This first day after Ben left was probably the worst day of Jordan’s life.
Ben had gone soon after the ultimatum, moving through the loft with quiet, mechanical efficiency, pulling drawers open with soft scrapes, folding clothes into the old navy duffel bag they’d bought together for weekend trips that never happened anymore. He’d said he’d find a hotel for the next few days, voice flat and careful, like he was handling something fragile that might shatter if he spoke too loud. Jordan had stood frozen in the living room, hearing him fill the bag with socks, jeans, and t-shirts, and felt two opposing currents tear at him from the inside.
Part of him was relieved, a cold, shameful relief that loosened the knot in his chest just enough to breathe. He wouldn’t have to face Ben tonight, wouldn’t have to lie beside him in their bed with the rage and shame still burning fresh, the memory of last night’s words searing every time he blinked. He had no idea how they were supposed to share that space now, how to turn off the light and pretend to sleep while the silence screamed everything they’d broken.
The other part was terrified.
Watching Ben pack shook him to his core, a quiet panic rising slow and suffocating, like water filling a room he hadn’t noticed was sinking. All the time, a voice in his head screamed at him to make Ben stop, to make Ben stay. To cross the room, grab the bag, spill the clothes back into drawers, wrap his arms around that broad back and beg him not to go. To not give up.
Jordan didn’t do anything.
Ben left, murmuring he’d text once he was settled, just to let Jordan know he was okay. When passed by Jordan in the narrow entryway, duffel slung over one broad shoulder, he hesitated, body pausing as if caught by an invisible thread, then, as if he couldn’t help himself, he reached out. His big hand cupped the back of Jordan’s neck, thumb brushing the skin there with familiar gentleness, and he pressed a kiss to the crown of Jordan’s head. For a second, Ben buried his nose in his hair, inhaling like he was memorizing the scent, the closeness, before pulling back.
Tears pricked Jordan’s eyes again, hot and sudden, blurring the edges of the loft.
Neither spoke.
Ben nodded once, more to himself than to Jordan, and then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a quiet, final click.
That feeling of dread didn’t leave with Ben.
It stayed, seeping deep inside Jordan like slow-acting poison, heavy as an iron weight crushing his heart, his lungs, squeezing until every breath felt impossible, until existing felt impossible. The loft’s silence pressed in, thick and accusing, the faint scent of Ben’s cologne still lingering in the air like a ghost he couldn’t exorcise. Nausea rose sudden and crippling, a hot, churning wave that buckled his knees, and then Jordan was lurching toward the bathroom, one hand clamped over his mouth, the other braced against the wall as the world tilted.
He barely made it, dropping to the cold tile and hugging the porcelain bowl like an old friend, retching violently as the expensive scotch surged back up, bitter, smoky, burning his throat raw on the way out. His head throbbed with a vicious pulse, temples pounding in time with his heartbeat, vision blurring as tears spilled unchecked down his cheeks, hot and implacable.
He felt even worse afterward.
Jordan dragged himself to bed without bothering to change, the weight of the day pinning him down like lead. The sheets felt clammy against his skin, sweat cooling into a sticky film that clung to his back and chest, the faint sour trace of vomit on his shirt collar turning his stomach again. He knew he reeked, scotch, bile, defeat, but he couldn’t care. Exhaustion had hollowed him out, leaving no strength for a shower, no will to stand under the water and wash away the night. He just wanted oblivion.
Jordan collapsed onto the mattress, the familiar dip where Ben usually lay now cold and empty, mocking him. He closed his eyes, begging for sleep to take him, to grant even a few hours of nothingness where the memories couldn’t reach, but even darkness was denied to him. The loft stayed stubbornly awake around him, city lights bleeding faint through the blinds, the distant hum of early traffic far below. His head throbbed with a relentless pulse, temples aching from the scotch and the tears and the endless loop of last night’s words. He hated himself. He hated Ben. He hated the world most of all, for making this happen, for turning their love into something poisoned and twisted.
