Page 56 of F*ckboys

"Fallon," I moan, closing my eyes as the pressure mounts. I envision her beneath me, her body pressed against mine as I thrust into her, her breath hot on my neck. And then she's riding me, gliding herself onto my cock from above while I grab onto her gorgeous, curvy waist. It's a fantasy that only serves to intensify my longing for the real thing, but for now, it's all I have.

"God, I need you," I groan, each word spoken as if it could somehow summon her presence.

My breathing turns ragged, my grip on the picture tightening. The world around me fades away, leaving only the memory of Fallon and the desperate desire for what we once had. In that moment, I'm not just chasing physical satisfaction, I'm chasing the ghost of the connection we shared. I want to feel close to her again, even if it's just an illusion. As my breathing grows ragged, I can almost imagine her there with me, whispering my name, urging me on.

"Fuck, Fallon... I miss you," I rasp. With a final gasp, I surrender to the release, my body trembling from the intensity of it all.

Panting, I stare at the photograph once more. The emptiness inside me feels even more pronounced now, like a gaping chasm that can never be filled. Even as the physical intensity fades, the emotional ache remains, leaving me raw and exposed.

With a heavy sigh, I peel myself off the bed, my skin still slick with sweat and the memory of touch. My heart races as I grapple with the bittersweet aftermath of my indulgence. The photograph of Fallon remains on the nightstand, its presence both comforting and taunting me.

"Christ, what have we become?" I mutter, running a hand through my disheveled hair, feeling the weight of our fractured relationship.

As I step into the shower, I allow the scalding water to cascade over me, washing away the residue of my actions. But no matter how hard I scrub, the emotional filth clings to me like an unwelcome shadow. In the steam-filled enclosure, my thoughts drift to Fallon and the uncertain future that lies ahead.

"Can we ever find our way back?" I ask myself, my voice barely audible above the rush of water. The question lingers in the air, unanswered and tormenting. But despite it seeming futile, I can't help but hang on to a tiny kernel of hope.

Chapter 29

Fallon

The chill of the evening seeps through the windows, settling on my skin like a heavy cloak. I can feel it in my bones, mirroring the tension that hangs in the air. The Dempsey family estate feels different tonight. Although I never feel completely at home here, the stilted laughter and warmth that typically fill its halls have been replaced with a palpable unease.

"Fallon," my father's voice cuts through the silence like a knife. We're in the study, surrounded by mahogany walls that seem to close in around us, bearing witness to the cracks forming in our family portrait. He levels his gaze at me, disappointment etched across his face, and he shakes his head. "These numbers, Fallon, they're not good."

I force myself to meet his eyes, knowing full well that the financial records he's scrutinizing are a ruse. A necessary deception, designed to conceal my clandestine activities. But I keep this knowledge locked away, hidden beneath a mask of composure. He can't know anything about my revenge operations or he'd almost certainly cease all funding immediately. He'd see it as too big of a risk to have those activities potentially linked to the family name. Just another thing for the rest of the family to judge me for. Just another reason I'm the black sheep.

"Look at your brothers, Fallon," he says, gesturing towards Lincoln, Cheston, Fenton, and Bronson, who stand like statues against the far wall, their expressions carefully schooled. "They've each built successful careers, earned the respect of their peers. And you? You're floundering, chasing after some misguided dream. It's time you followed their example. Maybe you should consider quitting and come and join the family business," he suggests, oblivious to the true extent of my success, even if it's more intrinsic than financial. It grates on me, the way he dismisses my efforts so easily, pitting me against the boring, conventional and nepotistic achievements of my brothers.

"Quitting?" I scoff, my voice edged with defiance. "This is about more than just the profits, Father. I'm focused on long-term outcomes—something you'd understand if you took the time to look past your own narrow expectations for me. I have a roster of repeat clients and a flourishing referral business. This is just the beginning."

What I'm saying is true. Personal development courses just aren't as lucrative as hedge funds and celebrity-endorsed burger brands, I suppose. Speaking of which, I find it ironic that he frowns on my business empowering women, but Link's decision to go rogue and hawk bougie gluten-free sesame buns stacked with lab-grown meats is somehow okay.

His jaw clenches, and for a moment, I think he might relent. But instead, he doubles down, unable to see beyond the boundaries he's drawn for himself and his children. "Your brothers have done well for themselves, Fallon. They've followed the path I set out for them," he glances in Link's direction, "or at least constructed something financially viable."

He furrows his brow. "Why do you have to be so difficult and contrary about everything? Why can't you just make things simple and do the same?"

The words slice through me like a knife, the jagged edges tearing at the fragile threads of my self-esteem. I'm humiliated that he's having this conversation with me in front of all of them, as if he's trying to shame me, and I can feel my frustration boiling beneath the surface, a molten tide threatening to erupt and scorch everything in its path.

My pulse quickens, anger boiling up inside me as the chasm between us widens. How can he not see how suffocating his expectations are? How they threaten to snuff out the fire that drives me? I would rather die than have my father dictate what job I do day in and day out. As it is, I feel the suffocation of his breath on the back of my neck on a daily basis.

"Because I'm not them," I spit out, my words laced with venom. "And I don't want to be. They've made their boring choices, and I've made mine. Just because our paths are different doesn't mean mine is any less valid."

"But things could be so much easier for all of us if you made better choices, Fallon," his voice is stern. "Come now, join the family company. Close down this… money-sucking pipe dream."

"Is that what you want?" I snap, my voice rising to a fever pitch. "For me to become just another faceless cog in the Dempsey machine? To sacrifice my own dreams and desires in pursuit of some twisted notion of family honor?" I smirk in my brothers' direction. "Clearly I don't look the part, let alone act it."

"Sometimes we have to make sacrifices, Fallon," he retorts, his tone cold and unyielding. "Your brothers understand that. Why can't you?"

"Like I said, because I'm not them!" I scream, the words ripping from my throat in a violent torrent. "I will never be them!"

My heart pounds wildly in my chest, each beat a thunderous echo of the rage that courses through my veins. This isn't about my business or my brothers—it's about my father's need for control. About bending me to his will and forcing me to become something I'm not.

But I won't let him.

"Maybe this is the root of the problem," I say icily, my gaze locked onto his. "Maybe you've spent so much time trying to mold me into a carbon copy of my brothers that you've forgotten who I really am. Well, let me remind you: I'm not Lincoln, Cheston, Fenton, or Bronson. I'm Fallon. Why did you give us all -on names anyway? They sound stupid and stuffy and uptight which seems fitting for the rest of you."

I glare at my brothers, who all avert their gaze. "And I will not be held captive by your expectations any longer."

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