The cab eased to a stop in front of the Hargrove townhouse, tires crunching softly over the light dusting of snow that had fallen earlier in the evening.
Greenwich Village was quiet at this hour, the secluded street lined with mature oaks whose bare branches arched overhead like dark lace against the night sky. The houses there were set back behind wrought-iron gates and low stone walls, each one a masterpiece of understated wealth: Georgian revivals with perfect symmetry, Federal-style mansions glowing from within. No traffic passed; only the occasional whisper of tires on a distant cross street, or the muffled bark of a dog from somewhere deep in a backyard. The Hargrove residence stood out even among its neighbors: a stately white-limestone Beaux-Arts townhouse, four stories tall with a mansard roof and tall, arched windows framed in black iron, warm light spilling from every pane. A pair of massive mahogany doors gleamed under the portico, flanked by twin topiaries wrapped in tiny white lights. The steps had been freshly shoveled and salted, a discreet red carpet runner leading from curb to entrance like an invitation written in luxury.
Other guests were arriving: a black Town Car pulled away just as their cab stopped, its taillights disappearing around the corner; a couple in floor-length gowns and tuxedos climbed the steps ahead, laughing softly, the woman’s fur catching the light. Another pair emerged from a silver Bentley, the man offering his arm as they navigated the light snow in patent heels and polished oxfords.
Ben stepped out of the cab first. He turned, offering his hand like a perfect gentleman, and helped Jordan out onto the salted curb. He looked diabolically handsome in the new tux. When they’d decided to attend the Hargroves’ New Year’s party, Jordan had argued for renting, since they weren’t exactly gala regulars. Ben had insisted on buying, and since he was already being a good sport about skipping the circuit parties for this one, Jordan had acquiesced. Ben had received invitations from dozens of parties, some from OnlyFans colleagues promising wild, no-holds-barred nights in warehouses or Fire Island share houses, others from regular fans or admirers who’d somehow gotten his contact, inviting him to rooftop blowouts in Brooklyn or private loft gatherings in the city where “Big Ben” was the guest of honor everyone wanted to meet.
Jordan, however, had convinced him to come to the Hargroves’ instead, framing it as the polite, adult thing to do, “They invited us for drinks before and we turned them down; we kind of owe them”, but the truth was simpler and uglier: he wasn’t ready to make his debut in the gay scene as Big Ben’s boyfriend. Not the boyfriend who let him, encouraged him, even, actually, to fuck other men on camera for the world to watch. He wasn’t ready to walk into a room full of thirsty, knowing eyes and feel them measuring him, judging him, reducing him to the guy who waited at home while his partner became a god to strangers.
Ben had chosen Tom Ford, black peak-lapel tuxedos cut sharp enough for the Oscars red carpet, the fabric skimming his broad frame in a way that made Jordan’s mouth go dry the first time he saw him in it. Jordan had quietly thanked whatever higher power kept Ben from spotting the Brioni or Cucinelli options that started at ten grand and climbed from there. They’d lingered longer in the watch department, though. Ben’s eyes had lit up at the vintage Cartier display, fingers brushing the glass over a pair of Tank Française models that made Jordan’s credit card whimper in his wallet. Jordan had leaned in close, voice low and teasing, murmuring that he’d love to show off their new matching watches tonight, something new, something theirs, something no one else would understand the meaning of. Emotional blackmail, maybe, but it worked, and now, under the torchlight lining the Hargrove driveway, the watches caught the glow on their wrists.
“Ready?” Jordan asked, eyeing the sumptuous mansion sprawling ahead of them, its white limestone facade glowing under the torchlight.
Ben smirked at him, adjusting the silver cufflinks Jordan had lent him, a graduation gift from his dad back in high school, simple but classic. He looked perfectly at ease, as if tuxedos and vintage watches had been part of his life since childhood. With a subtle, possessive hand resting low on Jordan’s back, Ben led the way up the steps to the townhouse.
Bethany waited by the open doors, elegant in a simple long black dress that marked her clearly as staff rather than guest. Beside her stood a huge blond man, security, just as tall as Ben and built like a wall.
“Happy New Year, Jordan!” she said warmly. “You look very handsome tonight.”
“Hey, Bethany. Happy New Year!” Jordan replied, relieved to see a familiar face. “It’s good to be here. This is Ben, my partner.”
Ben, momentarily locked in a silent alpha-male stare-down with the blond security guard, broke it to smile down at Bethany and shake her hand, his grip firm and easy.
“Pleasure,” he rumbled, charm dialed up just enough to make her cheeks pink.
Bethany beamed. “Welcome, Ben. Come on in, the Hargroves are dying to see you both.”