The clock on his phone glowed accusingly from the nightstand: 3 a.m., then 4, then 5. Jordan lay there through all of it, eyes burning, body heavy, mind churning in the same vicious circles. At 7 a.m., the alarm pierced the quiet, dragging him back to a world he wasn’t ready to face.
Jordan had no idea how he got through the day.
Every minute he stayed awake felt like a small betrayal of his body, every mundane task performed with the single, desperate thought of crawling back into bed and letting the world disappear. He rose eventually, the sheets clinging damp to his skin, and dragged himself to the shower. The hot water pounded his shoulders, steam filling the bathroom until the mirror fogged opaque, but it did nothing to wash away the grit in his eyes or the heavy fog in his head. He forced down breakfast, plain oatmeal that tasted like nothing, chased with the strongest black coffee he could brew, bitter and scalding on his tongue. He swallowed Tylenol capsules dry on waking, another pair after the oatmeal, a third before leaving the loft, but none pierced the endless throb behind his temples, fueled by the sleepless night and the deeper, fierce ache in his chest that no medication could touch.
He was a ghost at work. Everyone kept looking at him, lingering stares in the hallways, whispered conversations that hushed when he passed. Jordan couldn’t fault them. It was written all over him: bloodshot eyes rimmed red from tears and exhaustion, clothes rumpled and mismatched like because grabbed the first things his hands touched, the faint shadow of stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave. He moved through the gallery like a shadow, voice flat when he spoke, responses minimal. Emery, one of the younger associates, always quick with a joke, tried to talk to him once, leaning against Jordan’s desk with a light laugh. ““Rough night, man? You look like you partied with rockstars.”, he had said. Jordan just fixed him with a silent stare, cold and empty, until Ethan’s grin faltered, color rising high in his cheeks. The guy mumbled a quick apology and bolted from the desk like it was on fire.
No one came near him after that.
Jordan sat alone in the quiet hum of the office, the ache in his head pulsing steady, the one in his heart louder still. He didn’t even pretend to work. His monitor glowed mockingly with an open email draft he hadn’t touched in hours, cursor blinking in the empty body. Spreadsheets lay minimized, provenance notes untouched, the stack of condition reports on his desk gathering the faint dust of neglect. He stared at the screen without seeing it, fingers idle on the keyboard, the occasional scroll through his phone yielding nothing. Colleagues passed his desk with careful steps, glances sliding away when he didn’t look up, the silence around his desk growing thicker, a bubble no one dared pop.
He refreshed his inbox again, pointlessly, the soft chime of new mail that never came echoing in the hollow space behind his ribs.
And still, he sat.
He was out of Harrison & Hale by 4:45 p.m., not even bothering to wait for the official five o’clock close. The gallery’s polished halls felt too bright, too sharp, as he slipped out the side door without a word to anyone. He walked fast, head down against the wind whipping between buildings, the city’s afternoon bustle a distant roar he barely registered. On his way, he ducked into a small pharmacy on Eighth Avenue, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the air thick with antiseptic and cheap perfume. He asked for Ambien, strong stuff, the kind that knocked you out cold, and when the girl behind the counter hesitated, citing the prescription rule, Jordan slid a folded fifty across the glass without a word. She glanced around, pocketed it quick, and handed over the small orange bottle. He wouldn’t risk another night awake, staring at the ceiling while the headache throbbed relentless, fueled by useless Tylenol and the endless replay of last night’s wreckage.
Back in the loft, he took a quick shower, toweled off roughly, and pulled on only boxers before heading to bed. The sheets were cool against his overheated body as he swallowed the pills dry-throated, chasing them with a glass of water that tasted metallic from the tap. He collapsed onto the mattress, the familiar dip where Ben usually lay still empty, still mocking.
The second day was better.
Sixteen hours of uninterrupted sleep had worked wonders, pulling Jordan from the depths like a slow, merciful tide. The headache that had throbbed behind his eyes was finally gone, leaving only a faint echo, a ghost of the punishment he’d inflicted on himself. The first thing he noticed upon waking was the hunger, almost foreign after a day of feeling he would puke anything he tried to swallow. It wasn’t surprising; he hadn’t eaten anything substantial since that sad bowl of oatmeal the morning after everything shattered.
