Page 101 of Gathered Sparkle

“No blunt today?” Annabelle asks him with a smirk.

“Nope, I stopped.”

I don’t even think as I reach for my matchbox and light it for him.

“Oh?” Annabelle raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I’m high on glitter these days,” he deadpans, making her laugh. “See that?” He exhales, then hands the cigarette to me before he points to a faint, almost imperceptible mark etched into the concrete near the railing. “We made it three months ago. This is the exact spot the ramp has to go.”

I take a drag as I look from the mark to the planks, then to the distant rooftop of Harrington Heights. “You guys are either brilliant or completely insane.”

“Both,” Sylus replies with a wink, taking the cigarette back for another slow drag.

“Well.” Annabelle folds her arms. “I don’t know about you, but I’m kind of excited to see how this all plays out. Whatever the hell it is.”

Ace’s lips twitch into a faint smile. “You won’t have to wait long.”

The wind howls around us, tugging at my hair and making the planks rattle faintly against one another. My heart beats louder in my chest as I glance again at the gap between the buildings. It’s wide. Too wide. Koen’s going to have to defy gravity to pull this off.

This isn’t reckless.

It’s borderline impossible.

But that’s the thing about these men, they thrive in the space where others would fold.

I exhale, the wind stealing the sound from my lips as I let my eyes drift back to Ace. He has to be terrified, but he handled this outing so well.

I can keep my shit together if he can.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Nicholas

The clinking of Veronica’s manicured nails against her laptop keys fills the silence of the penthouse kitchen. I’m sitting across from her at the massive marble island, my laptop open and a spreadsheet staring back at me like it’s written in another language. The numbers blur together, and my head aches from trying to keep up.

It’s fucking Sunday.

Why do we have to do this shit on a Sunday?

I suppress a sigh, glancing at her. She’s poised, laser-focused, her lips pressed into that habitual thin line. But the tension that used to accompany her presence, the weight of her constant disappointment feels… dulled. Distant.

Since I told her I wanted to be more involved five days ago, she’s taken me at my word. There’s no free time anymore, no lazy mornings or quiet afternoons. My life has become an endless cycle of meetings, reports, and discussions similar to this one. And the worst part?

I understand jack shit about most of it.

“Nicholas,” she says sharply, snapping my attention back. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Yes, I’m sorry, Mother.” I run a hand through my hair, embarrassed at being caught zoning out. “I just… I think I’m not quite following.”

I brace for it, her scathing remark, her withering look. But instead, she tilts her head, her gaze oddly patient. “It’s fine,” she states dryly. “It’s a lot at the start. It can be overwhelming. Where did you get lost?”

I blink, stunned.

Her calm response feels so out of place it’s almost unsettling. This is the kind of interaction I used to dream about as a kid, some semblance of understanding or encouragement from her. And now that it’s here, I don’t trust it.

Because I don’t fucking trusther.

“It’s the part about the quarterly transfers,” I say hesitantly, testing her mood.

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