Jordan spent the next few days completely on edge, waiting for the hammer to drop.
He replayed the New Year’s party in his head like a bad loop: the whispers, the phones, the thirsty stares from those kids who knew exactly who Ben was. The way his two worlds, work, respectability, the life he’d built, had collided in real time while he stood there helpless. At the office, every glance felt loaded. He swore he caught coworkers looking at him, whispering when he passed in the hall, giggling to each other behind hands. Then he’d look again, and everything was normal: heads down over laptops, polite nods, the usual rhythm of the firm. He kept waiting for Evan to summon him to the office, demand an explanation, or worse, an HR meeting. He spent every day discreetly scanning the halls for those kids from the party, trying to spot them among the assistants or interns, wondering what their connection to Evan was. But they never appeared. Whatever it was, Jordan started to think they didn’t even work there. Maybe just friends, or guests, or people who’d never spill to his boss about Ben’s new job.
The waiting was worse than the drop.
He walked on eggshells, every email from Evan making his stomach clench, every hallway conversation making him brace for the question: So, your boyfriend’s in porn?
It never came, but the silence felt like a blade hovering, waiting for the right moment to fall.
Jordan talked to Ben about it when they were alone in the loft later that night, the party still buzzing in his head like static. He didn’t tell him everything, not the panic attack, the way his chest had seized up in that quiet study, the humiliating tears he’d wiped away before Evan could see. He was still too ashamed of that. But he told Ben that a couple of guys at the New Year’s party had recognized him as Big Ben, that they’d been whispering and showing clips on their phones.
He watched Ben’s expression change: the initial frown of concern smoothing into smug mirth, eyes lighting up with that quiet pride Jordan had seen before and Jordan realized, annoyed, that Ben liked it. He liked being recognized, liked the praise, liked having fans.
That annoyed Jordan to no end.
They almost had a real fight right there. Jordan got ready for it, words rehearsed in his head: how it wasn’t funny, how it wasn’t something to be proud of, how it humiliated him in front of people who knew him as a professional, not as the boyfriend of a porn star.
But before Jordan could even say anything, Ben suggested something to hide his identity better next time, maybe a balaclava, like Jordan had worn during the streaming, and Jordan felt his righteous anger deflate in front of Ben’s practical generosity, the fight draining out of him like air from a punctured tire. He shut his mouth, the words he’d rehearsed dissolving on his tongue. He realized, with a sinking clarity, that his anger wasn’t righteous at all. It was just an excuse, a thin, brittle shield to pick a fight, to release the fear and frustration that had been building since the party. The shame of being seen, the terror of losing control, the humiliation of his worlds colliding. It all hid behind the easy target of Ben’s smile.
Evan’s advice from that night in the study echoed quietly: talk to someone, don’t let this bottle up inside you or it will eat you alive. Jordan could see now that Evan was right, but, still he couldn’t talk to someone. He barely knew if he even had friends anymore. It felt like a thousand years since he’d last gotten together with the people who used to fill his life.
There was Sarah, the sharp-witted woman he’d met in freshman orientation at Yale, back when they were both terrified and pretending not to be. She’d been his first real friend in college, the one who dragged him to his first gallery opening and laughed at his terrible taste in wine until they both cried. They used to text daily, but adult life had turned those texts into occasional birthday memes and yearly “we should catch up” promises that never happened.
Then there was Damian, the openly gay guy from his first internship at a SoHo gallery. They’d bonded over late-night proofing sessions and shared eye-rolls at pretentious clients. Damian had been the one to introduce Jordan to the art scene, but he moved to Berlin a while ago and their friendship reduced to likes and rare voice notes.
And finally, there was Luca, from his college ultimate frisbee team. They’d met on the field and stayed close through grad school and early jobs, grabbing beers after work, but Lucas marriage to Dominic and move to the suburbs had turned their hangouts into sporadic group texts and maybe, if they were lucky, the occasional coffee date.
And Even if he did reach out, he knew he would never talk to them about it.
The shame was too deep, the secret too raw. Sarah was a woman, and Jordan had never felt comfortable talking about anything even remotely sexual with her. The thought of confessing this to her felt like crossing a line he didn’t want to acknowledge existed. Damian, despite his affinity for drag shows and glittering nights out, was straight as an arrow, and Jordan felt even more uncomfortable discussing this with a straight guy. The dynamic would be too awkward, too exposing. And Luca… Luca had the perfect domestic life he’d built with his husband: beautiful house in the suburbs with the white picket fence, talks of surrogacy and adoption, the kind of traditionally monogamous marriage that looked like it had stepped out of a magazine. Jordan couldn’t bear the judgment, or worse, the pity, of telling him his boyfriend was fucking other men on camera for money.
