The Second Coming
Dinner goes exactly how you might imagine. Lots of screaming and crying—I’m pretty sure someone throws something across the table, maybe a dinner roll or a piece of silverware—and I can do nothing but revel in it. Back in my suite, I settle onto the couch and flip through channels until I land on one of those Real Housewives shows—the kind set in some coastal paradise I’ll never visit, full of women throwing wine and manufactured drama. It’s almost quaint compared to what I’ve orchestrated tonight.
I’m maybe twenty minutes into watching grown women scream at each other over perceived slights when I hear the door open. It’s Jack—my Jack. His face is flushed red, blotchy, and his eyes are swollen and puffy. He’s been crying. Hard.
For a moment, something in my chest tightens. Part of me—some small, stupid part—wants to go to him, pull him close, comfort him the way I used to. The other part, the part that’s been driving this whole operation, wants to throw the remote across the room and hope it connects with something vital.
“Babe—” he says, and his voice cracks on that single word.
“Jack, what’s wrong?” I ask, keeping my tone carefully neutral.
I’m playing dumb. I know exactly what’s wrong. He thinks his father hangs the moon and stars, and learning that Daddy dearest is just as much of a cheating bastard as he is must really sting. The irony is almost too perfect.
“I don’t know what to do,” he says, standing there in the doorway like he’s waiting for permission to fall apart.
“Jack, I don’t think there’s anything for you to do,” I say, turning my attention back to the TV.
“He and my mom have been going at it for the last hour. I’ve never heard them like this.”
I can tell what he wants—what he needs. A shoulder to cry on, someone to hold him and tell him everything is going to be okay. Someone to make him feel less alone in this moment when his perfect family is crumbling around him.
Too bad.
“I’m sure everything will work out the way it’s supposed to,” I say with a shrug. “Lots of families survive divorce.”
“Divorce?!” The word comes out strangled, panicked.
“I thought your dad mentioned it in all the ruckus,” I say casually, like we’re discussing the weather.
I don’t actually hear anyone say anything about divorce during dinner, but everyone is too shocked to catch everything after “I’ve been having an affair.” The word hung in the air like a bomb, and everything after was just shrapnel.
Tears well up in his eyes, threatening to spill over. I stand and walk over to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. For a second, he leans into the touch, desperate for any kind of comfort. Then I gently turn him around and guide him toward the door.
“What are you doing?” he asks, confusion mixing with hurt.
“Jack, it’s late. We’ve been traveling all day, and after that little showdown, I’m wiped. Exhausted.”
“Alex—”
I cut him off before he can say something like “I need you” or “Can we just talk?” Before he can make this harder than it needs to be.
“Tell you what, why don’t we get up early and go for a walk on the beach? We can talk about it then,” I say, opening the door wider. The hallway light spills in, illuminating his devastated face.
He stands there in the threshold, looking at me like I’m a lifeline drifting just out of reach. Like I’m the only solid thing in a world that’s suddenly gone liquid beneath his feet.
“Night, babe,” I say, and shut the door in his face.
I pick up the phone and dial my partner in crime. He answers on the first ring.
“Go for Overwatch,” he says.
“What happened to Sentinel?”
“I decided it wasn’t—”
“Listen, I don’t care about any of that. How’s phase two coming along?”
“Right on schedule.”
“Good. Then get some rest, because I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be just as phenomenal.”
I disconnect the call and get ready for bed. I switch off the light, turn on the fan, and roll onto my side, pulling the blankets up over my shoulders. Sleep comes quickly tonight—and fitfully.
I wake before dawn, the alarm on my phone vibrating silently against the nightstand. I silence it and lie still for a moment, listening to the quiet of the estate. Somewhere down the hall, Jack is sleeping in his suite—alone, just as I intended. I slip out of bed and pull on the white Speedo I laid out last night, along with running shoes and a thin athletic jacket.
The beach is mine alone—at least for now. I leave through a side door, avoiding the main hallways where I might run into early-rising staff. The morning air is cool against my skin as I make my way down the stone path that leads to the private beach access.
