"When you getting home?”
“Don’t know yet, Ben,” Jordan answered. He pressed his forehead against the cool window glass of the bedroom, eyes closed, the city lights blurring beyond the glass. “Probably tomorrow.”
“This is crazy, Jordan. You work for a fucking art consultancy office. You shouldn’t have fucking work emergencies.”
“It’s a provenance emergency,” Jordan said, the lie sliding out smooth. “A private collector in Geneva thinks the Kusama infinity net they just acquired might have a forged signature. They need an in-person authentication before the next auction cycle, and the board won’t trust remote analysis for a seven-figure piece. I’m the only one who’s handled this exact series before. They had to send someone.”
“But you couldn’t even stop home to get some clothes? To fucking tell your boyfriend you’d have to travel?”
Jordan opened his eyes and New York City, not Geneva, sprawled infinitely before him. Ted Cartwright’s penthouse sat high on Fifth Avenue, the floor-to-ceiling windows framing Central Park like a private painting hung on the sky. From this height, forty-two stories up, the park unfolded in winter glory: a vast, snow-dusted quilt of white and gray, the bare branches of ancient oaks and elms etched in stark black against the pale January light. The Great Lawn lay frozen and silent, a pale mirror reflecting the steel-gray clouds; the Ramble’s winding paths disappeared into soft mist; the Bethesda Terrace fountain stood still, its angel statue crowned with a thin cap of ice that caught the moonlight in faint, crystalline glints.
“I know,” Jordan said, softer now, throat tight. “I’m sorry. But I needed to go straight to the airport for the jet. They chartered it on short notice.”
Ben let out another heavy grunt, the sound full of frustration and something closer to worry.
“It’s a cool jet at least?” he asked.
“Yup. Very cool. All to myself,” Jordan said, trying to put lightness in his voice he didn’t feel. “And H&H is paying me a very generous bonus.
“You don’t need that,” Ben said. “Now that I’m making bank, you shouldn’t even have to think about that. You should be working less, not more. Not going on fucking last-minute trips.”
“Well, I still have a job to do, Ben,” Jordan answered quietly. “It’s not like I’m gonna stay home all day, right?”
Ben said nothing for a while. There was a heaviness in the call, a weight their conversations had never carried before, not even in the darkest months of Ben’s depression. Jordan wondered if Ben could feel it too.
“You promise this is really about work?” Ben asked at last, voice careful. “It’s not because of Beau, right? I told you, nothing big happened. He got here, we did it, and then he fucked off. Not even two hours.”
Jordan pressed his forehead harder against the cool glass. Maybe he should just say it, right there, just spit it out. Maybe it would be easier having that conversation through the phone, when Jordan wouldn’t have to stare into the eyes he loved so much, when the pain and humiliation would be lessened, softened by the distance.
He dismissed the thought as soon as it formed. Whatever they talked about, whenever they did it, it would have to be face to face. Anything less would be cowardice. And he had been a coward for way to fucking long.
No more.
“Yeah,” Jordan said instead. “I know. Everything’s fine, Ben.”
“Promise?” Ben asked, and his voice came out so small, so vulnerable, stripped of the confidence he’d worn like armor for months, that it made Jordan’s heart shatter all over again.
“Promise, Benny,” Jordan answered softly, the old nickname slipping out like a reflex, like muscle memory from nights when everything still felt safe.
Ben let out a quiet breath on the other end, the sound almost relieved.
“Okay,” Ben said, voice get back to its usual tone. “I’ll go upstate in the morning and should be back at the end of the night. Text me when you land. And call me tomorrow, okay?”
“I will,” Jordan promised. “Drive safe, okay?”
“You got it. I love you, okay? Never forget that.”
“I know,” Jordan said, voice steady despite the knot in his throat. “I won’t. Love you too.”
The call ended with a soft click.