A woman in a crisp black uniform stepped forward to take their coats, murmuring a polite “Good evening” as she hung the heavy wool and cashmere in a discreet cloakroom off the foyer. Almost immediately, a waiter in a pristine white jacket appeared, balancing a silver tray laden with slender champagne flutes, the bubbles rising in delicate golden streams. Ben plucked two glasses, handing one to Jordan with a quick wink before they paused at the threshold of the main hall, taking in the grandeur of the Hargrove manor.
The interior was pure old-money elegance: soaring ceilings with intricate plasterwork, walls paneled in dark walnut and adorned with museum-quality art: a vivid Basquiat over the marble fireplace, a serene Rothko in the alcove, subtle spotlights making the colors glow against the warm lamplight. Evergreen garlands draped the mantels and stair rails, studded with white orchids and tiny gold ornaments; a twelve-foot noble fir dominated the far end of the room, decorated in monochromatic silver and crystal that caught every flicker from the chandelier above. A string quartet played softly near the grand piano, Vivaldi weaving through the low murmur of conversation and the occasional crystal clink.
Guests milled in elegant clusters, black tie elevated by the night’s playful New Year’s twist: many wore whimsical carnival masks—feathered, gilded, or glittering with sequins—while others sported those silly 2026 novelty glasses, the frames shaped like oversized numerals that perched comically on noses. The contrast was charming: silver-haired collectors in bespoke tuxedos chatting with younger curators in velvet blazers; women in floor-length gowns of emerald silk or midnight sequins, diamonds flashing at throats and wrists, masks adding a touch of mystery. Here and there you could see stylish thirty-somethings in slim-cut suits, one in a daring burgundy velvet dinner jacket with a feathered half-mask, another with rainbow pin on his lapel. The air smelled of pine, expensive perfume, and the faint, yeasty promise of more champagne.
Ben took a sip, surveying the room with an assessing look.
“Fancy as hell,” he murmured, low enough for only Jordan to hear, eyes sweeping the chandelier and the art like he was pricing it all in his head. “You ever gonna buy us one of these?”
Jordan snorted. “Yeah, right. Evan’s well off, but the family money comes mostly from his husband.”
“That’s Evan there, right?” Ben asked, nodding with his chin toward the far end of the room.
Jordan followed the gesture and spotted him: Evan looking pretty as ever in a tailored midnight tux, a silly acrylic golden crown perched jauntily on his dark hair, smiling brightly at a silver-haired woman in pure purple silk who was gesturing animatedly.
“Yup, that’s Evan,” Jordan confirmed. “And the hot daddy by his side is his husband, Michael. He works in construction.”
“Rich and hot?” Ben teased, voice dropping to that playful rumble. “Fuck, babe, you got a bad deal sticking with me.”
Jordan elbowed him lightly, mouth opening to fire back something sharp and fond, but the words died when Michael Hargrove, looking bored out of his mind amid whatever conversation surrounded him, suddenly locked eyes with Jordan across the room, as if he’d felt them talking about him. Michael leaned down, murmured something in Evan’s ear. Evan’s face lit up with genuine joy, and he gave Jordan a small, enthusiastic wave.
“Happy New Year, boys!” Evan exclaimed as he swept toward them, tugging Michael along by the sleeve of his tuxedo jacket like an excited child with a new toy. “I’m so glad you could make it.”
“Hey, boss. Happy New Year,” Jordan said, smiling as he extended his hand. “Thanks for having us.”
Evan batted the hand away with a theatrical flourish and leaned in, planting two exaggerated, slightly damp kisses on Jordan’s cheeks, all warmth and zero personal space. Then he turned to Ben, eyes lighting up.
“Ben! It’s been a while, kid! How’ve you been? We miss you at H&H!”
“What, no kisses for me?” Ben asked, smirking.
Jordan felt his eyes bulge, but Evan just threw his head back and laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d heard all year, bright and delighted, before reaching up, cupping Ben’s jaw, and pulling him down for a quick, playful peck right on the lips.
Michael, standing just behind, rolled his eyes fondly to Evan.
“He’s already had a couple champagne glasses on him,” He joked, eyeing his husband with open adoration as Evan and Ben talked. “Welcome, Jordan. Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year, Michael,” Jordan replied, smiling. “We’re gonna have to keep an eye on those two when midnight hits.”
Michael gave a low, sexy laugh that rumbled in his chest, the kind that made people lean in without realizing it. Jordan thought that it was deeply unfair Michael wasn’t distributing kisses as well.
“You’ve never been to our place, right?” Michael asked, tilting his head toward the sweeping rooms beyond.
“No, not yet.”