The white Speedo clings to my skin as I stride across the sand, the Atlantic stretching endlessly before me. The sun bleeds orange and gold across the horizon, painting the water in shades I don't have names for. I breathe it in, this moment of solitude before the day's performance begins. The waves roll in with a rhythmic certainty that almost makes me forget why I'm here. Almost.
A guy with dark hair, also wearing a white Speedo, jogs past—maybe mid-twenties, fit, probably staying at one of the neighboring estates—and does a double take. His eyes linger just long enough to be flattering. It's nice to know some people still find me attractive, even if the person I want to notice doesn't seem to care anymore.
I have my phone strapped in an armband, and I tap the screen to call Everett—my tech guy, the one who installed surveillance cameras throughout Jack's family estate while everyone was out at some charity gala two days ago.
"Dude, it's early," he answers, voice thick with sleep and irritation.
"Tell someone who actually cares. What's going on at the house?"
"Give me a minute." I hear rustling, the creak of a chair. "I didn't think we were doing revenge at the ass crack of dawn."
I listen as he stumbles around—probably to his computer setup in whatever cramped apartment he operates out of. I can hear the click of a mouse, the hum of monitors powering up, the soft tap of keys.
"Okay, let's see." He yawns loudly into the phone. "Jack Sr. slept in the pool house last night. Catherine—Jack's mom—is primping in the master bedroom, so we shouldn't expect her downstairs for another hour. Olivia is taking her meds right now, and—"
I cut him off.
"Wait, meds? For what?"
"Has Jack told you anything about his family?" There's genuine curiosity in his voice now, like he's surprised by my ignorance.
"No, not really. Just that they have money and his dad is a hedge fund genius."
"Oh. Well—little Olivia is bipolar. Pretty severe, from what I can tell. I did some digging after I saw the pill bottles in her bathroom."
A jogger passes in the opposite direction, and I wait until she's out of earshot before responding.
"Like, is she dangerous?"
"Nah, she's harmless. But if she's off her meds, I wouldn't take her out in public. Unpredictable. Mood swings, impulsive behavior—the whole nine yards."
"Good to know. What about Jack?"
"Umm, let's see. Oh, there he is—he's looking for you. Just walked into your room, actually. Now he's checking his phone."
"What's he saying?"
"Sorry, dude. These cameras only have video. Audio would've cost extra and taken more time to install."
"Fuck." I kick at the sand, watching it spray across the wet shoreline.
"Okay, so what do you want to do first?"
I turn and start walking back toward the house, my mind already working through the possibilities. "Jack has a lot of friends here. We need to isolate him from them."
"And how do you want to do that?"
"Jack is horny. He just needs the proper incentive to fuck up—publicly, spectacularly. Something his friends can't ignore or sweep under the rug."
"So what do you want to do?"
"I want to make a trip to the pharmacy." I pause, watching the sun climb higher, burning off the morning haze. "And then we need to find a weak link."
"Okay," Everett says, almost uneasy.
"But I need to do something first," I say, my pulse quickening with the thought already forming. "We'll talk later."
I disconnect the call before he has a chance to respond and turn back toward the beach, breaking into a jog. The sand shifts beneath my feet as I scan both directions, searching. Then I spot him—the guy who did the double take earlier. I change course, jogging in his direction.
After three minutes of running, my calves burning slightly from the uneven terrain, I find him sitting on a weathered bench, legs spread wide in an unapologetic man-spread.
I slow to a stop and look in his direction. He glances over and sees me, dropping his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to get a better look. A smile spreads across his face—wild, knowing, the kind I haven't seen on a man in a long time. Then he touches his thigh, fingers splayed against tanned skin.
I glance around. There aren't many people on this stretch of beach. When I look back, he's moved his hand to the bulge in his Speedo, which is becoming more and more pronounced by the second.
He stands and walks toward a narrow path that leads to a small beach cottage. I follow.
The grass along the trail is taller than I expect, wild and unkempt. About halfway down, I spot him ahead—he's turned away from me, but then he looks over his shoulder. When he sees me still following, he keeps walking until we round a corner on the path. Then he stops and turns to face me fully.
"You know this is a private beach entrance," he says, voice low and amused.
"Is it? There wasn't a sign," I say.