He turned to the internet instead. It was usually the last thing Jordan would do, but he was hopeless.
He started with a quick Google search for “gay polyamory and open relationships,” and spent a very long afternoon in the office ignoring work, scrolling through articles and forum threads. He read pieces on how open relationships were more common among gay men than in straight couples, with some studies showing over half of partnered gay men in some form of non-monogamy. Advice columns emphasized communication, clear boundaries, and consent as the foundation, warning that without them, jealousy could destroy everything. One article from a gay therapist stressed that open dynamics often worked best when both partners were truly on board, not just one trying to accommodate the other’s desires.
He dove into Reddit threads on r/polyamory and r/nonmonogamy, where gay men shared stories of transitioning from monogamy to open arrangements. Some described thriving with rules like “no sleepovers” or “always come home to each other,” while others admitted the setup had strained their primary bond, leading to breakups or therapy. A few threads touched on cuckolding specifically in gay contexts: how it could blend humiliation, voyeurism, and compersion. They stressed ironclad trust, constant check-ins, explicit rules to keep the power balanced, warnings that without them it could turn toxic fast, one partner reduced to a spectator in their own relationship.
Jordan’s heart pounded, the office suddenly feeling too small, walls closing in under the fluorescent hum. He closed those tabs in lightspeed, fingers trembling on the trackpad.
He was not ready to deal with that particular aspect of open relationships.
One thing that got his attention, though, was something he read in one of those articles—a thoughtful piece from a gay relationship therapist on The Advocate. It explored how open arrangements in gay couples could foster growth and excitement when done right, but only if both partners were truly fulfilled, not just one accommodating the other’s needs. The conclusion was stark: make sure both parts are getting what they want out of the arrangement, or resentment will quietly erode everything.
It got Jordan thinking: was he getting what he wanted?
His first instinct was to say yes, he was.
The one thing Jordan had wanted out of all this was for Ben to return to his old self. The confident, proud, laughing man who kissed him like he was something precious, who filled the loft with warmth instead of shadows. And that was more than accomplished. Ben was back, solid and alive, the depression that had hollowed him out for months finally gone.
Then the dark voice inside his head whispered: You got much more than that. You got a new fetish, something that makes you burn in a way it never did before.
Even though Jordan would never admit it out loud, he knew it was true.
So he was getting things out of their arrangement too, right? But then, something hit Jordan, something he’d never let himself think until now: he wasn’t having sex with Ben. Not really. Not the deep, full-body kind that used to leave them both wrecked and breathless: Ben pinning him to the bed, drilling into him slow and hard, the way he used to claim every inch like it was his forever. Jordan couldn’t remember the last time Ben had actually fucked him, pushed inside, stretched him open, made him feel owned and loved and ruined all at once.
Ben was back, his cock working better than ever… but only for other men. For Ezra Jonhson, for Dante Montoya, for the hundreds of thousands of fans who paid to watch him come.
Not for Jordan.
Maybe that was what was needed to change. Maybe once they reclaimed that part of their love, Jordan wouldn’t feel so humiliated, so ashamed. The emptiness in his body might fade if they just… started again.
The first steps of his plan began growing right there, in his office. He left not long after. One of the good things about being the boss’s protégé was that no one really dared to say anything when Jordan needed to leave early. It was only 3 p.m. He had plenty of time.
He closed his laptop, shrugged on his coat, and walked out of Harrison & Hale without a backward glance, the winter light already fading over the city streets. The snow had stopped, leaving the sidewalks slick and reflective, the air sharp enough to sting his cheeks. His first stop was the pharmacy on the corner of 18th and 8th, where he bought a box of wax strips for depilation. It had been a while since he’d waxed himself, but it would have to do: he had no time to book an appointment at the usual salon. Ben normally didn’t care about that, he used to loved fucking Jordan smooth or otherwise, but Jordan wanted things to go perfectly tonight. After leaving the pharmacy, he stopped in front of the sex shop he passed every day on his way to work. He had never entered before and almost lost courage, but he pushed through the door, face already red as a tomato. Inside, the clerk, a fat guy with piercings and blue hair, looked up from the counter and smirked like the Cheshire cat.