For the first time in his life, he ate breakfast before showering. He scrambled eggs in the quiet kitchen, the sizzle of butter in the pan a small, ordinary comfort, the rich aroma filling the loft where silence still lingered too heavy. He toasted bagels until golden, slathered them thick with cream cheese, and ate more than he usually would, two full bagels, three eggs, the portions generous, almost defiant, as if fueling his body could armor the parts still raw inside. He squeezed fresh orange juice too, the citrus bright and sharp on his tongue, cutting through the lingering dryness from the night’s tears and scotch.
After eating, he felt almost human again, steady enough to stand under the shower’s hot spray, letting the water scour away the sweat and stale grief clinging to his skin. He shaved carefully that morning, the razor gliding smooth over foam, each stroke deliberate, erasing the stubble that had made him look like the wreck he’d been yesterday. His clothes were chosen with special attention, a crisp white shirt that fit just right, tailored navy trousers, a lightweight cashmere sweater in soft gray, pieces that said competent, put-together, nothing to see here. He was pretty sure his co-workers would stage an intervention if he showed up looking like a bum again, bloodshot eyes and rumpled despair announcing his unraveling to the entire gallery.
The small rituals grounded him, a thin veneer of normalcy over the ache that hadn’t dulled at al. It was still there, sttil bleeding, still simmering low at Ben’s absence. But for now, he could move. He could face the day.
It was something.
He tried not to think of Ben during work that morning. Ben had kept his promise with staying in touch. One the first night, letting Jordan know he’d checked into The Carlyle, that Upper East Side bastion of old money discretion with its art deco lobby and rooms that cost more per night than Ben used to make in a week. Safe and sound. We’ll talk soon. The second came yesterday, unnoticed amid Jordan’s fog of exhaustion: a simple Have a good day at work. The third arrived the moment Jordan sank into his desk chair, phone buzzing against the polished wood like an accusation.
Have a good day today. I miss you.
Jordan stared at the screen until the letters blurred, the office’s low hum of keyboards clacking, distant phones ringing and he faint scent of fresh coffee from the break room fading to nothing. He wanted to reply. God, he wanted to, fingers hovering, thumbs trembling with the need to type it back: that he missed Ben too, so fucking much it felt like a constant ache behind his ribs, always there in the back of his mind, like the last notes of a song he loved, still echoing long after the music had stopped.
But he didn’t. He set the phone face-down on the desk, screen dark, the silence heavier than any response.
What was left to say? He’d said it all. Whatever happened next was up to Ben.
The morning passed in a blur of controlled normalcy, and he was grateful for it, grateful for the emails piling up, the provenance queries that demanded focus, the quiet rhythm of the gallery’s back office that kept his mind from drifting too far into the void Ben had left behind. The work dulled everything to something bearable, a distraction he clung to like a lifeline. Every spreadsheet opened, every call with a collector, every small task chipped away at the endless loop that started at the fight and ended at the empty side of the bed that morning, just to start again.
His co-workers were still wary, though, cautious glances in the hallways, conversations hushing when he entered the break room, the memory of yesterday’s despair lingering like a bad smell. No one approached his desk uninvited, their usual easy chatter replaced by polite distance, as if he were fragile glass that might crack again. Jordan made sure to be extra welcoming all morning, forcing smiles that felt almost genuine, asking about weekends and new acquisitions with real interest, nodding along to small talk like nothing had happened. He wanted them to know, whatever storm had passed through him yesterday, it was over. Or at least contained. When Emery swung by mid-morning, hesitant at first, hovering with a tentative grin and some dumb story about a client who’d mistaken a Koons for a glorified balloon animal, Jordan made sure to laugh. Loud enough to carry, genuine enough to ease the tension in Ethan’s shoulders, a small apology for yesterday’s cold stare, a quiet olive branch wrapped in humor.