He looks up and I follow his gaze. Private Access Only.
"Go figure," I say with a shrug.
"I'm Tristan."
"Alex."
"Well, Alex, I've never seen you around here," he says, taking a step closer.
"I would hope not—I'm not from around here."
"So what are you doing here?"
"Visiting my boyfriend's family," I say, watching his reaction carefully.
He almost laughs. "Why do you say it like that? Most people love it here."
"I don't know. I've been saying it that way a lot lately."
"Which of these castles is his?" he asks, gesturing toward the row of estates visible beyond the dunes.
"The big one, two down," I say, pointing.
"The Harringtons?" His eyebrows lift. "Your boyfriend is Jack Jr.?"
"You know him?"
"Yeah, from high school. We actually dated for a bit," he says, and something shifts in his expression—something bitter beneath the surface charm.
Tristan has suddenly become the most interesting man on the beach.
"Seriously?"
"Yeah, sophomore and junior year," he says.
"What happened?"
"I caught him fooling around with his best friend—Kyle. Another guy from our class."
So let me understand this. Jack and Kyle are best friends. That explains the hookup Everett walked in on.
"So he's got a reputation?"
"Yeah, and not in the good way."
"And what kind of reputation do you have?" I ask, closing the distance between us until I can feel the heat radiating off his skin.
"Guess that depends on who you ask," he says, voice dropping to something more seductive.
"What was with the double take on the beach?" I ask. Our lips are nearly touching now.
"I like to look at nice things," he says.
"I see."
"Doesn't explain you tracking me down afterwards," he says, breath warm against my mouth.
"I was just window shopping," I say.
"You like the merchandise?"
I place my hand on his bicep and slide it up across his shoulder, feeling the muscle tense beneath my palm. I drag my fingers down his chest, and goosebumps rise along his arms. My fingertips graze over his nipple and his breath catches—sharp, involuntary. I trace the ridges of his abs, following the defined lines down his stomach to the trail of hair at the base of his navel.
I look up and we make eye contact just as I slide my hand down the inside of his Speedo, across his hip. My skin prickles with electricity. I push my hand out through the leg opening, sliding along the inside of his thigh, then upward across his pubes and back up to his navel—teasing, circling, never quite giving him what he wants.
"Fuck," he breathes.
"Maybe when I have time," I say, pulling away and turning around.
"Wait—you're gonna just leave me like this?"
I turn back and let my gaze drop deliberately to the clear outline of his hard cock straining against the fabric of his Speedo, the material stretched to its limit. I imagine it matches my own.
"This is just the start of the summer, Tristan."
He smiles—slow, dangerous.
"I'm holding you to that."
"As you should," I say, turning back down the path toward the main beach.
Back at the house, I find Jack in the kitchen. He's eating what looks like huevos rancheros.
"Morning," I say.
"Where were you? I thought we were going for a walk."
"Truthfully, I was just a little uncomfortable after last night. I think I just needed to clear my head."
"Yeah, not how I was expecting to spend my birthday."
I give him a hug from behind. As soon as I see his arm come up to hug me back, I back off and turn toward the stove.
"Anything left over here?"
It's subtle, but he still notices.
"Uh, yeah."
"Mmm, smells good," I say, turning around to flash him a smile.
"Alex, is everything okay?"
"Yeah, why wouldn't it be?"
"I don't know, you just seem different," he says, his voice trailing off.
"Well, I do have a bit of a headache. Mind if we take a trip into town?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Awesome, I'm gonna go hop in the shower," I say.
"I could use a shower," he says with a wry smile.
You slimy bastard—you think you're going to fuck me after what you did? After you cheated on me? The audacity is almost impressive.
"Dude, not while your mom is here," I say.
"Come on," he begs.
"No. If she catches you anywhere near the suite, she'll wring both our necks, and I kinda like my neck right where it is."
"Speaking of necks, yours is looking a little bruised."
Shit. The bruises are faint but visible, purple shadows just below my jawline that I'd hoped would fade by morning.
I can't tell Jack the truth: that I seduced his father, that I have a sex tape of us, that his dad put these marks on my throat while trying to get the footage back. That would end everything before phase two even begins.