“Well, find me later and I’ll give you boys the tour,” he said, voice warm.
“Later, though,” Evan cut in smoothly, hooking his arm through Evan’s. “I need Jordan here to finally meet Henry Harrison first.”
Jordan felt a spark of genuine excitement at the prospect of finally meeting Henry Harrison, the elusive other half of the duo that owned Harrison & Hale. The man had been living in Paris ever since before Jordan had joined the firm, some glamorous expatriate life split between a Marais apartment and the international auction circuit. Whispers around the office painted him as brilliant but distant: sharp-eyed, impeccably dressed, with a dry wit that could charm a collector out of a fortune or eviscerate a bad provenance in one sentence. The only time Henry had come home for a visit, Jordan had been away on a work trip to Basel, authenticating a dubious Pollock for a nervous Swiss banker. He’d regretted missing it ever since.
Evan’s arm looped firmly through his steering him through the crowd like a ship’s captain navigating a favorable current. Jordan allowed himself to be dragged, squaring his shoulders and slipping into the polished persona he wore at gallery openings: smile easy, posture relaxed, eyes bright with just the right amount of professional curiosity. He was ready to put on his best show: compliment Henry’s latest Paris acquisition, drop a casual reference to the Drouot sale he’d been tracking, laugh at whatever wry observation the man tossed his way. They wove past clusters of guests, the quartet’s lively waltz fading into softer background strains as Evan chattered brightly about Henry’s unexpected decision to fly in for the holidays, until they reached a quieter alcove near the towering Christmas tree.
There he was: Henry Harrison, leaning casually against the grand piano, a flute of champagne dangling loosely from long, elegant fingers. He was taller than Jordan had imagined, silver threading his dark hair in a distinguished sweep, his tuxedo a deep charcoal that stood out subtly against the sea of black. His face was all sharp angles and quiet amusement, eyes a piercing gray that seemed to catalog everything in the room without effort.
Evan released Jordan’s arm with a flourish. “Henry, darling,” he announced, voice carrying that perfect host’s lilt, “I’ve finally corralled the one employee you haven’t terrified yet. Jordan, meet the man who signs your paychecks from three thousand miles away.”
Henry’s mouth curved into a slow, genuine smile as he straightened, extending a hand. His grip was firm, cool from the champagne glass. “Jordan,” he said, voice smooth with a faint transatlantic accent honed by years abroad. “I’ve heard nothing but good things. Evan says you closed the Basquiat consignment single-handedly last month.”
Jordan felt the warmth of genuine pride bloom in his chest, his smile coming easier now. “Team effort,” he replied modestly, though the compliment landed sweetly. “But thank you. And welcome back, sir, Paris treating you well?”
Henry chuckled low, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Too well. The light’s better for painting, the wine’s cheaper, and the drama’s all in French, so I can pretend I don’t understand half of it.” He took a sip of champagne, gaze drifting appreciatively over Jordan’s face before flicking back to Evan. “You’ve been hiding him from me.”
Evan beamed, hooking his arm around Jordan’s again like a proud matchmaker. “Only because I knew you’d try to steal him for your Paris office.”
The conversation flowed easily from there, art market gossip, a shared laugh over a recent forgery scandal at Christie’s, Henry’s offhand stories about late-night bidding wars in Hong Kong that made Jordan’s pulse quicken with the thrill of it all. For a few minutes, the party felt exactly right: his world, his element, but as Henry leaned in to murmur something about a potential Matisse lead in Provence, Jordan’s eyes drifted past him, scanning the room again out of habit.
He couldn’t find Ben.
Jordan looked around, searching for Ben’s unmistakable bulk among the elegant crowd, a faint twinge of guilt settling in his chest for leaving his boyfriend on his own. His eyes swept past clusters of laughing guests, the glitter of masks and novelty glasses catching the chandelier light, until he spotted him near one of the tall arched windows overlooking the snow-dusted garden.To his surprise, Ben was deep in conversation with Michael Hargrove, a fresh flute of champagne dangling loosely from one massive hand as he threw his head back in laughing at something Michael had just said. The two of them stood close, shoulders angled toward each other like old friends trading war stories, Michael’s posture relaxed in a way Jordan hadn’t seen earlier when he’d been playing the perfect host beside Evan.
