Chapter One

Tate

There's something very comforting about one-way glass. The security of being able to look out onto the city beneath me, confident in the knowledge that no one even knows I'm here, offers unmatched peace. Having it installed on every window of the penthouse was worth every penny. Not that I need to pinch pennies or count change. I could buy the building and not even feel it. I could probably buy the block and not break a sweat.

Maybe I should, now that I think about it. It would be refreshing to clear out that pizza parlor on the corner—the one that blankets the block with the relentless scent of pepperoni and oregano. But my assistant loves the place; the frequent drift of basil and melted cheese up to my penthouse is proof enough. Piper's culinary tastes are a mysterious blend of sophisticated and suspiciously pedestrian, and I often wonder if there's an algorithm to predict her next favorite dish. Looks like the pizza parlor will survive another day.

"Are you even listening to me?" My lawyer asks, his voice reverberating in my skull from the earbud in my right ear. "I'm trying to prepare you. I know you don't like surprises or limelight, God only knows why. If I were one of the richest men under thirty-five, I'd be all over the cover of Forbes with a model on each of my Armani wearing arms, wielding a watch that costs twice as much as either of their yearly salaries. But what do I know?"

"Oscar, you're rambling." Turning away from the window, I stride toward my desk. The penthouse is an open concept, something the design team talked me into. High ceilings, not a lot of walls. Nothing like the cramped bedrooms of my childhood living at the resort. They said it would make the area feel naturally social and lively. I can't remember the last time anyone was in here besides myself, Piper, a random hookup, or a maintenance person. Instead, I've diverted the flow of the space to my work area, a massive glass-top desk with multiple monitors and a constant pile of note pages that Piper sifts through for me. "I'm paying you $1000 an hour for legal counsel, not ruminations on your personal life and glimpses into your psyche. Get to the point."

"Fine. And here I thought we were friends. Wired is running an article tomorrow. Huge piece about the revised app going live, and how it's supposed to revolutionize love in the digital age, yada yada yada. They poked around with the company a lot about the algorithm, wanting to know if the creator could be reached for comment."

My heart stops cold. The last thing I want is for my name to be attached publicly to any of this. I'm not sure anyone in my family even reads Wired, but my siblings learning how much money I actually have from a Google alert would complicate things. "They told them no, right? There's an ironclad NDA. No one knows I built it, outside of you."

"And we're keeping it that way. Of course I told them no. Between you, me, and the fence post, I think the company likes the air of mystery. Their developer being some kind of shadowy tech wizard is probably generating more buzz than the algorithm itself. Like the great and powerful Oz behind the curtain. Whatever they're imagining is far more interesting than some guy who lives in Minnesota and never leaves his damn penthouse." Oscar pauses, taking a sip of what I'm certain is a Diet Coke. He goes through them by the caseload. The caffeine leaves him a little jittery. "Speaking of Minnesota, I've been watching the financials from that resort purchased by your shell corp, Golden Hart Enterprises."

I wince at the mention of the resort, the last thing I want to talk about. "And?"

"I'd love for you to go check the place out. Make sure it's all running okay. Maybe… perform an inspection. It's your money they're running on. Lord knows why you even bought a resort. In Minnesota. Not exactly an epic vacation destination."

The resort belongs to my parents. Well, belonged . It was their dream, their life's work. Lots of blood, sweat, and tears and all that. Not just theirs, either. They had the five of us kids working there as soon as we were tall enough to see over the front desk and had the fine motor skills to hold a hammer or turn down a perfectly starched bed sheet. Some of my siblings fell for the fairytale. I never wanted anything to do with it. The second I could leave, I did. Drove out to the big city, got a fancy college degree, and built my own not-so-little empire. I knew the money would freak my family out, so I didn't tell them.

Money changes everything like a spotlight that never dims. Once people know you're loaded, they see you differently—like you're a walking ATM, not a person. Everyone suddenly has a pitch or a hand out. And if my down-to-earth family ever got wind of the billions in my bank account? It'd change the fabric of everything we are, everything I remember about us. It would tarnish every golden memory of our simple, laughter-filled days at the resort. That would shatter me. So I keep my two worlds separate, preserving the only real connections I've got.