"Tried a new moisturizer last night," I say, massaging my neck casually. "Turns out it had hazelnut in it. Broke out in hives."
"You're allergic to hazelnuts?"
"Well, I know that now." I force a laugh. "Alright, I'll be five minutes."
I run off to the guest suite and turn on the shower to cover the sound of running water, then slip out of the room and head upstairs, sliding in my AirPods.
"Where's Olivia?" I whisper.
"In her room, but her bathroom has access from the guest room next to hers," Everett says.
"And what if her bathroom door is open?"
"She once slept through a literal hurricane on a trip to Florida. I think your chances are good."
I ease open the guest room door and pad across the carpet to the bathroom. The door to Olivia's side is shut. Good. I flip on the light and open the medicine cabinet.
"Well, shit."
"What?"
"She's got a whole goddamn pharmacy in here," I say, scanning the labels. Lithium. Lamotrigine. Quetiapine. "It looks like she's taking three different mood stabilizers. I'm just gonna take one of each."
"And then what?"
"Go to the pharmacy, find some vitamins that look like these, and switch them out."
"Are you sure this is a good idea?"
"You said she's not dangerous, and I'm gonna need her at full crazy." I pop open each bottle and shake a pill into my palm. Olivia off her meds means Olivia unpredictable, emotional, volatile—the perfect chaos agent for what I have planned. Jack's friends, his family, everyone will see the Harrington family unraveling in real time.
"For what?" he asks as I pocket the pills.
"Memorial Day."
When we get to the pharmacy, I dial Everett back.
"Go for—"
"Send it now!"
"Okay, okay, chill." There's a pause, then the sound of clicking keys. "Right, sending dick pic now. You know how Jack is—someone sends him one, he's gotta send one right back. It's like a reflex."
"And you're sure you're sending it to the right person?" I say, scanning the shelves of vitamins.
"Kyle Brennan. Used to flirt with Jack all the time back in high school. And even though he's married now, he's just as much of a horndog as Jack. Maybe more."
"What makes you think this Kyle dude is gonna bite?"
"Because word on the grapevine is there's trouble in paradise. His wife caught him on Grindr last summer. They're hanging on by a thread."
“That’s comforting,” I say, pulling bottles off the shelf and comparing them to Olivia’s pills. I need something close enough in size and color that she won’t notice the switch.
“So when you get back to the car, tell Jack to take you to Brennan’s.”
“What’s that?”
“Brennan’s Dockside Bar, it’s a local favorite down by the marina. Kyle may come from money, but that bar’s been in his family for decades and he can’t seem to let it go. Runs it himself most days. He’ll be there.”
When I find what I’m looking for—three different multivitamins that match Olivia’s meds closely enough—I head for the counter to check out. The cashier is cordial, middle-aged with sun-damaged skin and a warm smile. I ask her about local favorites, places to eat and drink.
“Oh, you’ve gotta try Brennan’s,” she says, bagging my purchase. “Best lobster rolls on the island.”
Perfect.
As soon as I get in the car, Jack practically jumps out of his skin. His phone clatters against the center console.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yeah—you just scared me is all.”
“Okay,” I say, buckling my seatbelt. His phone screen is dark now, but I caught a glimpse before he locked it. A notification. A message. He’s already taken the bait.
“All good?”
“Yeah, so the cashier was telling me about a place called Brennan’s. Said it’s got great food.”
“Oh man, yeah!” Jack’s face lights up, and for a moment he looks like the golden retriever boyfriend I used to think he was. “That place is awesome. Kyle—one of my buddies from high school—he runs it now. We should definitely go. I haven’t seen him in forever.”
He seems a little too excited, but I play along. “Sounds perfect.”
As Jack pulls out of the parking lot, Everett’s voice crackles in my ear. “Alex, listen. Kyle has an apartment in the back of the bar. Go past the bathrooms, there’s a hallway on the left. His door is the second one down. It’ll be unlocked—he never locks it during business hours.”
Jack is telling me about the time he and Kyle got drunk and stole a boat when they were seventeen, but I'm not paying attention. I'm listening to Everett describe the layout of Kyle's apartment, where I need to set up the camera.