That made sense, Jordan thought, the guilt easing into a quiet warmth as he watched from across the room. Both men knew their way around construction work, Michael running his empire of high-rises and retrofits, Ben with his years of wiring sites and hauling cable. Let them talk about their tools
The conversation drifted deeper into the comfortable rhythms of the art world: upcoming auctions in London and Geneva, the volatile prices on postwar abstracts, a whispered rumor about a private collection in Dubai that might flood the market with unseen Warhols come spring. Jordan leaned into it, his voice steady and animated as he shared insights from recent consignments, the subtle thrill of provenance hunts, the quiet satisfaction of matching a hesitant seller with the perfect buyer. Henry listened with that sharp, appreciative nod, interjecting just enough to keep the flow alive, his gray eyes lighting with genuine interest at Jordan’s take on emerging Latin American artists.
In the middle of it all, as Jordan was mid-sentence on the shifting tastes in Impressionist works, Henry glanced subtly at his watch, his expression shifting to mild regret. He placed a light hand on Evan’s arm, murmured something low and apologetic, and with a final warm nod toward Jordan, he excused himself and stepped away, melting smoothly into the crowd toward the far end of the room.
They talked for some more time, and it was only when a woman in shimmering midnight silk glided up to their little circle and lightly touched Evan’s elbow, murmuring something about rescuing her husband from whatever boring art-talk he’d been ambushed into across the room, that Jordan felt a small pang of realization that he should probably do the same. He looked back toward the same tall arched window where he’d spotted Ben earlier, but the spot was empty now.
He turned and wove through the crowd to look for Ben, pausing here and there to chat briefly with a few coworkers, a quick exchange about the holiday schedule with one, a shared nod over the latest office rumor with another, their faces bright and flushed from champagne. He accepted another flute from a passing waiter with a polite shake of his head. Along the way, he dodged the persistent advances of a very drunk woman in shimmering red sequins who couldn’t seem to stop groping his arm through the tuxedo, her fingers lingering too long, her laughter too loud; he extricated himself with a murmured excuse and a step sideways, slipping deeper into the throng.
He couldn’t find Ben anywhere, the main hall, the alcoves near the tree, even the quieter edges where guests clustered around the bar or the grand piano. When he passed by a very stressed-looking Bethany near the foot of the sweeping staircase, brow furrowed as she juggled a tray of empty glasses and a buzzing phone, he stopped just long enough to ask if she had seen his partner. She glanced up, recognition softening her expression for a moment, and told him she’d just spotted Ben heading up to the balcony on the third floor. He was impossible to miss, she added with a quick, knowing smile before hurrying off to manage whatever fresh crisis the night had thrown her way.
Jordan made his way up the sweeping staircase, the marble cool under his palm as he gripped the banister, the party’s muffled gaiety fading with each step into a distant hum. Halfway up, he paused to check on a young man in a rumpled tux clinging tightly to the railing, face pale and sheen of sweat on his brow, looking seconds from being sick. A few steps higher, he spotted an old lady, frail and tiny, looking about a hundred years old in her elegant pearl-gray gown , navigating the stairs with careful, trembling determination. Jordan offered his arm without hesitation, letting her lean her slight weight against him as they climbed the remaining flight together.
At the third floor, the hallway stretched quieter, dimly lit by sconces casting warm pools on the polished hardwood, doors to guest rooms closed and silent. He followed the faint draft to the balcony doors at the far end, cracked open to the night air. Like Bethany had said, it was impossible to miss Ben, his massive frame towering against the cold night sky, broad shoulders silhouetted by the moonlit. the faint glow of distant estate lights catching in his glasses.
He wasn’t alone.
Henry Harrison was with him, the older man’s lean frame angled close in the balcony’s shadowed chill. As Jordan stepped through the doors, the cold air biting sharp against his flushed skin, he was surprised to see the unmistakable signs of a man flirting. Henry leaned in with deliberate intimacy, one elegant hand landed flat on Ben’s broad chest, fingers splayed over the crisp black lapel as if measuring the solid warmth beneath. The look on Henry’s face was hungry, almost predatory, gray eyes hooded and intent, like he wanted to eat Ben alive right there under the winter sky.
Jordan froze just inside the threshold, the balcony’s quiet isolation amplifying the scene: Ben’s massive silhouette relaxed against the railing, his expression more amused tolerance than reciprocation, but doing nothing to shrug off the touch. Jordan’s stomach twisted with a hot, unexpected surge, surprise first, then something sharper and more possessive beginning low in his gut.
He was used to men in his line of work being gay; the art world was thick with them, but the minutes he’d spent with Harrison earlier had given him no indication the man swung their way. No lingering gaze, no subtle brush of appreciation, just that polished, transatlantic charm focused entirely on provenance and prices. This side of Henry directed at Ben stirred a jealousy Jordan hadn’t anticipated, fierce and immediate, thrumming alongside the reluctant heat of watching someone else crave what was his.