He stayed there, forehead pressed to the cold glass, eyes closed against the glittering sprawl of New York below. The penthouse was silent except for the faint whistle of the wind, his dad’s place sat so high in the sky that every other sound of the city was erased into oblivion, the distant honks and sirens reduced to nothing more than a low, constant hum that never quite reached the windows. Far away from it all, controllable, safe.
When Jordan had left the loft just hours ago, running like he was fleeing a crime scene, stumbling like a drunk, he hadn’t known where to go. He only knew he couldn’t stay, couldn’t wander the streets with his eyesight blinded by tears, his body hurting so much it felt like he’d crashed down the building staircase rather than walked it down. He kept reliving it. Beau’s wide blue eyes, soft and adoring, looking up at Ben like he was some untouchable savior and the way Ben had looked back. The golden light spilling from their bedroom door. The moans and roars that still echoed in his ear. The way his own hand had moved in the dark like it belonged to someone else, chasing a release that tasted like poison.
How terrible it had felt.
How elating.
When Jordan came to himself, he realized his legs had carried him to Fifth Avenue. The avenue stretched wide and elegant under the January night, snow-dusted sidewalks flanked by glowing shop windows, the soft amber light of streetlamps pooling on the blacktop, luxury cars gliding past in hushed procession. He almost broke down again when he noticed he wasn’t far from his dad’s place. The doorman, Mr. Diop, a silver-haired Senegalese man in his late sixties, always impeccable in his navy uniform with brass buttons polished to a mirror shine, recognized Jordan immediately from his handful of previous visits. He gave a warm, knowing nod, no questions asked, and let Jordan into the penthouse with only a quiet “Good evening, Mr. Cartwright.”
The penthouse was vast and luxurious, extravagant in a way that screamed money spent without restraint. The main living area alone could have swallowed Jordan’s entire loft twice over: soaring twenty-foot ceilings with recessed lighting that bathed the space in a perpetual golden hour glow, Calacatta marble floors stretching to floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the night’s sky like a private masterpiece. A massive sectional in cream leather dominated the center, big enough for a small party (and Jordan knew his dad had hosted more than a few of those in the place), flanked by two Eames lounge chairs in black leather that looked more like sculptures than furniture. A custom bar of polished walnut and brass took up one wall, stocked with bottles of Macallan 25, Pappy Van Winkle, and rare Japanese whiskeys lit from below like museum pieces. Above the bar, a single oversized Damien Hirst spot painting that Jordan had helped his dad chose, vibrant and aggressive, hung like a declaration.
Jordan had always thought it was a bit tacky: too much, too shiny, the kind of place that tried too hard to say “I’ve arrived.” The fucking leopard-print throw pillows on the sectional, the oversized crystal chandelier in the foyer shaped like a cluster of exploding stars, the marble bust of a Greek god on a pedestal by the elevator. Yet, he could see the appeal of the place for 50-year-old millionaire going through a perpetual midlife crisis. From up here, the city felt conquered, tamed, reduced to a glittering backdrop for a man who wanted to prove he was still young enough to enjoy it all. Ted had designed it that way: big, loud and unapologetic. A place to host parties, impress clients, remind himself, and everyone else, that he was still winning.
Jordan thanked any god that might be listening for the fact that the penthouse was deserted. He had no idea where his dad could be, probably at one of the exclusive members-only clubs uptown, nursing a $500 scotch while trading war stories with other retired titans, or on a last-minute helicopter jaunt to the Hamptons for a winter poker game with his old hedge-fund buddies. Ted Cartwright had retired five years ago, selling his private equity firm that specialized in distressed luxury real estate acquisitions for an obscene nine-figure sum that still made headlines in the business pages whenever someone mentioned it. The money had bought him freedom, a fleet of vintage Porsches, and an ever growing line of way too younger girlfriends. When Jordan had texted Ted asking if he could crash there, the response had come almost immediately, exactly what he’d hoped for: “Of course Jay. The place is all yours. Consuelo left food in the fridge. See you in the morning”, and then a string of emojis of waggled eyebrows, eggplants and water droplets that made Jordan’s entire body shudder in revulsion.