For a few hours, at least, the gallery held the world together.
It all came crashing down in the afternoon.
Jordan had just finished his coffee, a double ristretto oat-milk flat white with a precise half-pump of vanilla, picked up from the café downstairs, and was settling back into the rhythm of work, fingers hovering over the keyboard to draft a provenance report on a newly consigned Basquiat sketch, when Bethany appeared at his desk.
Evan’s assistant looked troubled, her usual easy smile replaced by a tight, apologetic twist of the lips, dark hair falling over hef orehead as he shifted weight from foot to foot.
“Um, hey, Jordan,” she said, voice low, almost hesitant.
Jordan glanced up, smiling. “What’s up, Beth?”
Bethany’s eyes darted toward Evan’s walled office across the floor, then back.
“Evan wants to see you in his office. Right now.”
“Sure,” he said, keeping his tone light, “but can it wait a minute? I was about to finalize the authentication notes on the Basquiat sketch. The collector’s breathing down our necks for the preview catalog.”
Bethany winced, the expression small but unmistakable, like she’d rather be anywhere else.
“Um, no,” she said, voice dropping further. “Like… really right now. Mr. Harrison is with him.”
“Oh,” Evan said, blinking in surprise. “Okay then. I’ll be there in five.”
Bethany nodded quickly, relief flickering across her face, and stepped away from Jordan’s desk with almost comical haste, as if there were no place on earth she wanted to be less than lingering there, delivering whatever news hung unspoken between them. Jordan shrugged it off as he pocketed his phone (no new messages from Ben). He rose from his chair, smoothed his sweater, and made his way to Evan’s office, mild curiosity threading through his mind.
Surely this wasn’t about his behavior yesterday. Jordan had always been too much of Evan’s favorite, the reliable one, the teacher’s pet who stayed late and caught the details others missed, to get real trouble for one afternoon of brooding silence and rumpled clothes. And the fact that Henry Harrison himself would be there… Jordan wanted to believe it meant something good, a promotion, maybe, or recognition for the Twombly deal he’d closed last quarter. But Bethany’s nervous retreat gnawed at him, planting doubt like a splinter under skin. The way the girl had practically fled suggested nothing of the sort.
The office felt smaller than usual, the air thick with something unspoken, the faint scent of Evan’s citrus cologne clashing with the sterile chill of tension. Evan sat behind his wide mahogany desk, but the easy smile Jordan had come to expect was gone, replaced by a thunderous expression, brows drawn low, mouth a tight line, that made Jordan’s stomach dip. Like Bethany had warned, Henry Harrison stood just behind him, arms crossed, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the polished floor. The older man fixed Jordan with an intensity that pinned him in place, the kind of steady, unblinking gaze that made Jordan feel suddenly twelve again, summoned to the principal’s office for some infraction he couldn’t quite remember.
And there was a third person: a woman that Jordan remembered from HR: Susan, maybe, or Sarah, sitting in one of the comfortable leather guest chairs, tablet balanced on her knee, expression carefully neutral.
Shit.
“You asked to see me, Evan?” Jordan asked.
“Yes, Cartwright, we did,” Henry said. “Please come inside and close the door.”
Jordan raised an eyebrow at him, questioning, before glancing back to Evan, waiting for his boss’s nod. It was Evan’s office, after all.
“Please, Jordan,” Evan said quietly, gesturing to the only vacant chair opposite the desk.
“Before we begin,” the woman said as Jordan lowered himself into the vacant chair, her voice crisp and professional, the kind honed by years of navigating corporate minefields, “I need to inform everyone present that this meeting is being recorded for accuracy and documentation purposes. Are you comfortable proceeding with that understanding, Mr. Cartwright?”
Jordan nodded.
“Sure.”
“Great,” Henry said, leaning forward slightly, his tone measured but carrying the weight of authority that came from owning the place. “Jordan, can you please…”
“I want to state for the record,” Evan interrupted, voice cold as Arctic wind cutting through the room’s tense air, “that I am fundamentally opposed to this meeting. I consider it a serious violation of employee privacy rights and have substantial concerns that it has not been convened in the best interests of the company or its staff.”