Ben, for his part, didn’t look interested. He had a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, the kind that crinkled his eyes behind his glasses just enough to show he found Henry’s flirtation more amusing than provocative, like a big cat tolerating a bold kitten’s pawing. He let Henry grope him a bit, the older man’s hand still splayed possessively over the solid swell of his chest, fingers tracing idle patterns through the fabric, but there were no signs that Ben was reciprocating the advances: no lean-in of his own, no deepening of that smirk into real hunger, no shift to close the distance. Just that relaxed, almost lazy posture against the railing, champagne flute dangling forgotten in his other hand, his hazel gaze steady and detached under the cold moonlight.
Jordan lingered in the shadows just beyond the balcony doors, breath clouding faintly in the chill seeping through the crack, watching the scene with a storm of emotions he couldn’t quite name, the sight of another man’s hand on his boyfriend stirring that familiar, complicated heat low in his belly. He hesitated in the shadowed threshold of the balcony doors. For a moment he was unsure what to do. He could go out there, of course, he had a hunch Harrison didn’t even know Ben was with him, that the older man was simply indulging a private moment of appreciation under the guise of casual conversation. Jordan could step forward, slide his hand possessively onto the small of Ben’s broad back, murmur “there you are” and let Harrison know in the gentlest, most unmistakable way that the big bear was taken.
Still, Jordan stayed where he was, watching Henry’s hand linger on Ben’s chest and Ben’s amused smirk hold steady. If he was being honest with himself, and the lingering warmth of champagne in his veins was loosening that honesty just enough, the situation was undeniably erotic.
It wasn’t the first time he’d seen someone flirting with Ben. He’d watched it happen plenty in the early days of their relationship, back when they’d hit gay clubs together, twinks and bears alike circling his towering boyfriend, eyes wide with want, hands brushing a little too boldly as they tried their shot. Hell, after the last few weeks, he’d seen Ben do far more than just be flirted with. But this… this was different. This was Henry Harrison, his boss’s boss, the polished expatriate who signed paychecks from Paris, now leaning in with that hungry gleam, fingers tracing the lapel over Ben’s meaty pec like he was appraising a masterpiece he intended to claim. The extra layers of forbidden made it all the more arousing: the power imbalance, the professional veneer cracking in the cold night air, the quiet thrill of knowing a man from Jordan’s pristine art world coveted the rough-edged giant he called his own. Heat pooled low in his belly, traitorous and insistent, mingling with the jealousy until the two felt indistinguishable, his pulse thudding thick in his ears as he stood frozen in the shadows, unable to look away.
Before Jordan could decide what to do, a round of loud giggles from the group clustered together near the console table caught his attention. He ignored them at first, the sound just another ripple of tipsy party chatter filtering up from downstairs, but then one of them whispered, voice pitched low but carrying in the quiet hallway, “it has to be him, there aren’t many bears that tall in NYC,” and after a few seconds, the words landed like a cold splash against his skin.
Bears that tall.
Jordan tore his eyes from the balcony and turned toward the group. They were still huddled close, heads bent over their glowing phones, thumbs scrolling with eager little swipes, but every few seconds one of them would lift their gaze, quick and furtive, toward the cracked balcony doors. Eyes widening behind loosened bow ties, soft snickers muffled behind palms, the excitement crackling between them like static.
They were talking about Ben.
A flush crept up Jordan’s neck, hot and prickling, the erotic haze of moments ago sharpening into something else entirely. Recognition dawned slow and sickening in his gut, the two worlds he’d kept so carefully separated suddenly brushing edges in the dim third-floor light.
Jordan felt his blood freeze, a cold rush flooding his veins as the whispers sharpened into unmistakable clarity. Almost automatically, he stepped behind a tall grandfather clock in the corner of the landing, its polished mahogany case looming high enough to shield him from the group’s view, the soft tick-tock suddenly thunderous in his ears. Heart hammering in his chest, ribs tight with a panic he couldn’t quite name yet, he pressed his back to the cool wood and listened to what they were saying. No, please, no.
“Yup, that’s him,” said one of them, voice low but excited, the words carrying clear in the quiet hallway.
“Fuck, he’s even bigger in person,” another murmured, followed by a soft, appreciative whistle.
“Think his cock is bigger in person too?” a third asked, making the group dissolve into another round of muffled giggles.
Jordan’s hands were so sweaty he thought he might drop the flute, the delicate stem slick against his palm, champagne sloshing dangerously close to the rim. His throat tightened, breath coming shallow as the conversation drifted on, casual and cruel in its intimacy.
“What the hell is he doing here? How does he know the Hargroves?”
“Maybe he does escorting too?”
“Nah, I saw him arriving with some guy.”