"The bedroom is straight back from the entrance. There's a dresser across from the bed—put the camera on top, angle it down. It's small, like a GoPro. Just aim it toward the bed and set the motion recording feature. Once they're in there together, we'll have everything we need."
Everything we need. Jack sending dick pics to a married man. Jack meeting up with that man at a bar. Jack disappearing into a back room with him while I'm supposedly otherwise occupied. And all of it caught on camera, ready to be sent to Kyle's wife, to Jack's friends, to anyone who needs to see what kind of person Jack Harrington really is.
Isolation. That's the goal. Strip away his support system piece by piece. Make him desperate. Make him dependent. Make him mine.
By the time Memorial Day rolls around, Jack won't have anyone left but me.
The bar is surprisingly busy for this time of day. People are everywhere—tables out front, inside at the bar, more tables, some booths along the back wall. There's a mezzanine with people seated up there too. No wonder Kyle's family made their wealth: day drinkers.
"JJ!" a voice calls from the other side of the bar.
"Brennan!" Jack yells back.
The man vaults over the bar like it's a piece of furniture and jogs over to us. Kyle Brennan—that's his last name, apparently. Jack's always called him by it.
"Man, I've missed you!" Kyle says, pulling Jack into a hug. When they pull apart, Jack introduces us. I shake Kyle's hand, and we strike up a conversation about the good old days—summers on the island, parties at someone's beach house, the kind of nostalgia that makes me want to gag. A few moments in, I excuse myself to the bathroom. Kyle points in the general direction, and I head over. Once at the door, I look back to make sure they aren't watching, then slip past it toward the far back hallway and around a corner.
"Okay, there are like three doors back here," I say quietly.
"It's the last door," Everett says in my ear.
I walk over and open it. The space is cramped—barely room for a twin bed, a dresser, and a nightstand. It smells faintly of stale beer and cologne.
"He lives here?"
"No—but if he's at the bar late or too drunk to drive home, he'll crash there. He's also been known to let his friends use it."
I set up the camera on the dresser, wedged between a couple of books, angling it down toward the bed. I switch it on, and as soon as Everett confirms it's working, I slip back out.
Back in the bar proper, I have my phone to my ear like I can't hear the person on the other end.
"Okay, they better take the bait," I say to Everett.
"They were probably planning something while you were gone," he says.
Jack and Kyle are mid-conversation when I interrupt.
"Jack, it's my parents—they've only got forty-five minutes before they have to get back on the cruise ship, and I haven't talked to them since they first left port."
"Babe—it's okay, take your time. I'll catch up with Kyle."
"You're the best!" I say, walking out the door.
I barely have the tablet booted up in the car when I see Jack and Kyle burst into the small room.
"You have got to be kidding me," I say.
"I told you," Everett says.
"This fucking bastard."
I think a part of me didn't believe he would actually take the bait. Part of me thought the locker room thing with Edwin was a one-off, that maybe I'd misread him—that Jack wasn't actually the kind of guy who'd cheat on me with anyone who showed interest. That maybe I was paranoid. But here he is. Unlike the cameras at the house, this one has sound.
"Dude, that pic was so fucking hot," Jack says, his voice already thick with want. Even through the surveillance feed, I can hear the raw need in his tone—desperate, hungry, like he's been thinking about this all day.
"I don't even know how I sent it to you," Kyle says, and then their mouths crash into one another—hungry, urgent, like they've been waiting for this moment all night. Their bodies collide with a force that speaks of pent-up desire finally unleashed.
"Who cares? I'm here, aren't I?" Jack pulls back just enough to speak, his breath coming fast, his hands already roaming over Kyle's body like he's trying to memorize every inch.
"What about your boyfriend?" Kyle asks, hesitation flickering across his face as he pulls back slightly. For a moment, I think he might actually have a conscience. For a moment, I think someone might consider my existence.
"He's scared my mom is gonna walk in on us. Now take off your pants." Jack's dismissal is casual, effortless, like I'm nothing more than an inconvenient obstacle. Like I'm a joke. Like the months we've spent together mean absolutely nothing.
Kyle does as he's told. As soon as his cock springs free, Everett and I speak at the same time.