Mom was always smarter than anyone ever gave her credit for. She figured out that I wasn't being too straight with them all and called me up crying one day about how Dad was running the whole thing into the ground. Big brother Ledger and I got all of our number sense from her. As much as I wanted nothing to do with Sunset Lake or the family business, I couldn't leave Mom hanging out in the rain like that. She was always my rock, and my soft place to fall when I needed one. So we devised a plan. I set up a shell corporation and a lot of smoke screens, made it seem like some investors from out of state wanted to snatch up property on the lake, and made Dad an offer he couldn't be foolish enough to turn down. Kept it in the paperwork that the kids could work there and retain the "family owned and operated" image and let Mom and Dad drive off into the sunset.

Now, Oscar's telling me I need to go there in person, insinuating there's something wrong . I never wanted to be hands on. Ignoring the fact that I don't like being on boats or leaving the UberEats service radius, or being near dogs, small children, or any decor that bills itself as ‘rustic', my presence could blow the entire operation and dock Dad's ego so many points that he never recovers.

"I don't see the need. I've already seen the property. I was just there for Christmas."

"The place was under snow," Oscar points out, and I begin to regret the thoroughness that inclines me to keep him on retainer in the first place. "What did you inspect?"

My mind drifts back to the constant familial bickering. It always gets under my skin. "The ham was dry."

"Buildings? Structures? Assets?" he fires back, and I hear the sound of another can of Diet Coke being popped open. I must really be getting his goat today. "Did you do an audit of the books by chance?"

"I couldn't get past the picnic table. I didn't really see much I guess."

"That's my point," Oscar sighs in self-satisfaction. "You want to buy a resort? Go check the place out. During resort season, you useless egghead."

"It's on my list," I quip, ending the call before Oscar can insist on a date and time, or drink enough soda to develop another ulcer. The man is miserable when he has to work out of a hospital bed.

This article doesn't bode well for my current peace of mind. I get what Oscar is saying about the added mystique, and I understand that Mingle.com has every right to promote their new retooling. Press junkets and the basic internet outlet rounds are nothing new. But combined with the risky maneuver of purchasing the resort, and Oscar's insistence that I drag my Armani-encrusted ass out to the lake myself to look at the place, I'm starting to get a nagging sensation that change is on the horizon. That perhaps the carefully curated situation I've crafted for myself isn't as tenable as I thought.

I don't like change. It makes me tetchy.

So do memories.

Clutching the wrapped gift against my chest, I approach a decorated house, my heart hammering with a mix of hopeful nerves. The sounds of laughter and music spill from the open windows, painting pictures of a camaraderie I've longed to be part of. In front of my bathroom mirror, I've rehearsed my smile a dozen times. Even practiced the casual way I'll say hello, all based on the assurance from classmates that my invite was just misplaced. Stepping up to the door, I smooth down my shirt, trying to quiet the butterflies dancing in my stomach.

Today, I think, might just be the day I finally fit in.

I ring the doorbell, the sound echoing slightly. My breath catches as the door swings open, revealing the birthday boy, Jamie, framed by a gaggle of snickering classmates behind him. The room's festive air doesn't extend to his face, which contorts in a mix of shock and irritation as his eyes land on me.

"What are you doing here, Tate?" Jamie's voice is sharp, slicing through the muffled laughter behind him. "Pretty sure you weren't invited. Now get off my front steps, you stupid freak!"

The words sting, and I feel a flush of heat crawl up my neck. I'm frozen, the gift in my hand now feeling like a lead weight. It drops to the ground in front of me. My mouth opens, but no words come out.

The public rejection is too sudden, too harsh.

"Look, he actually brought a gift! What a loser!" another voice chimes in from the back, the group erupting in cruel laughter. Then the boy steps forward and punts the present out into the front yard.

Jamie steps forward, jabbing a finger toward the street. "I said leave!" he barks, eyes flashing with anger.

Behind him, his mother appears, her expression stern. "You better go, young man. Don't even try to ruin my son's party," she says, echoing Jamie's disdain. Her words, meant to be the final shove, push me from paralyzed to retreat.

