Chapter 23
I jolt upright like someone’s taken a defibrillator to my chest. One violent, bone-deep shock tears me out of sleep. My heart is hammering. My palms are slick. Every instinct in me—the same instincts that have saved my ass in boardrooms and back alleys—screams that something just… shifted. It’s that cold, unmistakable punch of the universe kicking out of rhythm.
Panic—real, unfiltered panic—rises in my throat.
The last time I felt like this, my father had a heart attack. While he was clutching his chest, taking his last breaths, I was clutching mine—wondering what the fuck was wrong with me.
I drag a hand over my face, my breath sawing in and out in rapid bursts. I squint through the dimness, reaching for my phone beside the bed.
Five a.m.
Before I can overthink it, I hit the number I swore I wasn’t dialling until hell froze over.
My mother answers on the third ring, voice thick with sleep. ‘Cole? Honey? Are you okay p>
I exhale hard, my hand gripping the back of my neck. ‘Are you okay, more to the point p>
A surprised laugh tinkles into my ear. ‘I am now. I thought you’d never return my calls. Where in the world are you? Let me guess, Ireland?’ She babbles on while my heart battles to settle into its usual rhythm with the adrenaline spiking my blood. ‘It must be, what? Lunchtime in Dublin p>
For some reason, Irish’s face bounces into my brain. And that body. Those full lips. That fucking laugh.
‘Cole? Are you still there?’ My mother’s concerned voice drags me back to the conversation.
‘I’m not in Ireland. Not yet p>
‘Well, where are you then, Son p>
Son. The word makes me wince. That’s what my father called me.
‘I’m in Vegas.’ I scan my enormous bedroom, one of fifteen in this house, but by far the biggest. Double doors open onto an enormous terrace overlooking a sweep of professionally landscaped desert gardens, the kind only old money or obscene money could sustain in Nevada. Below that, a salt-water infinity pool stretches into the horizon.
‘It’s five in the morning, darling. What on earth are you doing up?’ There’s a rustle—silk sheets, obviously. She never sleeps in anything else.
Is he beside her?
My new stepfather?
The thought sets my fingers curling into a tight fist.
Then Irish’s words from all those weeks ago pop back into my head. ‘Maybe she’s trying to outrun the silence. The empty side of the bed. The memories. The fear she’ll never feel wanted or loved again p>
Guilt stabs my stomach.
‘Are you all right, Cole? You sound… strange.’ She pauses. ‘Have you been drinking, honey p>
‘No!’ I scowl. Bad enough one Hartmann is in rehab. I have no problem paying for his treatment, but I have no intention of joining him there. ‘I just woke up feeling… I don’t know,’ I admit, the words unfamiliar in my mouth. ‘I woke up feeling like… something happened.’ My voice drops. ‘Something big p>
Silence crackles down the line, warm and knowing.
‘Cole,’ she says softly, ‘you haven’t sounded like this since your father…’ She trails off. She doesn’t need to finish.
‘I know,’ I breathe. I hate how raw my voice sounds. ‘I just needed to make sure you were okay p>
She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. ‘You thought it was me—so you called me. So, you do still care about me,’ she whispers, and there’s so much hope packed into her words it nearly guts me. ‘After you didn’t come to the wedding, and you didn’t return my calls, I thought maybe you were done with me p>
The guilt grows in my gut, pushing up higher to tighten my chest.
‘Mom, no,’ I say immediately. ‘I’m not—look, I’m sorry I didn’t call after. I just p>
How the hell do I put this into words? ‘It’s the weddings,’ I say finally. ‘I don’t understand them. I don’t always get your choices. But I’m not… done with you. I might not approve or understand, but I’ll never be done with you. I just need a bit of time p>
Her breath stutters, thick with emotion. ‘You don’t have to approve of me, sweetheart. You never did. Even when I was married to your father. But you’ll always be my son.’ There’s no mistaking the relief in her voice. ‘When are you coming to visit p>
I rake a hand through my hair, staring at the faint strip of dawn bleeding in beside the electric blinds. ‘When that baboon moves out of your house p>
She tuts. ‘Now, now, Cole. I think if you give Doug a chance, you’ll really like him p>
‘Doubtful,’ I growl, and sigh reluctantly. ‘I can’t visit anyway. I’m heading to Barcelona next week. It’s a month-long acquisition project p>
‘Barcelona?’ she repeats, all curiosity and maternal nosiness. ‘Since when are you investing there p>
‘Since someone took something I wanted,’ I say flatly.