"Holy shit," we say in unison. The screen doesn't lie—Kyle is massive, and suddenly Jack's enthusiasm makes a lot more sense.
Jack drops to his knees and immediately starts sucking. His head bobs forward, taking Kyle deep, and Kyle's hand goes to the back of Jack's head, fingers threading through his hair. There's no hesitation, no awkwardness—just pure, practiced motion.
"Uh, fuck, that feels good," Kyle groans, his head tilting back, his mouth falling open in pleasure.
Jack's hand trails up Kyle's stomach while his other hand wraps around the base of Kyle's cock, stroking in rhythm with his mouth. The technique is flawless—confident, skilled, like he's done this exact thing countless times before. I still can't believe what I'm seeing. My boyfriend is on his knees for a man who isn't me. The way he sucks Kyle's cock with an urgency I've never seen him show for me—like he's starving for it, like he needs it more than air. Like this is what he's been craving all along. Like I was never enough.
I know I should close the screen. I should look away. This was the plan—set the trap, let him fall into it, use the footage to destroy him. But I can't look away. My heart is breaking all over again, shattering into pieces I'm not sure I'll ever be able to put back together, and I realize that somewhere beneath the scheming and the manipulation, beneath the anger and the thirst for revenge, I'm still just the person he cheated on. The game made it easier to pretend I didn't care. But this isn't a game anymore. This is real, and it's happening right now, and I'm watching it unfold in real time. Every moan, every touch, every moment of intimacy he's sharing with Kyle is a knife twisting deeper into my chest.
Kyle moans again, his fingers tightening in Jack's hair, and then he grips Jack's face—thrusts slightly, fucking his mouth with shallow movements. The control he has over Jack is evident, and Jack surrenders to it completely. Jack moans around him, the sound muffled and desperate, vibrating through Kyle's cock, his hand clasping Kyle's ass, pulling him deeper, wanting more.
Something falls on the screen, and my attention shifts momentarily. A drop of water. I look up, but the sunroof is closed. The sky is clear tonight, not a cloud in sight. I feel around the seam but find nothing. As I drop my head back down, I catch a glimpse of my face in the rearview mirror.
I'm crying. Tears stream down my cheeks, and I didn't even realize it was happening.
"I'm sorry, Alex," Everett says softly, his voice gentle in my ear, full of sympathy I don't want to hear right now.
"That's not necessary," I say, turning back to the video. My voice sounds hollow even to me, like I'm speaking from somewhere far away, like I've detached from my own body to protect myself from the pain.
"Come on, fuck me," Jack says, breathless and eager, his voice almost pleading.
Kyle grabs a bottle of lube from the nightstand—he keeps it there, ready, like he does this often—and Jack bends over on the bed, presenting himself. His back arches perfectly, invitingly, and I realize he knows exactly what he's doing. Kyle slicks up his cock, then Jack's hole, working his fingers in first to open him up. One finger, then two, scissoring and stretching. Jack pushes back against Kyle's hand, impatient, wanting more, wanting everything.
He's never bottomed for me. Not once. I've asked, and he always had an excuse—it wasn't his thing, he didn't like it, he preferred to top. "I'm just not really into that, babe," he'd say with a shrug, like it was no big deal. But here he is, getting railed by one of his best friends while I'm right outside in the parking lot. Does he even care? Does he even consider how this would make me feel? Even for a minute? Or was I always just a placeholder, someone to pass the time with until he could get what he really wanted?
"Mmhm, fuck! Yeah, just like that!" Jack cries out as Kyle pushes inside, the sound raw and unfiltered, full of genuine pleasure I've never heard from him before.
"You like this big cock?" Kyle asks, his voice rough, dominant in a way that makes Jack melt.
"Yeah, mmhm, fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" Each word punches out of Jack as Kyle bottoms out, his body adjusting to the intrusion, welcoming it.
"Fuck, your hole is so tight," Kyle groans, his hips starting to move, pulling back and then driving forward again.
"I know, you need to stretch me out," Jack says, and there's something in his voice—something eager, something practiced. Something that tells me this isn't the first time they've done this. The familiarity is undeniable. How long has this been going on? Weeks? Months? Since before we even started dating?