I turn, the laughter and taunting escorting me out, each step away from the door a heavy echo of my crushed hopes.

As I stumble away, the harsh laughter follows me like a shadow, each cackle a sharp jab to my already bruised ego. Picking up the unwanted gift, I press the colorful wrapping paper to my chest. Then I quicken my pace, eager to escape the piercing gaze of my tormentors. The cold air bites at my cheeks, the heat of humiliation burning within me. My vision blurs slightly—whether from tears or the speed of my retreat, I can't tell. A part of me wants to hurl the gift into the bushes, to discard this symbol of rejection, but I can't bring myself to let it go. It's the only thing I have left of the hope I carried so carefully to that door.

The laughter and taunts finally fade as I put distance between myself and the party, but the echo lingers in my ears. With each step, the weight of loneliness and rejection settles deeper into my chest. When I reach the relative safety of an empty street, I allow myself a moment to lean against a tree, closing my eyes to steady my breathing. I can't go through this again. Never again.

"You're better off alone, Tate," I whisper to myself, a vow to avoid such painful situations in the future. "There's no such thing as friendship."

As I continue my solitary walk home, the shadows lengthen and the evening chill deepens, mirroring the cold emptiness inside me. Heaving in a few lungfuls of air, I struggle to keep the burgeoning sobs at bay. The humiliation at Jamie's doorstep replays in my mind, each sneer and shout a fresh wound to my spirit. By the time I reach my house, the dam breaks, and silent tears stream down my face, unchecked.

Ignoring my mom and my older brother, Ledger, I slip inside, hiding the unopened gift under my bed—a bitter treasure trove of broken dreams and a stark reminder of why I must always guard my heart.

That memory always seems to resurface at the worse times, allowing emotions long since buried to bubble up again. Pushing those pesky feelings to the back of my mind, I grope for the most familiar thing I can think of, the one thing in my life that never changes. The call rings three times before she answers. Odd. She usually gets to it in two. Four rings and I would consider calling the police and sending out a search party.

"Come here."

"Do I look like a dog to you?" Piper grumbles from the other end of the line. "Scratch that, I think dogs get more pleasantries than I just did."

"Piperrr," I whine, dragging out the final consonant. "Did I not have a custom elevator built in, connecting my place to yours, so you could come right on up to the next floor without having to even leave the apartment, thus avoiding all potential stranger danger or—what was it? Mrs. Gundersen and her toy poodle?"

"His name is Johan, and he hates me. Seven pounds of pure snow-white spite."

"It'll only take a minute," I insist, spinning idly in my seat. Her arguments are just a formality. She's never not done what I asked. And for a man who doesn't like being in a state of ‘not knowing', I can appreciate the predictability of our relationship. "Come on."

Sometimes, I wonder if the predictability is just a guise, a way for me to keep Piper close without admitting how much her presence actually means. There's a comfort in her proximity, a sort of warmth that doesn't fit the usual calculations of my day-to-day interactions. Maybe it's always been there, this faint, stubborn line of thought that refuses to see Piper just as an assistant. After all, we met back when she was working on her thesis and she needed to interview someone under the guise of research. Something awakened inside of me the first time I looked into her eyes. Like she cracked me open and I became more than a nerdy middle child with more money than sense.

Before I can make a full rotation in my chair, the private elevator dings, and Piper traipses through the living area and over to my refrigerator. As she approaches, with that look that's part skepticism and part amusement, it strikes me—maybe it's not just convenience that I seek from her constancy, but something akin to connection, however undefined it may remain.

I need her. Even though I probably couldn't articulate why if my life depended on it.

She grabs a Perrier and cracks it open, before sitting down on the sofa nearest the desk. "What do you need, boss?"

Standing with a stretch, I begin my usual pacing around the sofa and coffee table. Coffee table is an understatement. It was another one of the designer's suggestions. The thing cost over ten grand and boasts a marble top so heavy it takes multiple grown men to move it. I've walked into it on two separate occasions, bumbling around with the intention of making coffee in the middle of the night, and both times I saw stars. At least it's solid, I'll give it that.