“Really?”
“Wait, he has a boyfriend?”
The questions hung in the air like smoke, each one landing heavier than the last, twisting the knife deeper into Jordan’s gut as the hallway’s warm sconce light suddenly felt too bright, too exposing, even from his shadowed hiding spot.
“No idea, but yeah, they were together. Super hot guy, actually. They looked good together,” answered the first, voice casual but laced with that envious edge.
“Oh, right, I saw him too. He was talking about work with mom. I think he works for Evan.”
Oh my God.
Jordan thought he was going to throw up, the champagne turning sour and hevy in his stomach, bile rising sharp at the back of his throat. They knew who he was, knew he worked at Harrison & Hale, had probably seen him downstairs schmoozing with Henry like the polished professional he was supposed to be. The hallway’s warm sconce light felt suddenly harsh, the grandfather clock’s steady tick mocking the frantic hammer of his heart against his ribs.
“Really?” another chimed in, excitement pitching higher.
“He’s so lucky. Imagine having that cock all to himself.”
“Well, not all to himself,” came the sly reply, followed by more giggles, light and cruel, spilling out into the quiet corridor like shards of glass.
Jordan pressed harder against the clock’s cool mahogany, flute trembling in his slick grip, the world narrowing to the pounding in his ears and the suffocating weight of his carefully separated lives crashing together in breathless, humiliating clarity. He almost ran out of there, ducking his head low and turning his face away so the group couldn’t catch a glimpse of it, but they were so absorbed in their gossip, heads bent over their phones, voices hushed and eager, that they barely registered his hurried retreat down the hallway.
Jordan thought he was going to have a heart attack: his chest tightened like a vise, a sudden sharp pressure blooming beneath his sternum, breath coming in shallow, frantic pulls as his pulse thundered erratic in his ears, a cold sweat prickling across his skin.
Shit, he really was going to throw up.
He threw himself at the first door he found along the corridor, twisting the handle with trembling fingers and stumbling inside, needing space, needing to be alone, anything to escape the suffocating weight of those whispers echoing behind him.
The room was a library, dimly lit and hushed, walls lined floor-to-ceiling with dark leather-bound volumes that gleamed faintly in the low glow of a single banker’s lamp on a massive mahogany desk. Heavy velvet drapes muffled the world outside, the air thick with the scent of old paper and polished wood, a leather wingback chair tucked in one corner beside an unlit fireplace. It felt like a sanctuary, secluded and forgotten amid the party’s distant roar, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft, final snick that sealed him in blessed silence. Jordan sank into the leather wingback chair, the supple hide creaking softly under him as he set the flute down on a side table with a trembling clink. The library’s hush pressed in, thick and oppressive, broken only by the faint tick of an antique clock on the mantel and the muffled thump of his own heartbeat in his ears.
His mind spiraled, faster and faster, a cold whirlpool dragging him down.
What if those guys were from work too? Not just Evan’s friends, but actual colleagues, curators, junior associates, maybe even someone from authentication or provenance who’d seen him at staff meetings, knew his face from the company directory. They’d been downstairs all night, mingling in the same rooms he’d been in, eyes flicking over him and Ben as they arrived together. One of them had already placed him: talking about work, working for Evan. It wouldn’t take much. A quick scroll through Big Ben’s followers, a shared screenshot in a group chat, a casual “wait, isn’t that Jordan Cartwright’s boyfriend?” over Monday morning coffee.
Fuck, of course they would connect the dots. People loved gossip, especially the juicy kind that bridged worlds like this, polished art consultancy by day, OnlyFans boyfriend by night. They’d bring their heads together, whisper it in corners, let it spread like spilled ink across pristine canvas. Would they tell someone? Of course they would. A partner. A director. Henry himself. Evan. The story was too delicious to keep quiet, the firm’s golden boy assistant, the one closing seven-figure consignments, shacked up with a porn star whose clips were blowing up timelines across the city.
His breath came shorter, the room’s leather-and-paper scent suddenly cloying, the walls inching closer. He pressed a palm to his chest, feeling the frantic thud beneath the starched shirt, sweat prickling cold along his hairline. The crisis deepened, sinking claws in: his career, the one he’d built from internships and late nights poring over catalogs, the one his parents bragged about at their Connecticut dinners, tarnished in an instant. Clients pulling consignments. Sideways glances in meetings. The quiet judgment behind polite smiles. Evan’s disappointment. Henry’s raised eyebrow from Paris.
He curled forward in the chair, elbows on knees, fingers threading through his hair as his forehead dropped to his palms, the spiral tightening mercilessly, pulling him deeper into the dark.
And they would know.