He dropped the phone on the bed and exhaled, his breath fogging the nearest window. For the first time in hours, he let himself feel how exhausted he was. It crashed over him like a delayed tide, pulling every ounce of adrenaline from his limbs until they felt hollowed out, leaden. His shoulders sagged under the weight of the coat he hadn’t bothered to remove; his eyes burned from unshed tears and the strain of staring too long into the dark; even breathing felt like work, each inhale shallow and mechanical. The penthouse’s silence pressed in around him, amplifying the faint tremor in his hands, the dull ache behind his ribs where grief and shame had knotted themselves into something permanent. He was tired, not just physically, but down to the marrow, the kind of exhaustion that came from carrying secrets too long, from pretending the ground beneath him was still solid when it had been crumbling for months. He stood there, motionless, letting the fatigue settle fully, no longer fighting it, because fighting required strength he no longer had.
And despite that, a strange sense of resoluteness settled over Jordan, a quiet calm born from the wreckage of the night. That was the good side of hitting rock bottom: once you were there, there was nowhere left to fall. Only up.
Something had to change, he knew it now, clear as the moonlight creeping across the park below. He couldn’t keep going like this, tangled in lies, omissions, and careful pretense. The hallway had stripped him bare: left him feeling worthless, discarded like trash. The shame of it still burned, but so did the clarity it left behind: Jordan wanted Ben to stop doing porn.
He knew it now, no hesitation, no half-measures. No matter how hot it had felt in the beginning, no matter how the twisted arousal had lit him up, he never wanted to feel like that again, reduced to a spectator in his own life, begging for scraps of intimacy while Ben gave the real thing away for likes and tips and a million strangers’ approval. He wanted Ben back. Not the brand, not Big Ben. Just Ben. Maybe they could keep chasing that high in a different way, quieter, without cameras or managers, away from the polished perfection of pornstars, their perfect bodies and perfect pussies, away from the men who left Jordan feeling small and replaceable, the ones made him question if he’d ever been enough.
Ben would be going upstate tomorrow. Gideon had rented a secluded cabin in the Catskills, one he’d described as having the “perfect vibe” for the world to witness Beau losing his virginity on live stream. Rustic logs, roaring fireplace, windows overlooking snow-draped pines; they were even rooting for a fresh storm to blanket the scene in pristine white, turning the violation into something cinematic, almost romantic. But when Ben got back to the city, Jordan would be waiting.
He would say what he’d needed to for so long. The words that had been festering inside him like poison, corrosive, eating away at his resolve until the hallway shattered him open. They demanded release, a purge, violent and necessary, like lancing a wound to let the venom spill out before it killed him from the inside. He’d cast it all out until the loft felt cleansed, the shadows banished, and what remained was just them.
Or whatever was left.
And if there was a part of Jordan that had seen how Ben loved it all, the fame and adulation, the money and new watches and new coats, that wondered if asked Ben to choose between him and porn, he’d choose the latter… he smothered it with everything he had. No. It wouldn’t happen. He wouldn’t even let himself entertain that notion. It was unthinkable.
Sleep was terrible that night. The bed was probably even more comfortable than his own: king-sized, mattress thick and forgiving, sheets Egyptian cotton with a thread count Ted bragged about, but it felt foreign to Jordan, too vast, too perfect, like sleeping in a showroom display. He tossed and turned every few minutes, body restless, searching for a position that never came: on his back, the ceiling too high and unfamiliar; on his side, the pillow too plump; stomach down, the sheets too cool against his skin. The penthouse’s silence pressed in, broken only by the faint whistle of wind high against the window. When sleep finally took him, it wasn’t the deep, obliterating kind that erased the world. It was shallow, fragile, the sort that left you feeling like you hadn’t rested at all, half-awake in the dark, aware of every shift in the sheets, every distant creak of the building settling.