Jordan cleared his throat. “I… I want to buy a thong. To use with my boyfriend tonight.”
The clerk’s smirk widened, eyes twinkling with amusement. Without a word, he dragged Jordan to section at the back of the shop, racks lined with male lingerie in every imaginable cut and fabric: lace thongs in black, red, and sheer mesh; jockstraps with satin straps; harnesses that crossed the chest like delicate webs. The clerk, still smirking like he’d won a bet, pulled out a few options with practiced efficiency.
First, a classic black lace thong from Andrew Christian. The clerk held it up, explaining how the lace would feel soft against skin but look filthy when pulled aside. Then a sheer white thong from Barcode Berlin, innocent-looking until you saw how the material turned nearly see-through under light, the waistband low and elastic for easy removal. Next, a red mesh number from Addicted, the fabric almost transparent. Jordan’s face burned hotter with each option, but he couldn’t look away. The clerk left him to decide, giving him space but staying close enough to offer more if needed.
Jordan stood there, heart pounding, fingers brushing the fabrics, imagining Ben’s reaction. The way his eyes would darken, the low growl he’d make when he saw Jordan in one of these, the way he’d tug the straps aside and finally, finally take what Jordan had been craving.
He picked the black lace one. Simple, classic, but undeniably slutty.
And more than that: it looked very close to the thong Ezra Johnson had worn in the shoot with Ben. Jordan remembered how Ben had ripped it off with his own hands, the fabric tearing like paper, Ezra’s gasp sharp in the loft’s silence.
A shiver raced down Jordan’s spine, heat pooling low in his gut. That was exactly what he wanted to happen tonight.
When Jordan pushed open the loft door, the familiar hush greeted him, the place was deserted again, but this time he didn’t minded the emptiness. He’d half-expected it. Ben had been leaving the apartment more often lately, and Jordan was quietly grateful for it. A quick gym session to chase the pump he’d rediscovered. A beer with Derek to talk shop and laugh about old job-site disasters. Even simple errands, grocery runs for the thick-cut steaks Ben now grilled almost everyday, or a slow walk through Chelsea’s brownstone streets just to feel the cold air on his face and watch the city move around him. Little signs of life returning to the man who, not so long ago, had barely left the sectional.
Tonight, it gave Jordan exactly what he needed: time.
He set the discreet black shopping bag on the kitchen island, heart already thudding harder. The loft’s floor-to-ceiling windows caught the last bruised light of winter dusk over the Hudson, painting the hardwood in soft grays and golds. Plenty of time to shower, to shave smooth the places Ben used to trace with reverent fingers, to lotion his skin until it gleamed the way it did on their best nights.
Plenty of time to slip into the black lace thong , to feel the delicate straps settle high on his hips, the barely-there pouch cradling him like a promise. Plenty of time to become the surprise Ben would walk into, nervous, aching, and finally ready to take back what had been slipping away for far too long.
Jordan stepped into the shower and let the scalding water cascade over him, longer than usual, indulgent. It wasn’t just about washing away the day’s faint office chill or the lingering subway grit clinging to his skin. The heat worked deeper, loosening the knots of tension in his shoulders, quieting the low hum of anxiety. By the time he shut the water off, his skin was flushed pink and steaming, nerves dulled to a manageable flutter low in his belly.
He had to admit it to himself, toweling off in the quiet: he was nervous.
Not the frantic, chest-crushing kind that had seized him in the Hargroves’ library. This was different, anticipation laced with something almost reverent. It felt big, what he was planning tonight. Monumental, even. Like the first time Ben had ever pressed inside him three and a half years ago, slow and overwhelming, both of them trembling with the newness of it. Or the night Ben had moved in, duffel bag slung over one massive shoulder, hazel eyes unsure behind his glasses until Jordan had pulled him down into a kiss that erased every doubt.
.
He hung the towel on the heated rack and padded naked to the bedroom, the shopping bag waiting innocently on the dresser.
Next came the waxing, a slow, messy ritual Jordan had resurrected from their early days together, when he’d kept himself baby-smooth because Ben couldn’t get enough of the glide of skin on skin.