She sighs. ‘Uh-oh p>
‘Don’t,’ I warn. ‘They drew first blood p>
Another silence. This one heavier.
‘And after Barcelona?’ she asks gently.
‘Then I’m going to Ireland,’ I say.
‘For your father’s hotel?’ She’s always called the Dublin venture “my father’s hotel p>
‘Yeah.’ And for something else I can’t name.
‘Then promise me you’ll visit when you get back p>
I close my eyes. ‘Fine, I promise p>
She exhales in that soft, relieved way that used to make me feel like Superman as a kid.
‘Good. Now try to get back to sleep. Whatever woke you… it’s probably just stress p>
Stress? Fuck that. Stress is for the weak, and I am anything but weak.
‘Yeah,’ I say, lying through my teeth. ‘Maybe p>
‘Goodnight, sweetheart p>
‘Night, Mom.’ I end the call and stare at the sliding balcony doors. The sun pushes up over the horizon, the first cracks of dawn brightening behind the edge of the blinds.
I have to make one more call before I’m entirely satisfied. I scroll through my contacts until I reach the number for the rehab centre. At five thousand dollars a night, they damn well better have someone manning the phones twenty-four-seven.
‘Cherrydale Wellness Centre, how may I assist you?’ A chirpy voice sing-songs down the phone.
Wellness Centre, because it’s Vegas and god forbid we call it what it is—rehab.
‘Cole Harrington.’ I let the weight of my name sink in for a beat.
‘Mr Harrington,’ she coos. ‘It’s Amanda here.’ She pauses like I’m supposed to know who she is. Another long pause, then, ‘How can I help you p>
‘I’m calling about my brother, Luke. Is he okay p>
The sound of fingers hitting a keyboard travels over the line. ‘Let me just pull up his chart now,’ Amanda chirps, tapping away like she’s hacking into the Pentagon.
A beat passes.
Two.
My jaw locks.
Finally: ‘All right, I have him here. The doctor checked his vitals ten minutes ago. Luke is stable this morning p>
My lungs loosen a fraction.
‘Stable.’ I repeat. I hate how raw my voice sounds.
‘Yesterday was a productive day for him,’ she continues, slipping into her clinical script. ‘He completed his cognitive therapy session with Dr Kellerman—the full hour, no resistance. He also attended group therapy and actually engaged.’ There’s a hint of surprise in her tone. This is his fourth stint at the “wellness centre”, and he was notoriously difficult on his last stay.
I rub the centre of my chest—because that tight pull is back again.
‘Any issues with withdrawal?’ I ask.
‘The usual, but nothing acute.’ Papers shuffle. ‘He’s eating. Hydrating. As you know, at Cherrydale, we encourage meditation and journaling. He asked for a journal last night p>
That stops me.
‘He asked?’ I repeat.
‘Yes, sir.’ Her voice is bright, like she’s beaming. ‘Luke had a good day yesterday p>
For the first time in a long fucking time, something close to gratitude hits me. Maybe my shitshow of a family are finally pulling themselves together.
‘Right,’ I say quietly. ‘Good p>
‘Would you like me to tell him you called?’ she offers. ‘I see it’s his birthday today p>
‘Please pass on my best to him. Wish him a happy birthday from me. Buy him a cake or something. Charge it to my account. Tell him if he stays clean until his next birthday, he’ll have a position in the family company.’ He’s taken the first step. But he has a long way to go to build a bridge with me. I’m just hoping he finds the blocks to construct it.
‘I will pass on your messages, Mr Hartmann. Is there anything else I can do for you?’ she asks gently, like she can hear something frayed in my breath.
Yeah, Amanda.
You could tell me why my chest feels like it’s been cracked open with a fucking crowbar.
You could tell me why the universe woke me up at five a.m. like someone pulled a trigger.
But I clear my throat instead.
‘No,’ I say. ‘That’s all p>
‘Have a good morning, sir p>
I hang up and let the phone fall onto the mattress beside me.
Luke is okay.
Mom is okay.
Everyone is okay.
So why the hell do I feel like my entire life just changed?
The panic has faded, but the sensation remains. Like some unseen wire connecting me to something—or someone—just tightened.
Something changed.
Something big.
And whatever it is…
It’s life changing.