be a sturdy treehouse weathered by storms and filled with love and Legos. And that, I realize, is a pretty damn good view.

So, what are your plans? I ask him.

Im going to Moms house tonight, he says cheerfully. You want to come?

Oh goodness, no, I sigh, making a dramatic flourish with my hands.

Five oclock shadows steal across the city as I hand Brian over to Devina. The days laughter still clings to me. Needing the warmth of company, I head two streets down to Leos, a dive bar named after a long-lost dream of owning my own trattoria.

The air inside hangs heavy with the smoky hum of conversation and the oily tang of decades-old fryer grease. A motley crew hunches over worn wooden tables, nursing beers and secrets in equal measure. Behind the bar, Mikey, a walking encyclopedia of questionable tattoos and dubious jokes, polishes a glass with a theatrical sigh.

Rough day, chef? he rasps, eyes twinkling above his handlebar mustache. Or just the usual existential meltdown?

A chuckle escapes me. Mikey has a knack for seeing straight through my carefully constructed facades. Something like that, Mikey. Lost a battle, not the war.

Drawing a stool, I sit down and take my phone out to scroll through Emilys Instagram.

Shes radiant in every frame, laughter sparkling in her eyes like diamonds on ice. Her smile, though … her smile is the winter sun, all golden promise against the frosted edges of my world. It warms me even through the screen, a bittersweet ache blooming in my chest.

Mikey nods sagely, wiping the glass with a flourish. Always another war, eh? Whatll it be? Drowning your sorrows in a Hoppy Hellfire, or celebrating your resilience with a Smoky Negroni?

Before I can answer, a flash of crimson silk slides onto the stool beside me.

The woman attached to it is all pouty lips and predatory gleam, her perfume announcing her arrival like a sirens wail. Mikey raises an eyebrow, but I offer her a polite smile.

Sorry, love, I say gently, taken.

Im not, but Im also not in any mood to court trouble tonight.

The woman huffs, her disappointment barely concealed, and slinks away like a rejected peacock. Mikey snorts, earning him a playful swat on the arm.

Smooth moves, chef, he grins. But hey, if youre looking for company, theres always me and my existential angst.

Just then, the phone in my pocket vibrates, shattering the bars comfortable bubble. Its Silas, his voice gruff and strained. A knot of unease settles in my stomach.

Hey, man, I answer, bracing myself.

Caeleb, Silas rasps, Harveys gone.

The news hits me like a sucker punch. Harvey Martin, the boisterous, larger-than-life bon vivant, the man who could charm the scales off a mermaid—gone? I let out a sigh, heavy with a strange mix of grief and acceptance.

Harvey wasnt always the best man, but he had a heart bigger than his appetite, and a loyalty toward me that ran deeper than his love for vintage whiskey.

Yeah, I know, Silas mutters. Found him this morning, cold in his armchair. Looks like a heart attack.

Silence hangs heavy on the line, punctuated only by the clinking glasses and murmured conversations in the background.

Theres a will reading, Silas continues, pacing on the other end of the line, the agitation bleeding through his usually steady tone.

But thats just the tip of the iceberg. Our investments in the vineyard, theyre hanging by a thread. Veronas got her claws sunk in, and unless we show up, Finn and I are gonna be frozen out faster than a snowball in July.

He should never have married again, let alone that viper of a woman.

A cold pit settles in my stomach. Harvey poured his heart and soul into that vineyard. The thought of it falling into Veronas icy grasp leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

What do you need me to do, Silas? I ask, my voice firming with resolve.

We need you here.

Okay, I reply after a beat. Ill be there.

With a sigh, I turn back to Mikey.

Mikey, I say, my voice steady, pour me a double Negroni.

As I relish the heat uncurling in my stomach, I book a flight back home to Emberton.