Logan leaned back on the leather couch, swirling the drink in his hand as he threw Zeke a lopsided grin. "You know… I've got a friend. Stunning, sharp, knows how to have fun. You two might hit it off."
Zeke didn't respond. He kept his gaze on the amber liquid in his glass, the faint reflection of the club lights flickering inside it.
Logan chuckled. "Okay, not your type? Just say the word, I'll find another. Blonde? Brunette? Quiet, loud, bookish, wild—you name it, I can arrange an introduction."
Still nothing.
Logan arched a brow and leaned closer, nudging Zeke's arm. "Come on, man. What is your type, anyway? Let your buddy help you get out of this post-divorce gloom."
Zeke's jaw tightened. He set his glass down with a soft clink, then turned his head slowly toward Logan. His voice was calm, but there was a sharpness to it now.
"Tell me, Logan… doesn't your father or grandfather ever question why you're still single? Or are they too busy bribing senators to notice you're thirty and still acting like a frat boy?"
Logan blinked. "Damn, okay."
Zeke leaned back into the couch, eyes briefly closing as he exhaled through his nose. "Mind your own life, Logan. I'll handle mine."
There was a beat of silence between them. Then Logan, to his credit, just raised both hands in surrender.
"Alright, alright. No matchmaking tonight. But you can't blame me for trying. You look like hell."
Zeke didn't reply. His eyes were on the crowd again, but his mind was somewhere far from the club, far from Logan's words, and definitely far from the idea of anyone else.
***
The drive home was quiet. Zeke leaned his head back against the leather seat of his black Maserati GranTurismo, the soft hum of the engine blending with the city's distant night sounds. He didn't trust himself behind the wheel—not with the amount of alcohol he'd consumed. So he'd called one of his usual hired drivers, who now navigated the car smoothly through Manhattan's late-night streets.
By the time they pulled up in front of his building, the buzz from the alcohol had settled into a dull heaviness behind his eyes. Zeke muttered a brief thank you, stepped out, and made his way upstairs.
Inside, the penthouse was still and dim. He didn't bother turning on more than one light. The silence wrapped around him like a blanket—cold and familiar. He loosened the collar of his shirt, tossed his jacket carelessly on a chair, and let himself fall onto the bed fully clothed.
Sleep came quickly, heavy and dreamless.
The sunlight filtering through the tall windows was already too bright when Zeke finally stirred. His head throbbed dully, and his mouth felt dry. He squinted at the clock on the nightstand—it was almost eleven. Weekend, he remembered vaguely. No meetings. No calls. Nothing urgent.
He rolled onto his back with a quiet groan. The weight of last night clung to him—alcohol, noise, meaningless conversations.
He sat up slowly, pressing his palms into his eyes.
His gaze drifted toward the bedside table.
It was empty.
He stared at it for a second too long, and then let out a breath—more like a sigh that had nowhere to go.
There was a time when that table would already have a glass of cold water, a small bowl of something light—maybe miso soup or crackers—and two aspirin tablets, perfectly lined up.
Cassidy never asked. Never scolded. She just… did it.
Even when they weren't speaking much. Even when they felt like strangers. She always noticed.
Zeke dragged a hand through his hair and pushed himself off the bed. He headed to the kitchen, moving slower than usual. Everything felt a little too quiet.
He poured himself a glass of water, then opened a cabinet, searching for aspirin. His fingers brushed the bottle.
For a second, he just stood there, staring at it.
Then he muttered under his breath, "I'm fine."
But the truth was—he wasn't entirely sure he was.
***
It was already late in the afternoon when Zeke finally left his penthouse.
Being the weekend meant no obligations at the office, and the hangover from last night had finally worn off. He'd slept in longer than usual—something he rarely allowed himself to do. But today felt different. Maybe it was the silence. Or maybe it was the lingering emptiness in his chest that had refused to go away since the divorce.
Instead of staying cooped up all day, Zeke decided to visit someone who always brought him a strange sense of comfort—his sister, Nicole.
Nicole was thirteen years older than him.
She had practically raised him during his early years, especially when their father was busy with business and their mother was too concerned with appearances to care for a young boy. Nicole, with her warmth and sharp wit, had been Zeke's safe space. His confidante. His anchor.
They had different mothers. Nicole's mom had passed away when Nicole was just ten, taken by cancer. Their father remarried two years later—to a woman from a well-connected family. That woman became Zeke's mother.
Despite the age gap and the difference in upbringing, Nicole had always treated Zeke as more than a half-brother. To her, he was simply "my little brother." And Zeke, who had grown up in the shadow of legacy and expectation, found in Nicole the only real example of unconditional love.
When Nicole turned twenty-eight, she married a man the family disapproved of. He wasn't rich. He wasn't powerful. And worst of all, he wasn't chosen by their grandfather.