The words landed with formal weight, Evan’s face carved in granite, eyes fixed ahead as if addressing an invisible tribunal rather than the people in the room. Jordan’s stomach twisted tighter, the dread that had started with Bethany’s summons now blooming cold and full. Whatever this was, it wasn’t good, and Evan’s rare, icy formality only confirmed it.
“Yeah, yeah, we fucking know that, Hargrove,” Henry grumbled, exasperation thick in his voice. He turned his sharp gaze to Jordan. “Cartwright, can you explain to us what the hell this is?”
At that, Susan leaned forward and handed Jordan a plain white envelope, her movements precise and measured, the paper smooth and cool against his fingers as he took it. Jordan opened it slowly, the seal giving way with a faint rip, and pulled out the stack of papers inside.
He recognized them immediately: screenshots from Ben’s Twitter page and his Only Fans account, a dozen of them at least, each one a frozen moment of explicit passion. Ben in frame after frame, massive body dominating the scene, sweat-glistened skin flushed, sunglasses hiding his face: fucking Ezra in one, hips snapping forward with that relentless rhythm Jordan knew too well; Montoya in another, Ben’s beard scraping the man’s throat as he pinned him down; Beau in the most recent, the cabin’s golden candlelight spilling over their tangled forms, Ben’s thick arms cradling the boy close while he thrust deep and slow. The images were censored crudely, Ben’s cock blacked out with big, ugly blocks of ink, but the meaning was impossible to miss, the implication screaming from every pixel.
Jordan’s stomach dropped, a cold, plummeting lurch that left him hollow, the office tilting for a heartbeat as the weight of exposure crashed over him. He closed his eyes for a second, breath shallow in the sterile air thick with the faint scent of Evan’s coffee and Henry’s cologne. When he opened them again, he looked straight into Henry’s eyes, the senior partner’s gaze triumphant and unyielding, a predator scenting blood.
“They seem to be screenshots from my partner’s Twitter page and OnlyFans account,” he said, voice steady despite the surreality of knowing that Big Ben’s world had spilled into the glass-walled sanctuary of Harrison & Hale.
Henry looked at Jordan with open triumph, leaning forward like a judge delivering verdict.
“So you admit your romantic partner is a porn star,” he said, the words laced with satisfaction.
“I do,” Jordan said, chin lifting just a fraction.
“That you knowingly engaged in a relationship with a man who performs sex for money in front of a camera,” Henry pressed on, each syllable deliberate, probing.
“Yeah,” Jordan said, meeting his gaze without flinching. “I do.”
“So, please enlighten us, Cartwright. What the fuck do you think you are doing?” Harrison said.
“Gentlemen, please,” Susan interjected. “Let’s refrain from using inflammatory language.”
Jordan ignored her, gaze locked on Harrison.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice edged with feigned confusion, “I’m not sure I follow. Can you please be more clear?”
Harrison’s face darkened, veins bulging faintly at his temples.
“I’ll be fucking clear with you, Cartwright,” he snarled, jabbing a finger at the printouts scattered on the desk. “What the fuck are you doing dating a porn star? Have you lost your fucking mind? You have any idea what this can do to Harrison & Hale’s reputation?”
“Well, no, Henry,” Jordan said, his tone deliberately innocent, calm as glass, taking vicious satisfaction in the way Harrison’s face flushed a shade redder. “I don’t. I have no idea how my private life can impact H&H’s reputation.”
The words hung in the room, heavy and defiant, the air thick with their weight as Jordan’s heart pounded hard beneath his calm facade.
He felt strangely calm. Furious, yes, simmering rage that burned steady in his gut, but calm in a way that surprised him, cold and detached, like he’d finally stepped outside himself after months of suffocating inside the secret. Completely different from how he’d always expected to act if his was revealed. He remembered New Year’s Eve at the Hargrove townhouse, the shame and desperation twisting into that awful panic attack, the world narrowing to black spots and labored breaths, nearly swallowing him whole in front of Evan.