His dreams were even worse. He kept replaying that terrifying moment in the hallway, the fractional turn of Ben’s head, the paralyzing certainty that Ben had seen him in the shadows, knees on the floor, cock on his hand. Again and again and again, the scene looped, but this time, the man writhing in pleasure beneath Ben wasn’t Beau. It was an amalgam of every man who had ever made Jordan feel like he wasn’t enough: the rival co-worker from his first year at Harrison & Hale, sharp-smiled and ambitious, always one step ahead; the ex-boyfriend who’d cheated with casual cruelty, leaving Jordan questioning everything; the Yale professor who’d mocked his artistic sensibilities in front of the class, voice dripping with condescension; even the primary school bully whose taunts had followed him into adolescence like shadows. They merged into one shifting figure, beautiful and confident and cruel, moaning under Ben’s thrusts, stealing what was Jordan’s while judging him, mocking him with every gasp, every arch of the back. Their eyes met Jordan’s across the golden-lit room, lips curling in silent laughter: You were never enough. Look at him now. He’s ours.
Jordan woke with a start, a firm hand shaking his shoulder. For one glorious, heart-stopping moment, in the haze of sleep and nightmare, he thought it was Ben, coming to pull him from the dark and make the world safe again. But then his vision cleared, the faint gray light slipping through the gap in the curtains caught the man’s face: older but stil handsome, lined with the easy confidence of money and time, silver threading the dark hair, the same sharp jaw Jordan saw in the mirror every day. His dad. Jordan’s chest caved in. He almost broke down right there, the disappointment physical, a punch to the sternum. He had never missed Ben more than in that moment, never wanted him more.
Ted’s hand lingered on his shoulder, warm and concerned.
“You okay, Jay?” he asked, rough from what Jordan as certain was a late night. “You were thrashing around like you were fighting someone.”
Jordan managed a nod.
“Yeah”, he rasped. “Just a bad dream.”
Ted didn’t move right away, his hand still there, grounding. The last thing Jordan wanted was to worry is old man, so he forced a light tone and said:
“Don’t tell me you just got home.”
It did the trick. The concern in Ted’s eyes dissipated like morning fog under sunlight, replaced by a slow, sleazy smirk that made Jordan want to roll his eyes and hug his father at the same time, equal parts exasperation and affection for the man who’d never quite grown up.
“Sure did,” Ted said with satisfied sigh, closing his eyes as if savoring the memory. “Night was a long, beautiful thing, my son.”
Jordan snorted. He moved until he was sitting on the bed.
“It’s way too early for that,” he muttered. “Sorry for crashing in last minute.”
“Anytime you need, kiddo,” Ted replied easily, patting Jordan’s shoulder once more before letting his hand drop. He studied Jordan for a moment, the smirk fading into something softer, more paternal. “What happened, anyway? Problems with Morgan?”
Jordan nodded.
“Yeah,” Ted said, as if he’d known all along. “I figured. I told you it was a bad idea moving in together so soon, didn’t I?” He paused, voice gentling. “Wanna tell your old man what happened?”
“Fuck no”
Ted barked a laugh.
“Maybe it’s better this way,” he said. “If I knew he did some shit to you, I’d have to track him down and kick his ass.”
Jordan raised one ironic eyebrow.
“Ben has like eighty pounds on you.”, he deadpanned.
“Yeah, but your old man works out seriously, ” Ted shot back, and, to prove his point, he flexed a bicep right there in the dim morning light. The muscle strained against the sleeve of his Corneliani polo, thick and defined in a way that surprised Jordan. Impressive, honestly.
“I could take him,” Ted said, then paused, that familiar smirk creeping back. “We got that in common, huh?”
Jordan groaned and shoved Ted hard in the chest, playful but with enough force to send the older man stumbling back a step, laughing as he caught his balance against the dresser.
“Come on, get up,” Ted said, still chuckling. “Consuelo’s making you croissants.”
Jordan glanced at his phone on the nightstand, a little after seven, and rubbed a hand over his face.
“She’s already here?” he muttered, swinging his legs over the side of the bed like the obedient son he still was, despite everything. “That’s slavery, you know.”