He spread an old towel across the bathroom floor, heated the wax in its little pot until it shimmered, and got to work. The first strip on his chest ripped away with a sting that made him hiss through clenched teeth, eyes watering. Fucking painful, every time. But he breathed through it, the way he’d learned years ago, and found his rhythm: spread, press the cloth, wait a beat, then tear. Strip by strip, he cleared the faint trail down his abs, the light dusting on his thighs, the softer patches lower still. A couple of burns bloomed angry red where the wax had been too hot, but he powered through, stubborn, until the last strip came away clean.
When he stood back and surveyed the damage in the mirror, the result was worth it: skin flushed pink and impossibly smooth, every muscle line sharpened under the bathroom’s warm lights, the faint sheen of lotion he’d applied earlier now glowing on hairless, ultra-sensitive flesh.
Jordan trailed tentative fingers down his own thigh, testing, and the touch sent an electric shiver racing straight to his core. So raw, every nerve ending awake and singing. He bit his lip, imagining those same paths traced by Ben’s massive, calloused hands, the rough drag of his beard following, the low rumble in that broad chest when he discovered how perfectly bare Jordan had made himself again.
He was ready for the next step.
Jordan could almost feel the thong waiting for him, tucked inside that discreet black bag on the kitchen island—like it was pulsing with its own quiet insistence, calling him over.
He hesitated only a heartbeat, the loft’s hush pressing in around him, then crossed the hardwood in bare feet and snatched the tissue-wrapped parcel from its spot. The paper crinkled softly as he carried it to the bedroom, straight to the full-length mirror propped against the far wall, the one Ben used to stand in front of that night, making that decision thar would change their lives forever.
He unwrapped it slowly, letting the black lace spill into his palm. It was a pretty, delicate thing. Jordan held it up, turning it in his fingers, pulse thudding in his throat. Then, with a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, he stepped into it. The lace slid cool and soft up his freshly smooth legs, the straps settling high on his hips, biting just enough to remind him they were there. He adjusted the front, the fabric stretching taut over his bulge, framing it shamelessly. In the mirror, the back strings disappeared between the full, rounded cheeks he’d worked years to sculpt.
He looked good. Objectively, undeniably good. Muscle carved from discipline, the black lace contrasting sharply against it all, enframing the swell of his ass, cupping and lifting his cock like an offering.
But Jordan’s cheeks burned anyway.
He felt a bit ridiculous standing there in nothing but that scrap of lace, like a man playing dress-up in someone else’s fantasy, the kind of fantasy that belonged to the pretty, eager bottoms Ben wrecked on camera, not to Jordan. It wasn’t really his thing. Jordan had always been a jockstrap guy. Practical. Masculine. Safe. Jockstraps made him feel powerful when Ben’s hazel eyes raked over him, made him feel like the prize rather than the prop.
He shifted his weight, studying the mirror with a critical eye he usually reserved for questionable provenances at work. It looked good… but it didn’t look right. Not the way it had on Ezra.
He couldn’t stop the comparison, cruel and unbidden. It was really very similar to the one Ezra had worn something almost identical in that shoot, lace stretched taut over his lithe frame, making him look effortlessly slutty, like he’d been born to be peeled out of it. Every angle perfect, every pose an invitation. Jordan turned sideways, sucking in his stomach, then letting it go. His body was beautiful, muscular, sculpted from years of discipline, but next to the memory of Ezra’s effortless grace, it felt… inadequate. Too solid, maybe. Too gym-built. The lace looked pretty on him, but not transformative. Not like it had turned Ezra into pure, shameless temptation.
His cheeks burned hotter, a flush creeping down his chest. He looked like he was trying too hard. Like a man forcing himself into a role that didn’t quite fit.
Jordan told himself to stop being ridiculous.
Enough. Don’t overthink this, he scolded himself silently. Just use the damn thing. Do it for Ben. Do it for us.
The thong was already riding up in places it had no business riding, the delicate straps more teasing than comfortable for anything longer than the right time. He took it off, folded it with almost reverent care, and tucked it beside the pillow on his side of the bed, ready, waiting for the exact right moment.
From the closet he pulled one of Ben’s old robes, the oversized navy one that smelled faintly of Ben’s cologne and the detergent they’d used since the early days. Then he picked up his phone, thumb hovering over Ben’s contact. He should give him a call. A casual call, nothing that would ruin the surprise, just a teasing suggestion that maybe Ben should get home sooner rather than later.