Now, looking at Henry’s increasingly red face, all Jordan could think was how much he was done with everything.
“We are a world-class company, Cartwright,” Henry kept going with barely contained fury. “We can’t afford to have our name mixed with pornography. Are you insane? If this leaks out, it’s a scandal!”
Jordan’s pulse thrummed in his ears, the office’s sterile air suddenly too thick, too warm, the faint scent of Henry’s cologne turning cloying. Resentment surged hot and immediate, at the hypocrisy, the judgment, the way his love for Ben had been reduced to a liability on a balance sheet, but beneath it pride flickered defiant, pride in who he was, in the work that had made him indispensable here, bitterness surging at this intrusion into the wreckage of his private life
“It’s my name involved with this, Henry,” Jordan said, coldly. “Not yours or Harry Hale’s. And it has absolutely nothing to do with my job. It hasn’t impacted my performance one iota. I’m still the best fucking art dealer H&H has. Am I wrong, Evan?”
“You’re absolutely correct, Jordan,” Evan answered without hesitation.
Jordan’s chest tightened at the support, gratitude flashing brief and warm amid the storm, but he turned back to Henry. He leaned forward in the chair, fury boiling over now.
“So I’m the one who’s gonna ask this now: what the fuck do you think you’re doing? Who the fuck do you think you are to question my private life like that?”
“Your performance is the least important thing here,” he spat, the words venomous. “It’s about appearance. Half our clients are Republican, Cartwright, how well do you think this is gonna land with them?” And then, his voice dropping even more dangerous, eyes narrowing like a predator closing in, he continued, “And I am the one who signs your paycheck, boy, so you might want to mind that tone you’re using with me.”
“That doesn’t give you the right to invade his privacy like that, Henry!” Evan exploded, voice cracking sharp in the confined office, his usually composed, friendly face twisting with pure fury. “Especially when we both know the firm’s reputation isn’t the subject here.”
Henry scowled, eyes narrowing to slits, the veins in his neck standing out against his collar.
“Hargrove, if you’re not gonna help,” he snarled, “then shut the fuck up.”
Evan’s eyes bulged almost comically. He surged to his feet at once, the leather chair creaking violently under the shift, his hands slamming down on the desk hard enough to rattle the printouts.
“Excuse me?” Evan was screaming now. “I’m the one asking now: who the fuck do you think you are to talk to me like that, asshole?”
Things were spiraling out of control, fast and irreversible, the office’s careful civility shattering under the weight of raised voices and old grudges thar Jordan suspected had started long before anyone found out about Ben. Henry started yelling too, his face purpling, words tumbling out in a furious torrent that filled the room with venom, while Evan got even louder in response, leaning over the desk with fists clenched and Jordan could only imagine the spectacle they were providing, could vividly picture his co-workers pausing in their day, fingers hovering over keyboards, conversations dying mid-sentence, as the chaotic voices leaked through the walls, drawing curious glances and hushed whispers across the floor.
Jordan turned to Susan, still perched in her chair with her tablet clutched tight like a shield, her face pale and pinched, eyes darting between the two men as if trapped in a storm she hadn’t signed up for.
“What the fuck are you good for if you’re just gonna let this bullshit happen?” he asked, frustrated with everything.
Susan sighed, deep and weary, shoulders slumping under the weight of the room’s tension, looking like the last thing she wanted was to be caught in the crossfire between the two heads of Harrison & Hale.
“Mr. Harrison, Mr. Hargrove, please,” Susan said, her voice rising to cut through the shouting, hands raised placatingly as if she could physically push the tension back. “Let’s calm down. Please, Mr. Hargrove. Mr. Harrison! Please! Please, Mr. Hargrove, sit down. Let’s de-escalate this.”
