Page 63 of The Boss

And I’d finally move on.

28. Zac

The house was exactly what Chantelle wanted. A sprawling 19th-century mansion in College Hill, stately and refined, with columned porches and windows tall enough to drink in the late afternoon light. It had history, legacy—something solid, meant to last. The kind of house that didn’t bend to the passage of time but stood through it, unmoving, unshaken. A statement both symbolic and literal.

The realtor, Laura, an attractive brunette in her late forties with impeccable posture and the kind of smooth, controlled voice that made every detail sound like a promise, led us through the cavernous rooms. “This property was built in 1882 by the Whitmore family,” she explained as we stepped into the grand foyer, our footsteps muffled by the Persian rug stretched across the gleaming hardwood. “It’s had only three owners since then, each one taking great care to preserve its unique character. The molding is all hand-carved mahogany, and the chandeliers were imported from France in the early twentieth century.”

Chantelle ran her fingers along the sculptured banister as we ascended the grand staircase. “The woodwork is stunning,” she mused. “Do you know if it’s all original?”

Laura nodded, a pleased smile on her lips. “Yes, every inch of it. The previous owners took great care in preservation. The paneling in the library was even restored using traditional techniques to maintain its authenticity.”

Chantelle glanced toward the high ceilings, the shrewd lawyer at work, no detail escaping her eye. “And structurally? No hidden surprises?”

Laura let out a knowing chuckle. “No, no surprises. My ex-husband was an architect, so I know what to look for. This house has good bones—solid foundation, no major renovationsthat compromised the integrity of the original build. It’s been updated where it counts, but nothing that takes away from its charm.”

Chantelle drank in every word, eyes gleaming as she inspected the wainscoting. “It’s perfect,” she murmured, barely containing her excitement. “It has charm. Personality. And it’s in the right neighborhood.” She turned to me, expectant. “Don’t you think, Isaac?”

I nodded because this was the part where I smiled, where I indulged her excitement and agreed that, yes, this house was everything we’d dreamed of. Even when the words felt foreign on my tongue, like I was delivering a line in someone else’s play.

Chantelle kept moving ahead with Laura, their conversation shifting to logistics—offers, closing costs, potential restorations. I followed behind, distant, detached, taking in the house without really seeing it.

This was our future. But as I stood in the vast, light-drenched parlor, all I could think about was a cramped Miami hotel room. The press of a warm, sweat-slicked body against mine. The sound of my name, whispered in the dark, reverent and raw.

I let out a slow breath, shoving the thought down before it could take root.

This was the right thing. This was my life.

And Chris Landry had no place in it.

I signed the papers, put down the deposit on the house, and let Chantelle pull me into a nearby coffee shop to celebrate. She was all smiles, her voice a bright hum against the steady murmur of the crowd. I sipped my coffee, offering a weak curve of my mouth that felt foreign to my own face.

Then, through the clatter of cups and low din of conversation, I heard it. A slow, mournful guitar, curling through the air like smoke. A moment later, Chris Isaak’s voice floated over the noise, and the words landed like a punch in the gut.

‘I never dreamed that I’d meet somebody like you…’

My grip tightened around the cup.

‘And I never dreamed that I’d lose somebody like you…’

I clenched my teeth, staring down at the dark surface of my coffee like it held all the answers. It felt like falling—falling deep, falling hard, falling through a black hole of half-forgotten memories, and landing on one perfect moment lost forever in time.

‘No, I don’t wanna fall in love… with you.’

The universe had a sick sense of humor.

* * *

The next morning, I was halfway through reviewing the latest financial reports when my phone buzzed. Paul’s name flashed on the screen. If he was calling, it was probably about the bachelor party he insisted on throwing, despite me telling him not to.

I leaned back in my chair, pressing the phone to my ear. “Don’t tell me—the strippers canceled?”

Paul snorted. “Nah, they just heard it was for you and decided to charge double.”

I smirked, loosening my tie. “Remind me why I still put up with your bullshit?”

“Um, because I’m the best friend you ever had, Mr. Big Shot CEO?”

“Oh, screw you. You’ve been riding my coattails since freshman year. If anything, I should be charging you for my presence.”

---