The line rang twice. Thrice. Four times. Five.
On the sixth ring, a faint, familiar chime cut through the loft’s quiet, from the living room, not the phone pressed to Jordan’s ear He ended the call and followed the sound, until he reached the sectional and there, half-buried between the cushions where Ben always sprawled, was the new iPhone, screen still glowing with Jordan’s missed call.
Ben had forgotten it.
Shit.
Jordan sank onto the edge of the sectional and stared at the phone like it had betrayed him personally. That meant he had no idea when Ben would walk through the door. It could be minutes, or it could be an hour. Maybe more.
Maybe he should just drop the whole thing, Jordan thought, the doubt creeping in like cold air through a cracked window. Call it off, save the surprise for a night when he actually knew Ben would be home at a decent hour.He scraped that idea before it could take root. No. Not dropping anything. Jordan pushed to his feet, the oversized robe shifting around his bare legs, and paced once across the living room, restless energy crackling under his skin. He needed to kill the time, do something with his hands, his mind, anything to stop the spiral of waiting.
Then an idea struck him, sharp and sudden, warmth flooding low in his belly.
He thought of the candles stacked in a box at the back of the living-room closet, untouched. Jordan had bought them a couple of months after Ben moved in, thick ivory pillars scented with sandalwood and something greener, the kind that promised slow, lingering nights. He’d had an idea not so different from tonight’s: scatter them across the bedroom, light them one by one, turn their first official night under the same lease into something unforgettable. He’d wanted to make it special for Ben, to mark the moment the loft stopped being just Jordan’s and became theirs.
It had backfired spectacularly.
Ben had come home exhausted and defeated after another day of job interviews that went nowhere, shoulders tight, hazel eyes dulled behind his glasses. Jordan had tried anyway, kissing him slow against the kitchen island, hands sliding under the worn work shirt to trace the ridges of muscle he loved. But Ben’s body hadn’t answered. His cock had stayed soft against his palm, unresponsive no matter how gently or insistently Jordan coaxed.
It was the first time Ben had gone limp with him.
The humiliation had burned hot and sudden in Jordan’s chest, fury at himself for pushing, at Ben for not wanting, at the unfairness of it all. And the candles, flickering softly around them like witnesses, had only made it worse. Their golden glow had turned the whole thing romantic in a way that felt mocking, underscoring how desperately Jordan had wanted the night to matter. Ben had pulled away eventually, muttering apologies into Jordan’s hair, voice thick with his own shame. They’d blown the candles out in silence and gone to bed pretending nothing had happened.
The box had stayed in the closet ever since, gathering dust.
He spent the next hour scattering the nearly fifty candles throughout the bedroom. One by one, he placed them: clusters on the nightstands, a careful line along the dresser, a few on the wide windowsill where the city lights could play off the flames later. He moved them again and again, too clustered here, too sparse there, fussing until the arrangement felt just right, until the room promised exactly the kind of golden, enveloping warmth he’d once imagined for their first night as live-in lovers.
Then he lit them, match after match, the faint sandalwood scent rising as each wick caught. The bedroom transformed slowly, shadows softening, every surface bathed in flickering amber. The king bed looked impossibly inviting. By the time he finished, Jordan stood back and felt something settle inside him. A quiet, fragile confidence. He looked good in this light.. More than that, the space felt good. Intimate. Theirs again.
It was going to work. He knew it with a certainty that warmed him deeper than the candles ever could. Ben would walk in, see the glow spilling down the hallway, smell the sandalwood, and understand without a word. He’d pull Jordan close, beard scratching soft against his neck, massive hands finally remembering the shape of him. They would have a perfect night.
Jordan couldn’t wait.
He dimmed the overhead light to nothing, let the candles hold the room, and settled on the edge of the bed to wait.
Come home, Benny, he thought to himself. Hurry.
By 8 p.m., the candle flames had burned lower, the sandalwood scent thicker in the warm air, and Jordan’s stomach gave an insistent growl that he could no longer ignore. He laughed softly to himself as he padded to the kitchen to eat something. Just a salad, something light. He definitely didn’t need a full belly tonight. He ate standing up at the island, one eye on the door. Every distant clank of the elevator in the hall made his heart leap.