The thought looped vicious, relentless, carving deeper with every frantic beat of his heart.
They would know that he liked it. That he got off watching Ben fucking other men, cock straining in his fist as he stared at the screen, breath ragged and desperate. They would know he’d come harder than ever with Ben’s hoarse voice in his ear, promising to fuck other men, to wreck them, to paint their faces while Jordan listened a hundred miles away and shattered alone in the dark.
They would know he’d jerked off in his childhood bed, quilt shoved aside, picturing Ben wrecking a cocky top, and how the shame and heat of it had sent him over the edge twice in one night, silent and shaking like a teenager again.
That he liked it.
That he was a cuck.
He didn’t even fully know what the word meant yet, not the shape of it, not why it fit so perfectly in the raw, aching space inside him, why the humiliation tasted so sweet alongside the desire, but everyone else would know. They’d see it on his face in meetings, hear it in the tremor of his voice when he pitched a consignment, whisper it behind manicured hands at the next opening: Jordan Cartwright, the polished one, the one with the perfect boyfriend and the perfect career, secretly getting off on his man fucking half the city while he watched from the shadows.
His breath fractured into short, gasping pulls he couldn’t control, the library spinning slow and sick around him. Chest crushed beneath an invisible weight, pain radiating sharp down his left arm, vision tunneling at the edges as cold sweat soaked through his shirt. Hands numb and tingling, he clutched at the armrests, knuckles white, convinced for one blinding second that this was it, heart seizing, body failing, punishment finally catching up. A full panic attack crashed over him like a wave, dragging him under, drowning him in the dark while the distant party laughed on without him.
A door opened somewhere in the haze, the soft creak slicing through the library’s suffocating quiet. Someone spoke, low, urgent words directed at Evan, but he ignored them. The door closed with a click, only to reopen moments later, footsteps approaching across the polished hardwood, deliberate and unhurried.
Through the blur of tears stinging his eyes, hot and unrelenting, Jordan saw a figure kneeling in front of him, the expensive tuxedo trousers pooling slightly on the rug. Evan’s face came into focus, crown still perched jauntily in his dark hair, expression stripped of its usual bright host’s sparkle, replaced by something softer, steadier, eyes wide with quiet concern as he reached out without hesitation, one hand settling lightly on Jordan’s knee.
“Hey,” Evan said gently, voice low and calm, cutting through the roar in Jordan’s ears like a lifeline. “Jordan, look at me. Breathe with me, okay? In slow… out slower.”
Jordan tried, chest heaving in ragged hitches, the panic still clawing tight, but Evan stayed there, kneeling, patient, his presence a small anchor in the spiraling dark, refusing to let him drown alone. It took him forever to regain control of himself, the panic attack ebbing in slow, agonizing waves, breath by breath, Evan’s steady voice guiding him through it, hand warm and grounding on his knee until the vise around his chest loosened just enough for the world to stop spinning, tears dried sticky on his cheeks, his shirt clung damp to his skin.
He only managed to say something again when he heard someone by the door asking if they should go get Evan’s partner, the words slicing through the lingering fog in his head. He realized then, with a fresh stab of mortification, that Bethany had been the one to find him like this: curled forward, gasping and shaking, coming apart in the middle of the Hargroves’ perfect party.
“No!” he yelled, the word bursting too loud, cracking in the quiet room. Evan actually jumped a little, eyes widening but Jordan didn’t care, couldn’t care. Ben was the last person he wanted to see right now. He couldn’t face it. Not yet. Not like this.
“We’re fine here, Bethany,” Evan called out calmly toward the door, his voice steady even as he kept his gaze locked on Jordan, watchful and gentle, like he was afraid one wrong word might send him spiraling again. “Give us a moment, okay?”
The door clicked shut softly, footsteps retreating down the hallway, leaving them alone once more in the dim glow of the banker’s lamp. Evan didn’t move from his kneel, hand still resting light on Jordan’s knee, the silence settling heavy but no longer suffocating. Jordan sank deeper into the chair, the leather creaking softly as his body folded in on itself, shame creeping over him now like a slow, burning tide. Of all the people in the world, the one who had to witness him having the first panic attack of his life had to be his boss. The mortification twisted sharp in his gut, hotter than the lingering panic.
He covered his face with both hands, fingers pressing hard against his eyelids as if he could block out the reality of it all.
“I’m so, so sorry, Evan,” he managed to say, voice cracking raw and small in the hushed library. “God, really, please forgive me. I don’t know what happened to me. I’m fucking mortified.”
“Hey, don’t worry about it, Jordan,” Evan answered.
