Chapter 4 The Night Before

Bryson had just settled into the leather chair in his home office, the skyline a wash of city lights beyond the glass. A glass of Macallan sat on his desk, amber catching the glow. When his phone buzzed, he didn’t need to check the name — only one person called at this hour without scheduling first.

The corner of his mouth lifted — not quite a smile, but close.

He answered. “I was going to call you tomorrow.”

“Sure you were,” Lila said, warm and teasing. “You’ve turned into one of those people who need an assistant to remind them they still have siblings.”

“I don’t need an assistant to tell me I love you,” he said, leaning back. “Just been busy.”

“You always say that.” Fond exasperation colored her tone. “You’re running an empire, I get it. But empires have weekends.”

“Not lately.” He took a slow sip. “And my assistant quit today. Effective immediately.”

“Ouch,” she murmured. “What are you going to do?”

“Apparently nothing. Carl handled it.”

“Oh?” Interest sharpened. “Who’d he dig up for you on short notice?”

“His wife,” Bryson said dryly. “Amelia Pierce.”

Silence. A soft inhale.

“You’re kidding.”

“No.”

“Wow.” Genuine surprise threaded her voice. “I’ve never worked with her directly, but she’s everywhere in the charity world. Arts programs, children’s orgs… and she actually works. Not the fake kind.”

Bryson turned the glass in his hand, light fracturing through the amber. “Is that so?”

“Yes. I saw her today, actually,” Lila said. “I had a meeting with someone from the Children’s Art Collective — they’re sponsoring her gala. The place was chaos. And there she was, hauling tables in red bottoms like it was nothing. Not even wobbling. Iconic. Do you know how hard it is to master walking in those? Let alone lifting and carrying things?”

Bryson didn’t answer right away.

He could still see them — those heels — and the way she’d carried herself in them.

“They were high,” he said finally, voice lower than he intended.

“Mhm,” Lila hummed, smug and knowing. “You noticed.”

He didn’t respond.

But the memory struck anyway —

the long lines of her legs,

the fitted black jumpsuit,

the quiet confidence she wore like a second skin.

He cleared his throat and took another sip of Macallan, letting the burn ground him.

“Anyway,” he said, redirecting, “how’s the gallery? Still aiming for December?”

Lila groaned. “If the universe cooperates. The electricians finished, but my lighting shipment is stuck in customs. I swear mergers were easier than dealing with vendors.”

He chuckled. “Coming from the firm’s former best negotiator, that’s saying something.”

“I’m technically still the best,” she said. “Just… on an extended leave while I chase the dream I used to doodle on legal pads.”

He smiled into his glass. “You’ll pull it off. You always do.”

“Keep saying that — maybe it’ll make the drywall go up faster.” A soft laugh. “I’ve had help, though. Remember Claire Harlow?”

“Vaguely.”

“She’s Amelia’s best friend. Runs that PR firm. She’s handling the launch — press, partnerships, the media circus. She’s brilliant at it. Said she might bring Amelia in to help with the interior.”

His brow lifted. “Amelia?”

“Mm-hm. Claire says she has an eye for warmth. The lived-in kind — cozy without clutter. That’s what I want the gallery to feel like. Not sterile. Human.”

He nodded faintly. “Sounds like you’ve got the right team.”

“Hopefully.” Lila’s smile was audible. “Claire knows I admire Amelia’s work. I keep telling her to invite Amelia to our lunch dates. She seems grounded. Calm. The kind people don’t fake.”

Bryson didn’t respond. He turned his glass slowly on the desk, listening to ice shift against crystal.

Lila hesitated, then said gently, “I remember that night — the gala you hosted. The way you looked at her. You probably thought no one noticed.”

He let out a soft breath — part amusement, part warning. “You imagine things.”

“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe I just notice what you don’t say.”

His fingers tightened faintly around the glass. He remembered that night too well — the low amber lights, the swirl of donors and executives, the bright flash of Amelia’s laugh breaking through like something warm in a cold room. He’d tried not to look at her. Tried and failed.

Lila’s voice softened. “Whatever it was, Bry… it wasn’t nothing.”

He stared out at the skyline. “You’re reading into shadows again.”

“Maybe.” A pause. “Just remember — she’s married.”

Another pause.

Softer.

Careful.

“And I know you. You wouldn’t cross a line. Just… don’t let your thoughts wander too close to one either.”

He didn’t answer.

He just lifted the glass and took another long drink.

The whiskey burned less than it should have.

“You’ll see her tomorrow?” Lila asked.

“Looks that way.” He tapped the Macallan lightly against the desk. “Not sure she’s thrilled.”

“Well,” she teased, “try not to scare her off on day one.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You won’t,” she laughed. “But I’ll pretend you will. Go do whatever CEOs do when they’re dodging their sisters’ calls.”

“That’s a short list,” he said. “Goodnight, Lila.”

“Goodnight, Bryson.”

The line clicked off.

But he didn’t move.

The city pulsed outside the window — endless light, endless noise — but his office felt still. Too still. Lila’s words lingered, tugging at the memory he’d spent years tucking into the back corner of his mind.

He’d always believed patience was virtue. That wanting quietly was the same as doing right. And it had worked, mostly — as long as she stayed a world away.

But time eroded even the strongest walls.

Six years of silence had turned into something heavier than he ever intended to carry.

He wasn’t a man who interfered.

He didn’t cross lines.

He still wouldn’t.

Yet as he leaned back in his chair, Macallan warming his palm, one quiet thought slipped through like a crack in stone:

What if the line wasn’t as fixed as he once believed?

Bryson tipped his head back, letting the city wash over him in gold and shadow.

This time, longing didn’t feel dangerous.

It felt inevitable.