Page 77 of My Totally Unfair Deal

My throat tightens.

“She’d be proud of both of us,” I manage. “And Jackson, too.”

“I owe Jackson a few punches to the face,” he mutters. “The second I finish helping y’all however I can the next few months, he’s getting every last one.”

“Don’t do it for me,” I say quickly. “Please. I can’t handle any more pain right now.”

“Fine...”

We fall into silence.

We keep cutting stalks, saying nothing. Just passing the wine back and forth while the sun sinks behind the fields, casting gold through the dusty windows.

“What was the other thing you wanted to say?” I ask eventually. “You mentioned two.”

“Oh. Right.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Are you still with that Manhattan guy?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I ran into him a few times while hosting meetings at his building. He looked… rough. Like, maybe hiding a drug problem rough.”

I stiffen. “Harrison has a personal tailor for every suit he owns. You must have him confused with someone else.”

“I figured you’d say that.”

He pulls out his phone and holds up a photo.

It’s Harrison.

Eyes bloodshot. Slumped in a chair. Staring into space like he hasn’t slept—or cared—in days.

My stomach twists.

“Good,” I say, cold. “It’s what he deserves.”

“I can fly back up there and givehimthe punches I was saving for Jackson, if you want.”

“No… that’s okay.” I sigh, trying to sound indifferent. “It’s just good to see him in some kind of pain after dumping me like what we had meant nothing. Like I was just another project to him.”

“His loss.” Lance exhales. “Fuck him.”

“Thank you,” I say quietly.

I start a new pile, desperate to find a different subject.

FORTY

HARRISON

My penthouse is too quiet these days.

There are no clacking footsteps, no sarcastic commentary, and no glitter scattering on the floors.

It’s just cold, curated silence, and I never realized until now that I don’t have any personal pictures hanging on these walls.

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