Jordan lowered his hands slowly, daring to look at his boss. Evan was still kneeling in front of him, crown slightly askew now from the urgency of the moment, but his eyes were warm, steady, filled with nothing but genuine concern. No pity, no discomfort, just quiet acceptance. He forced a laugh, thin and shaky, the sound scraping his throat.
“Guess I had too much champagne.”
Evan didn’t laugh. The forced joke hung in the air between them, thin and brittle, dying without even an echo in the hushed library.
“I’m no doctor, Jordan,” he said quietly, “but I’m pretty sure that what just happened had nothing to do with alcohol. What the hell happened, Jordan? I’ve never seen you like that.”
“I…” Jordan started, the word scraping out rough, but he choked on the ones that tried to follow, throat closing tight around the truth he couldn’t let escape.
“You can tell me, son. Whatever it is. You can trust me.”
The worst part was that Jordan was sure it was true. He knew Evan was genuinely a good man, the kind of boss who remembered birthdays and fought for his people behind closed doors. Somehow, that made everything worse, the kindness a sharper blade because it deserved honesty he couldn’t give.
“I’m sorry, but this is way too personal, Evan,” he managed at last, voice cracking as fresh tears tugged at the corners of his eyes, hot and humiliating. “I can’t risk you thinking less of me.”
Evan’s hand tightened on his knees, grip firm and grounding, thumb pressing just enough to anchor him without overwhelming. His eyes stayed steady, soft in the lamplight, the silly golden crown still perched in his hair looking suddenly absurd against the gravity of the moment.
“Jordan,” he said, low and earnest, “I could never think less of you. Come on. Not ever.”
But Jordan only shook his head at him, apologetically, the motion small and defeated.
Evan sighed, the sound soft and resigned. “Look, I know I’m your boss and there’s an inherent hierarchy in our relationship. I get that you don’t feel comfortable sharing some things with me. I respect you, not just as a mentee, but as an equal. And I’m actually very fond of you, son. So let me say something: keeping whatever it is that made you spiral like that bottled up will only harm you. You need to talk about it with someone. I have a feeling that Ben isn’t the right person for it, so let it be a friend, or even a professional. But don’t let it fester inside you, okay? It will only eat you up from the inside.”
The words landed gentle but heavy, Evan’s eyes steady behind the absurd little crown, voice threaded with that quiet, paternal care that made Jordan’s chest ache all over again. He wanted to believe it, wanted to spill everything, the OnlyFans, the videos, the twisted heat and humiliation that had knotted together until he couldn’t breathe, but the fear clamped down harder, locking the confession behind his teeth. He nodded faintly instead, swallowing thick against the lump in his throat, the library’s dim light blurring once more as he fought to hold himself together under his boss’s unwavering gaze.
Evan rose slowly from his kneel, the movement careful, as if he were afraid any sudden shift might shatter the fragile calm they’d managed to stitch together. He adjusted his crooked golden crown with a faint, self-conscious smile, then brushed a nonexistent wrinkle from his tuxedo trousers.
“I need to get back downstairs,” he said softly, voice still threaded with that steady concern. “But I’ll give you fifteen minutes, okay? Then I’ll find Ben and tell him to come look for you in the study. Take the time you need.”
Jordan nodded numbly, the motion small and mechanical, throat too tight for words. Evan gave his shoulder one last reassuring grip, before standing fully and slipping out the door, the soft click of the latch echoing in the sudden solitude.
Jordan stayed there for a while, slumped deep in the wingback chair, the library’s dim light pooling gold on the desk and casting long shadows across the rows of leather-bound books. The aftershocks of the panic attack still rippled through him, muscles trembling faintly in his thighs and arms, chest aching with a dull, lingering pressure, breath catching every few minutes on a shaky inhale that felt too shallow, too fragile. His shirt clung damp to his skin, tie loosened and askew, the champagne flute abandoned on the side table like evidence of a crime. Suddenly, he felt exhausted, bone-deep, soul-heavy exhaustion that dragged at his limbs and eyelids, making the chair feel like the only thing keeping him upright. The fight had gone out of him entirely, leaving nothing but a hollow quiet where the spiral had been, the weight of secrets and shame pressing down until all he wanted was to close his eyes and let the darkness swallow him whole, just for a little while.
He was terrified of what had happened, the way his body had betrayed him, chest crushing inward, breath stolen, the world narrowing to a blinding point of pure, animal fear. He had never felt panic like that, raw and consuming, stripping away every layer of control he’d spent years polishing to perfection. He never wanted to go through that again, the helplessness of it still echoing in his trembling hands and the ache behind his ribs.
And if Evan was right, if he needed someone to talk about everything happening in his life, then who could that person be?
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