“For the money she makes,” Ted shot back with a grin, “I’d happily be enslaved too.”
He paused in the doorway, turning back with that familiar glint in his eye.
“Oh yeah, almost forgot why I came to wake you. There’s a surprise for you in the kitchen.”
Jordan followed him out, barefoot on the cool marble, the penthouse still dim in the early light. They talked about their day as they walked (shower and work for Jordan, sleep until at least noon for Ted) and if Ted could lend him some clothes (“When Morgan sees you in a Zegna suit, Jay, he’s gonna beg you for forgiveness). The kitchen was open to the living room, a space as extravagant as the rest of the penthouse: gleaming Gaggenau appliances lining the walls, a massive ten-foot island of honed Taj Mahal quartzite dominating the center, creamy white with subtle golden veining that caught the morning light like frozen sunlight, pendant lights dripping like molten gold above it. The air was rich with the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee, mingling with the warm, buttery scent of chocolate croissants baking in the oven, the kind Jordan knew were Ted’s weakness. Consuelo herself wandered efficiently between the island and the Sub-Zero fridge, a sturdy Guatemalan woman in her late fifties, hair pulled into a neat bun, wearing comfortable dark jeans and a soft cotton blouse with a white apron tied over it, her movements quick and practiced as she arranged fresh fruit on a platter, humming softly under her breath
And there, perched casually on one of the high stools at the island, scrolling through his phone with an easy slouch, was a boy, not older than twenty, dressed in typical Gen Z casual: oversized baggy cargo pants pooling at his sneakers, a faded graphic hoodie, and a backwards baseball cap pulled low over tousled hair. He looked up as they entered, flashing a lopsided, dimpled grin that lit his face like he owned the place.
“Nolan!” Jordan exclaimed, the name bursting out of him with a rush of genuine happiness, the first real spark he’d felt in the last twenty-four hours. “What the hell are you doing here, man? Shouldn’t you be in school?”
He crossed the kitchen in three quick strides and wrapped his cousin in a tight, fierce hug, the kind he’d been giving his cousin since when he was kid, before Nolan turned into a teenage and suddenly got too cool for them. This time, though, Nolan hugged him back just as hard, laughing into his chest.
Nolan was the spitting image of Jordan in college: same lean, athletic build from years of varsity rowing and pickup basketball, same sharp jaw and wavy hair that always looked a little windswept no matter how much product he used, same eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled too wide. Even the dimple in his left cheek was identical, a mirror image passed down through their mothers, identical twins who’d married men with similar tastes in sharp features and quiet intensity.
Jordan pulled back, hands still on Nolan’s shoulders, taking in the backwards cap and baggy cargos with an affectionate grin.
“Seriously,” he said. “Aren’t you supposed to be drowning in shopping period at Yale right now?”
“Fuck shopping period, man,” he said, leaning back against the island with a casual roll of his shoulders. “Caught the first bus from New Haven. I went by your place first, but talked to your neighbor, he said you’re in fucking Switzerland? What the fuck, dude?”
“Oh yeah, long story.” Jordan answered, rubbing the back of his neck, the lie still tasting bitter even now. ““Wait, who’d you talk to?”
“No idea,” Nolan said, waggling his eyebrows again with exaggerated flair. “Some hot chic. Tall, dark hair, ass like she lives at the gym, wearing these tiny running shorts and nothing else even though it’s freezing out. She was all ‘Jordan’s in Europe on business’ with this smug little smile, like she knew something.”
Jordan felt a flicker of recognition. Probably from Lisa 12B, the fitness influencer who always “happened” to be in the hallway when Ben left for work but dropped the habit when he got heavier. Ben must have told her the news of Jordan’s sudden trip. He’d have to be careful.
“Sounds about right,” he muttered. Jordan looked Nolan up and down, shaking his head with a faint smile. “Boy, when did you get so tall? Jesus.”