By 9 p.m. the salad plate was rinsed and in the drying rack, and Jordan was back in the bedroom, pumping the expensive oud-and-amber lotion Ben loved into his palms. He worked it slowly over every inch of skin, how chest, his arms, the newly smooth thighs, the curve of his ass, until he gleamed in the candlelight like something offered up. The scent rose warm and rich around him. Ben should be home any moment now. Any second. He’d walk in, smell it, see the glow, and finally understand how badly Jordan needed him tonight.
At 9:15, nerves buzzing too high to wait for the big reveal, Jordan slipped the black lace thong on again. Better to greet Ben already wearing it, let his eyes widen the second the door opened, let the sight hit him all at once. By 10 p.m. the thong was off again, tossed onto the dresser in quiet defeat. It was really damn uncomfortable. The candles had burned down further, some flickering stubbornly, others already drowned in their own wax.
At 11 p.m. the waiting had worn him thin. He shrugged off the robe entirely, pulled on a soft pair of boxer briefs and finally gave in to real hunger. He reheated leftover grilled chicken, added it to the last of the salad greens, and ate this time sitting at the kitchen island like a normal person on a normal night.
Ben got home just before 1 a.m.
Jordan was curled into one corner of the sectional, the TV flickering with some late-night art auction on ARTE, rapid-fire bids on a minor Impressionist sketch he wasn’t really watching. The glow from the screen painted the room in cold blues and whites, a stark contrast to the golden warmth he’d spent hours crafting earlier. The candles were back in their box, shoved deep in the closet again, wicks barely singed. The black lace thong lay crumpled at the bottom of the kitchen trash can, buried under the remnants of his second, lonelier dinner.
He wasn’t angry, Jordan told himself for the hundredth time that night. He really, really wasn’t.
Ben had no idea he’d planned anything special. How could he? He’d forgotten his phone, wandered the city without a tether, probably lingered longer than he meant to at the gym or over beers with Derek or just walking the High Line because the air felt good on his face. It wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t see the future. He hadn’t stood there hour after hour, skin lotioned and sensitive, hope flickering lower with every candle that burned itself out.
That was what Jordan had told himself when Ben finally pushed through.
Ben paused in the entryway, shrugging off a (another) new coat Jordan hadn’t seen before: a heavy black wool-cashmere overcoat from Burberry Around his thick neck was looped Jordan’s own Hermès scarf, the black-and-grey cashmere Ben himself had gifted him at Christmas. He hung the coat on the rack, fingers lingering on the collar like he was still admiring it, and unwrapped the scarf from around his neck. He gave Jordan that easy, lopsided smile. “Stole this from your closet today. Kept me warm as hell tonight.”
Jordan managed a small nod from the sectional, the muted auction still flickering on the TV. “Looks good on you.”
Ben grinned, oblivious, and he crossed the room in a few long strides, leaning down to kiss Jordan.
Jordan tasted it immediately: the sharp, unmistakable bite of alcohol on Ben’s breath, something expensive and oaked. Good bourbon, maybe, or that single-malt scotch Ben had developed a taste for lately. The flavor lingered on his tongue as Ben pulled back, rich and smoky. So that’s where he’d been tonight, Jordan thought, the realization settling cold and heavy in his gut. Some bar. Not the gym. Not groceries. Not a quiet walk along the High Line.
“You’ve been drinking,” Jordan said, voice light, casual. He was proud of how it came out, calm, neutral, almost curious. Not a trace of anger. He wasn’t angry, after all. He really wasn’t. Ben had done nothing wrong.
“Yeah,” Ben admitted with an easy shrug. “Sorry I went AWOL today, babe. Forgot my damn phone. Didn’t even notice till I was halfway across town.”
He smelled like cold night air and that bourbon, mixed with the faint trace of whatever cologne he’d splashed on before leaving the loft that morning. His hazel eyes were bright behind his glasses, cheeks flushed from the alcohol and the wind. Then his face split into a wide, boyish smile. The kind that used to make Jordan’s chest ache with fondness, the kind that had been rarer during the dark months but came easy now.
“You’re never gonna guess what happened today.”
“Try me,” Jordan said quietly, bracing himself for whatever came next.
“I signed with Gideon Black today, Jord,” Ben answered, the words tumbling out with that same wide grin. He looked like he’d just won the lottery. “He’s gonna be my manager.
Jordan’s night of hope just shattered, Gideon Black is in, and everything’s changing fast. If you’re enjoying my work, please consider becoming a paid subscriber on my Substack. Merry Christmas!
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