The evening air was crisp when Miles stepped out of his car in front of the Capital Heights Country Club — the kind of place that smelled faintly of money and old cigars.
Floodlights washed the manicured lawns in silver, the hedges trimmed to mathematical precision. Luxury cars lined the entrance like silent trophies, chrome flashing in rivalry under the lights.
Inside, the marble foyer opened into a lounge awash with amber and jazz. Laughter lilted over the clink of crystal tumblers. Waiters moved like choreography — silent, exact.
This was where men like Miles thrived — where handshakes built empires, and smiles hid knives.
He moved through the crowd with calculated ease. The tailored suit, the steady smile, the posture of quiet success — it all fit him perfectly.
No one here could tell that just days ago, he'd been undone by jealousy and humiliation.
Tonight, Miles Hart was flawless again.
Christy arrived moments later, all satin and sparkle, her laughter preceding her like perfume. Her hair was swept into a perfect twist, diamond earrings catching every light. She kissed his cheek, her scent a cloud of expensive sweetness.
"Daddy's waiting in the VIP suite," she said, slipping her arm through his. "He's been bragging about you all evening."
Miles smiled with precision. "Then I shouldn't keep him waiting."
The private suite overlooked the main lounge through glass walls — a fishbowl for the elite. Inside, men in bespoke suits sat in low clusters, cigars smoldering like lazy comets.
At the center of it all sat Charles Beaumont — Christy's father. His presence filled the room like gravity, his handshake the kind that decided fates.
"Miles!" Beaumont rose, voice booming with confidence. "There he is — the man of the hour."
"Sir." Miles clasped his hand firmly. "Good to see you again."
"Always a pleasure," Beaumont said, grinning. "You've been making waves, son. That presentation last quarter — the board's still talking about it."
"Just trying to deliver results," Miles said easily.
"That's what separates you from the rest," Beaumont said, settling back into his chair. "Drive. You've got it. Reminds me of myself when I was your age."
Christy beamed beside him. "I keep telling him you're Daddy's favorite."
Beaumont chuckled. "She's not wrong. You've got the head for numbers and people — rare combination these days."
A waiter appeared with whiskey. Miles accepted his glass, the amber light catching on the edge like liquid gold.
"So," Beaumont said, leaning forward, "how's the Cordell acquisition progressing? I've been hearing good things."
Miles's lips curved faintly. "Ahead of schedule. We've secured preliminary agreements with three suppliers. Assuming the FDA approvals hold, the pipeline will be operational within six months."
Beaumont nodded, visibly pleased. "You don't waste time."
"Time kills deals," Miles replied smoothly. "I prefer results."
The older man laughed, loud and approving. "That's what I like to hear. You keep that up, and I'll be seeing your name on the board before the year's out."
Christy squeezed Miles's arm beneath the table, a gesture of pride. "Did you hear that?" she whispered.
He smiled without looking at her. "I did."
Beaumont took another sip, then set his glass down with deliberation. "You know, Miles, I've been thinking. It's time we made things official between you and Christy."
Miles froze for half a breath — a pause so small only the whiskey noticed it. "Official?"
"The wedding," Beaumont said easily. "You two have been together long enough. The family loves you. The board loves you. Hell, I love you. Why wait?"
Christy lit up, eyes shining. "I told you he'd say that!"
Miles let out a perfectly calibrated laugh. "I'm honored, sir."
"Good. My assistant will coordinate with yours. Let's aim for the fall. It'll be the event of the season."
Miles raised his glass. "To the future."
"To the future," Beaumont echoed.
Christy's fingers tightened around his wrist. "Daddy's right," she murmured, triumphant. "It's time."
Miles smiled the way he'd practiced — composed, reassuring, immaculate.
But behind the polish, something flickered — a thin crack spidering across the mirror.
He wasn't hearing her voice anymore.
He was hearing Willow's.
He wasn't tasting whiskey.
He was tasting regret and metal.
For a few moments, he managed to bury it. The conversation continued — markets, politics, charity galas. The language of power came easily to him; it always had.
Beaumont laughed too loudly at every quip, the room echoing his satisfaction.
"Miles, my boy," he said, lighting a cigar. "You've got the sharpest instincts I've seen in decades. Christy's lucky to have you."
"Luck has nothing to do with it," Miles replied lightly. "I make my own."
Beaumont roared with laughter. "That's the spirit! You'll go far — maybe farther than me."
Miles inclined his head. "That's the goal."
But even as he spoke, his attention drifted.
The laughter blurred. The smoke curled upward in slow spirals, catching the light before vanishing.
He saw Willow's face again — not angry, not wounded — awake.
The way she'd looked at him that night before she kissed another man in front of him, her defiance cutting through the noise like truth.
The memory stung like brandy on an open wound.
He rose under the pretense of refilling his drink and stepped toward the window. The city stretched below, lights shimmering like a thousand tiny promises — all breakable.
His reflection stared back: sharp suit, steady eyes, every inch the man he'd built himself to be.
Almost.
Christy joined him a moment later, her arm snaking around his. "Daddy's so happy," she whispered. "He says you're like the son he never had."
Miles smiled faintly, still watching his reflection. "Then I suppose I should be grateful."
She leaned her head against his shoulder, radiant, oblivious. "This is our life now," she murmured. "Isn't it perfect?"
He let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. "Perfect," he echoed.
But the word caught in his throat — brittle as glass.
Outside, the city gleamed. Inside, the world he'd built glittered just as bright.
But he could feel it now — the hairline fractures beneath the polish, the porcelain cage closing around him with every perfect smile.
Somewhere below, past the soft lights and valet cars, Willow existed — chaos to his order, flame to his marble calm.
And for the first time in years, he wondered what it would feel like to let something burn.
He lifted his glass again, the reflection of the city fracturing across its surface.
"To the future," he murmured once more.
But this time, the toast tasted like ash.