“That’s what I said,” Ted chimed in, already helping himself to a steaming chocolate croissant from the platter Consuelo had set out, the rich, buttery scent mingling with fresh coffee in the sunlit kitchen.
“You’d know if you didn’t bail on me, you asshole,” Nolan shot back, grinning wide, though there was a real edge of affection beneath the tease. “It’s easier to get a reply from MrBeast than you these days.”
“Sorry, man,” Jordan said, crossing the island to greet Consuelo with a warm hug and a quick exchange in Spanish about her family before settling onto the stool across from Nolan. “I know. I’ve been away lately. Someone in this family has to work in this family, you know, and it’s not gonna be you two.”
“Anyway,” Nolan continued, leaning forward on his elbows, “since Uncle Ted’s the only other person I know in the city, here I am.” He glanced at Ted. “Wait, I can still call you Uncle, right?”
“Sure you can, kiddo,” Ted answered easily, sliding a mug of black coffee across the quartzite to Jordan.
Nolan’s smirk turned mischievous as he eyed Jordan again.
“Saw your old man getting out of an Uber when I got here,” he said. “You know who he was with? Fucking twins, man! Who are they, Uncle Ted?”
Ted’s smirk deepened,
“Oh, that would be young Pansy and young Poppy,” he said, drawing out the names like he was savoring a fine wine.
“Pansy and Poppy?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Where the hell did you meet them, a strip club?”
“Obviously,” Ted replied, unbothered, taking a deliberate bite of his croissant.
Nolan threw his head back and roared with laughter, the sound bright and infectious in the sunlit kitchen, and even Jordan couldn’t hide his.
They lingered at the island for almost two hours, the morning stretching slow and easy around them. Consuelo kept the croissants coming, along with refills of coffee strong enough to cut through the haze of Jordan’s exhaustion. The kitchen filled with the comfortable rhythm of family talk: forks clinking against plates, steam curling from mugs, laughter rising and falling like an old song they all knew by heart. Nolan dominated, leaning forward on his elbows with that animated energy only college kids seemed to have in reserve. He told stories from Yale with exaggerated flair and Ted match them with his own tales from his Yale days with the polished confidence of a man who’d lived them large and often embellished them larger. Nolan howled at the details, demanding clarifications on which parts were “actually true, Uncle Ted,” while Ted just smirked and sipped his coffee and Jordan just listened, adding the occasional dry comment or eye roll when Ted’s stories veered too far into bravado.
Around the two-hour mark, Ted’s yawns grew too big to hide, stretching wide enough to crack his jaw. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of one hand, the lines around them deeper in the morning light.
“Alright, boys,” he said, voice gravelly with fatigue, “this old man’s done. Those twins took more out of me than I care to admit.”
Nolan snorted into his coffee. Jordan pretended to puke.
Ted stood, stretching with a groan, then leaned over to drop a quick, casual kiss on the top of Jordan’s head, the same absent paternal gesture he’d used since Jordan was small, then ruffled Nolan’s hair on his way past, earning an indignant protest. He shuffled off toward the master wing, calling a muffled “Night, kids” over his shoulder.
The kitchen fell quieter in his wake. For a moment, Jordan just stared at his half-empty mug, the warmth seeping into his palms. When he raised his eyes to his cousin’s face, Nolan was watching him with a smile that bordered on diabolical, the kind that promised trouble and made it sound like fun.
“You know there’s no way you’re going to work today, right, Jay?”
Jordan groaned out loud, the sound dragging from deep in his chest, but even as it left him he felt the resignation settle in, inevitable and almost welcome. He was already picturing it: chasing this barely-out-of-adolescence whirlwind through the biggest city in the world, Nolan’s boundless energy dragging him from coffee shop to record store to whatever chaotic detour struck his fancy next.
He’d be exhausted by sunset.
He’d probably love every second of it.
He wouldn’t have a lone second to think about Ben, Beau and romantic cabins upstate.
“Just let me warn my boss,” Jordan said, pulling out his phone with a sigh.
And Aunt Theresa was going to owe him big.
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