Nicole chose him anyway.
The fallout was brutal.
Their father, pressured by family pride and tradition, issued an ultimatum: end the marriage or be cut off. Nicole chose to walk away—from the family, from the wealth, from the name.
She started over with her husband. Built a quiet life in Brooklyn. Now in her mid forties, she had a teenage daughter and a home filled with real laughter—something Zeke hadn't heard in years.
He pulled up in front of the familiar brownstone as the sun was beginning to dip behind the buildings. He took a breath before stepping out of the car, already feeling the old tension between his shoulders begin to ease.
He rang the bell.
Nicole opened the door with flour dusted on the edge of her sleeve and a smudge of something sweet-smelling near her cheek. Her expression shifted from surprise to warmth in a split second when she saw Zeke standing there.
"Zeke?" she blinked. "You didn't say you were coming."
"I thought I'd surprise you," he said with a small smile, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat.
Nicole laughed, stepping aside to let him in. "Well, color me surprised. Come on in. I was just cleaning up from some weekend baking."
As Zeke stepped into the familiar hallway of his sister's home, a sense of calm washed over him. The scent of vanilla and cinnamon lingered in the air, grounding and real—nothing like the sterile chill of the penthouse he called home.
"Where's Arielle?" Zeke asked, glancing around as he slipped off his shoes.
"Out with her friends," Nicole replied, closing the door behind him. "You know how teenagers are. She's been glued to her phone more than to me lately. Puberty is its own species."
Zeke chuckled. "She's growing up fast."
Nicole gave him a look as they walked into the kitchen. "So are you going to tell me how you're really doing, or do I have to squeeze it out of you like buttercream?"
Zeke leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "I'm fine. Really."
Nicole raised an eyebrow. "That's your fine voice. Which usually means the opposite."
Zeke deflected with another question. "Adam's still at work?"
Nicole sighed, reaching for a kitchen towel to wipe her hands. "Yeah, Saturday shifts. He's still over at that new place in Midtown. Sous Chef now—can you believe it? And I've got mornings at the bakery Monday through Friday. Quiet life, but it suits us."
Zeke nodded, eyes following the way Nicole moved around her warm, lived-in kitchen. This was the life she had fought for. The life she chose.
And in that moment, he couldn't help but wonder—what would it look like if he chose something for himself, too?
No.
He knew who he was. He'd never pretended otherwise. Ambition ran in his blood. Becoming the heir to Salvador wasn't something he was forced into—it was something he pursued. Something he believed in.
And he didn't regret it.
What he did regret… was losing his sister to the very legacy he now carried.
***
Zeke sat at the kitchen table, absently tracing the rim of his coffee cup with his finger. The aroma of warm butter and caramelized sugar drifted from the oven, mixing with the fading light of the afternoon sun pouring in through the windows. It was quiet, peaceful—but his thoughts weren't.
Nicole placed a plate of pastries in front of him. "Try this one," she said with a smile. "New recipe."
He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, then nodded. "Still as good as ever."
Nicole chuckled. "I was worried your taste had outgrown homemade sweets."
Zeke looked at her, really looked at her. Her face had changed over the years—subtle lines near her eyes, a maturity in the way she carried herself. But her eyes… they were the same. Strong. Kind. "Nicole," he said quietly. "Do you hate them?" he asked, his voice lower now. "Our family."
Nicole paused, then turned her back to him for a moment, rinsing a mixing bowl before setting it aside. She didn't answer right away. And when she did, her voice was soft but steady.
"I've always known I was born into a family that sees everything through a certain lens—value, prestige, control. Love was never unconditional. Choices were judged. Freedom was dangerous. I guess I should've expected what would happen if I went against them."
Zeke stayed silent.
Nicole leaned back against the counter, folding her arms. "You know how they are. Everything has to follow their rules. Their standards. Their... traditions. There's no room for people who color outside the lines."
She gave him a look—not angry, just tired. "I didn't leave because I wanted to. I left because I chose Adam. Because I chose love over… a legacy built on cold rules and empty traditions. They wanted to control who I married, where I lived, how I raised my children. And I couldn't live like that. I wouldn't."
Zeke looked down at the half-eaten pastry in his hand, suddenly heavy with guilt he rarely let himself feel. Part of him wanted to defend their legacy. The other part knew—deep down—Nicole wasn't wrong.
"I didn't hate them," she added softly. "I was just… tired. Tired of being part of a family that measured everything by expectations and appearances. When I chose Adam, they saw it as betrayal. But for me, it was the first time I truly chose myself."
Zeke looked down, guilt pressing against his ribs. He had stayed. He had followed the path laid out for him. And in doing so, he lost her.
"I missed you," he murmured.
Nicole reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "I missed you too. But I don't regret leaving. I only regret that I had to leave you behind."
***