Kyle's thrusts become deeper, more deliberate. He pulls Jack up and into his chest, wrapping an arm around him possessively, and Jack hooks an arm around Kyle's neck. They kiss, deep and unyielding, like they've done this before. Like they know each other's bodies intimately. Like they have a rhythm that comes from familiarity, from repetition, from a connection that goes far beyond a one-night mistake.
Kyle reaches down and grabs Jack's cock, starts to stroke it in time with his thrusts. The coordination is seamless, practiced, perfect.
"Oh fuck, that feels so good," Kyle says, his voice strained, his movements becoming more erratic as he chases his own pleasure.
"Yeah, fuck! Fuck!" Jack gasps, as if Kyle's thrusts are pushing the words out of him each time he drives forward, each impact forcing sound from his throat.
They both exchange a series of moans, building toward something, their voices intertwining in a symphony of pleasure, and I watch it all unfold on the screen. I watch my boyfriend—the man I thought I knew, the man I thought loved me—come undone for someone else as Kyle hammers away. I watch him take what he's never given me. I watch him be honest in a way he's never been honest with me. This is who he really is, and I'm seeing it for the first time. This raw, desperate, hungry version of Jack that he kept hidden from me. The real Jack. The Jack who wanted something I could never give him, or maybe the Jack who just never wanted me at all.
And then it dawns on me.
Everett picked Kyle. This wasn't random—it was calculated. Everett knew exactly what he was doing.
"Everett?"
"Yeah?" His voice is tight, controlled—the same professional tone he's maintained this whole time.
"Kyle was your best man."
The silence stretches between us. On the screen, Kyle and Jack are still going at it, their moans filling the car's speakers, but all I can hear is Everett's breathing on the other end of the line.
"Yes," he finally says, his voice breaking on the single syllable. "Yes, he was."
The pieces click into place. Everett knew Jack and Kyle had history. He'd mentioned Kyle was a horndog the moment he realized I could use him as bait. This was always his plan running parallel to mine.
"And now you're reliving the worst moment of your life all over again," I say, my voice hollow. "Watching it happen on a screen."
"Yeah," he says, and I hear him sniffle, trying to hold it together. "Ah, yes. Yes, I am."
I stare at the tablet. At Kyle and Jack. At the revenge Everett's been orchestrating alongside mine—using my scheme as cover for his own. We're not partners. We never were. We're just two people using each other to destroy the men who destroyed us.
"I'm sorry," I say, though I'm not sure what I'm apologizing for. For making him watch this. For not realizing sooner. For being complicit in reopening his wound.
"Don't be," Everett says, his voice steadying. "This is what I wanted. What I needed. Kyle gets to watch his life fall apart the same way I did. And Jack—" He pauses. "Jack gets what he deserves too."
The subtext hangs between us.
I let the silence stretch for a moment before I speak again, my jaw tightening with resolve. "You're right. Jack is going to get exactly what he deserves—even if it's the last thing I do."
There's a pause on the other end of the line. When Everett speaks again, his voice carries a note of concern I haven't heard from him before. "Alex," he says carefully. "What does that mean?"
"Don't worry about it," I say, keeping my tone flat and final.
Everett doesn't need to know everything. He doesn't need to know the full extent of what I'm planning, because when I started down this path, I knew there was only one way it was ever going to end. And that—to my own credit, if I can even call it that—is something he gets to have deniability about. Something he can walk away from with clean hands when this is all over.
In the beginning, it was just about exposing things with Edwin. Simple revenge porn, really—humiliation, public disgrace, watching the Harrington empire crumble under the weight of scandal. And I was stupid enough to think that this elaborate scheme I've built was overkill.
And to think just a few hours ago, I could be in bed with my knees pinned up behind my back while Tristian from the beach fucked me senseless. But I my better angels get to me. Not a mistake I'm ever going to make again.
But now I know what kind of person Jack Jr. really is. I've seen it up close, felt it, lived it. And people like that—sometimes to get back at them, you have to come at them where it really hurts the most. Where they're most vulnerable. Where they think they're untouchable.
And that is something we don't always survive.
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