The view promised freedom, but the walls whispered ownership. And Jake? He was nothing but the auction merchandise, waiting for Haven’s bid.
Jake stood facing him, his rehearsed speech already forming on his tongue. Something about boundaries, self-respect, and all the other lies people tell themselves when they’re trying to salvage what’s left of their dignity.
Haven crossed to the bar with that same confident control he used to close deals and ruin lives. “Will you marry me?”
Jake blinked. "What?"
"You heard me."
"You—" Jake started. "Are you fucking serious right now?"
"As a heart attack."
Haven poured two glasses of scotch and slid one across the counter toward Jake. "Though I suppose I should've gotten down on one knee. Very thoughtless of me."
“Jesus, Haven.”
“No, not Jesus,” Haven said. “But close.”
"You blocked me. You've been sending me gifts all week like some kind of—"
"Suitor?"
"Stalker."
Haven's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Semantics."
"Haven, this isn't—" Jake ran a hand through his hair. "You can't just propose to someone who's already married."
"Why not?" Haven's voice carried the casual arrogance of a man who knew he could buy his way into being right even when he was wrong. "You've been fucking someone who isn't your husband for months. I'd say we're past conventional boundaries."
Jake grabbed the scotch and downed it in one burning gulp, the heat searing down his throat and settling in his gut like shame with a receipt. "This is insane."
"Is it?" Haven circled around the counter, closing the distance between them with the slow inevitability of a predator who knew the prey had nowhere left to run. "Think about it, Jake. Really think about it. Clay doesn't appreciate you. He doesn't see you the way I do."
"You don't know anything about my marriage."
"I know you show up at my door every time he makes you feel invisible. I know you come alive in my bed in ways you never do in his. I know you're wasting your life playing house with someone who takes you for granted."
Jake's knuckles were white with the effort of not throwing the empty glass. "You're only saying this because I finally tried to end it."
"I'm saying this because I want you,” Haven said, stepping closer. "Not for a night. Not for a quick fuck. I want all of you. I want to wake up next to you every morning. I want to take you places Clay's never even thought about. I want to give you everything."
"Everything except honesty," Jake shot back. "And stability. And—"
"Love?" Haven finished. "You think what you have with Clay is love? That's just comfortable misery with matching towels."
Jake's hands curled tighter. "You don't get to talk about my marriage."
"Then leave him. Divorce Clay. Marry me. Let me prove I can be more than just your dirty secret."
Jake shook his head before turning to leave. "I need... I need to think."
"What's there to think about?"
"Everything, Haven. You’re asking me to blow up my entire life."
"I'm asking you to start living it,” Haven said while standing there surrounded by everything money could buy and nothing that mattered. “I'm asking you to choose something real instead of whatever the fuck you've been settling for."
Jake looked away.
Haven pressed on. “Think about it. The penthouse could be yours. The world, Jake. I’d spoil you. I have spoiled you. And I’d keep doing it.”
“This is insane.”
“This is inevitable,” Haven said. “Come on. You’ve already walked away from him in every way but legally. Let’s make it official.”
Jake hesitated. “I can’t.”
“You can.”
With his back to Haven, Jake paused at the threshold, his hand hovering over the doorknob.
Haven didn’t try to stop him this time.
He smiled like a man who knew he didn’t need to.
His voice followed Jake out the door.
“I’ll be waiting.”
The apartment flickered with the blue and red glow of the television, casting Clay's face in shifting shadows, turning him into something between memory and mirage.
Jake lingered by the door, watching his husband sprawled on the couch in worn sweatpants and an old college T-shirt.
"Hey," Clay said, glancing up with that easy smile he always wore. "You okay?"
The words felt like lit dynamite, waiting to blow.
Jake's mouth went dry.
He thought about swallowing the words back down, burying them, looking for a different answer.
But he already knew there wasn’t one.
"We should get a divorce."
The room went silent.
Clay just looked at him.
Then he laughed.
"You know," Clay said. "I was just about to say the same exact thing."
The penthouse had gone quiet in the week since the wedding, its decadence dulled by domesticity. Shared toothbrushes, coffee mugs that weren’t ironic, and a closet slowly colonized by someone who never even had to bother packing a suitcase.
Jake lay on the bed, half-covered by a linen sheet that smelled like cedar and sex, his eyes fixed on the ceiling above.
He thought about the moment, three days earlier, when he’d half-joked over a post-coital drink, “So where’s the prenup?”
Haven had laughed in that chest-deep, movie villain sound he only made when he thought he was invincible.
“Prenups are for people who think love has a shelf life,” he said. “You're never going to leave me. Why would I need one?”
Jake had kissed him for that. Not out of affection.
Out of admiration.
Haven stirred beside him, stretching like a cat with too much pride and too little self-awareness.
“Thinking again?” he asked, his voice thick with sleep and victory.
“Bad habit,” Jake said, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.
Haven trailed a finger down Jake’s spine. “Take the day off. Stay in bed. Let me spoil you.”
Jake stood and walked toward the closet. “I’ve been spoiled enough.”
“That’s the spirit,” Haven said teasingly. “Go out. Buy something obscene with my credit card. Hell, buy me something. I’ve been so well-behaved.”
Jake buttoned his shirt slowly. “You have never been well-behaved.”
Haven grinned and rolled onto his back. “And yet you married me. Who’s the real sinner now?”
Jake leaned down and kissed him briefly. “I’ll be back in a couple hours.”
“Don’t be too long. You’re my favorite toy.”
Jake left, his wedding band catching the light like a snare.
The moment the door clicked shut, Haven exhaled like a man done with the polite act.
He rose, pulled on a robe, and made his way to the kitchen, pouring himself an espresso from the machine Jake hated but Haven had insisted on importing from Milan.
Haven’s phone sat plugged into the charger on the counter nearby. He picked it up and tapped a name.
Clay.
You free?
The phone buzzed within seconds.
Am I ever not?
Haven sipped his drink, smug and victorious.
His reply was instant.
Come over.