"I'm in need of a distraction. Let's go do billionaire-y things," I muse, trying to put an excitement in my voice that isn't quite forthcoming. Picking up one of the stray magazines that Piper lays around the apartment to try and make me look cultured and like I have a "human personality", I flip through the pages for some inkling of what to do.

"Finally." Piper's eyes light up behind her glasses, leaning forward to grab the magazine next to mine. "So… we're going to catch a private plane to Paris for dinner? I do love freshly baked croissants."

"No." I hate French cuisine. Piper should know this. Maybe she's just playing with me.

"You're taking me to Fiji," she offers with a smirk. "It's the overwater bungalow pics I've been sending, right?"

I hate swimming in the ocean. Sharks. Stingrays. Jellyfish. She's definitely playing with me now. "Wrong."

She tosses the magazine back down onto the table with a frown and a long-suffering sigh, melting back into the couch cushions. "Then what?"

I turn a few more pages. There's a spread on cycling (too sweaty), ice fishing (too cold), and one about the Mall of America (tacky and overdone.) Then, there's this beautiful shoot of some men on horseback, calmly picking their way across a trail somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Perfect.

"Horseback riding. I should learn. Maybe buy a few." I know a few people who own horses. It seems nice. True, they're all race horses. And they pay other people to board them, train them, feed them, ride them, and they maybe touch them once a year with their bare hands. But it still seems nice. More importantly, it seems like a rich man's game.

And I wanna play.

Anything to get rid of this feeling of anxiety like ants are crawling across my skin. I need a diversion, and I can depend on Piper to deliver it.

"You live in a penthouse," she points out.

The old childhood phrase that inspired my dad to name his pet parrot Captain Obvious flashes in my brain like a neon sign. "So? We need to do this. I'm feeling a tingle, and I don't like it."

Piper stares at me in silent contemplation, eyes narrowing into slits as her lips tighten so much that they almost disappear entirely. Then, she shakes her head, pushing her glasses up into her hair and rubbing at her temples.

"Let me translate. You heard something you don't like, and now I get to entertain you until the pain goes away." The look on her face and her posture on the couch opposite me reminds me of a therapist. Not another role I need Piper to play. Although, with the way I've been feeling lately, it's not completely wrong. "Am I getting warmer?"

"See, this is why I need you." My tone comes out whinier than I intended.

"Just one problem, boss man," she shrugs, wrinkling her nose.

"I see no problem." To the layman, this is a lie. There are many problems. However, it is simply Piper's job to make them go away. Thus, they are not my problems, and therefore, I see no problems.

She lifts one shoulder in a totally judgmental way. "Horses hate you."

"They don't hate me," I retort, running through a mental montage of all the animals that have taken their usual dislike to me. There are quite a few. There's all the birds that have pooped on my suit jackets, the entirely too friendly squirrels on my university campus, dogs humping my leg, and the raccoon that launched out of the dumpster when I was taking the trash out alone at the resort when I was twelve. Horses though—they've seemed fine.

"The one in NYC…"

Oh. That one. I don't usually count employed beasts of burden as animals, I guess. He had a bad attitude to begin with. As did that carriage driver.

"I'm sure they bite lots of people. It was an anomaly."

Piper arches an eyebrow at me, before looking down at her phone, no doubt already determining the logistics of satisfying my ridiculous mid-afternoon whim. "The ride through the Rockies in Colorado? I thought the ‘tamest horse in the barn' was going to throw you off the side of the mountain."

I had forgotten about that one entirely. I think I burned it out of my memory to shield myself from the embarrassment. Not my finest hour.

"I failed to establish dominance," I shrug, tugging at my collar. "This is why we need to do this. More practice."

After checking our shared Google calendar, a small grin forms on her lips. "It's your funeral. Any last requests?"

"That you stop referring to this as my funeral and just make this fun."

"Unlike you, not only do horses love me but I know how to ride." Piper stands, making her way to the elevator back down to her apartment, shooting me a glance over her shoulder as the doors slide open. "Oh, I promise one of us will be having fun."