Evan obeyed slowly, sinking back into his chair with deliberate restraint, the leather creaking under him, his face still twisted in fury, eyes locked unblinking on Henry like he was daring him to speak again. Henry stopped too, arms folding tight across his chest, gaze fixed on a point high on the wall above Jordan’s head as if staring directly at him might unleash what he was barely holding back and Susan waited a beat, breath held, watching to see if the fragile truce would hold, before continuing.
“Things have gotten terribly out of hand, Mr. Cartwright,” she said, voice measured but strained, “and I apologize for that. The reason for this meeting is simple. You are being officially issued a verbal reprimand for associating yourself, and, by extension, this firm, with individuals whose activities may jeopardize Harrison & Hale’s Art & Private Collections reputation.”
Jordan snorted, short and sharp, shaking his head in disbelief. Fucking outrageous. How dared they ignore every deal he closed, every client he charmed?
“Say the rest, Susan,” Henry ordered.
Susan’s fingers tightened on her tablet.
“And,” she continued, “it is the position of Harrison & Hale Art & Private Collections that you take immediate actions to ensure the mentioned relationship does not become a matter of public knowledge. Harrison & Hale Art & Private Collections will not tolerate any taint to its name.”
Jordan stared at her, and she must have seen something dangerous in his cold, unblinking eyes because she immediately looked away, a flush rising high on her cheeks. He turned to Henry. The man was actually smirking at him, all smug and self-righteous, lips curled in that superior twist, clearly thinking he had won, the reprimand delivered, Jordan cornered and humbled. Motherfucker. Jordan felt the impulse surge hot and immediate: to vault over Evan’s desk, fist connecting with that smug face, wiping the expression clean in a spray of blood and shock. But he wouldn’t do that, there was no way that assaulting Henry Harrison ended anywhere but fired and in a jail cell, headlines screaming scandal, his career in ruins before the bruises even bloomed.
He could do something else, though.
Fight fire with a scalding inferno.
“Harrison & Hale won’t have to worry about me,” he said, calm now that he had made his decision. “I quit.”
It was so easy to say, the job he’d fought so hard for, countless late nights poring over provenances, weekends lost to client dinners, years of climbing the ladder one careful deal at a time… gone, just like that. And he didn’t even care. After all this time, if this was how they were going to treat him, dragging his private life into the light like filth to be scrubbed away, then Jordan wouldn’t spend another minute in that office.
Evan closed his eyes, shaking his head in quiet disappointment, the lines around them deepening with regret, but Henry, if anything, seemed even more satisfied.
“That is certainly your prerogative, Cartwright,” Henry said, the words dripping with condescension, his smirk widening like he’d already won.
“It is,” Jordan agreed, nodding once. “And it’s certainly my prerogative to receive a very generous severance package, or I’m taking you all to court.”
Henry laughed then, mocking and loud, the sound grating against the office’s tense air.
“On what grounds, boy?”
“Wrongful termination, invasion of privacy, creation of a hostile work environment based on my personal associations,” he shrugged.“I don’t know. But I’m sure my lawyers will think of something. You must know them: Bristow, Fairfax and Lowe? They just finalized the $3.2 billion privatization of a North Sea energy consortium for the Al-Mansour family.”
Henry’s facade crumbled in an instant, the smirk vanishing as color drained from his face, eyes widening behind the glare of the overhead lights.
“You… you’re represented by Bristow, Fairfax and Lowe?” he stammered, voice cracking faint on the names.
“Yup,” Jordan said, a cold satisfaction settling in his chest. “Alec Bristow is my dad’s yachting buddy.”
“Who… who is your father?” Henry asked, the question small, almost swallowed.
“Edward Cartwright,” Evan answered, voice thick with exasperation, “from Axiom Private Equity”
The satisfaction that surged through him at seeing Henry actually gulp, throat working visibly beneath his collar, was sharper and sweeter than any punch could have delivered. A cold, vicious triumph bloomed in his chest. And there it was, Jordan thought. Fire, meet scalding inferno.
“You really had no idea, right?” Jordan said, rising slowly from the chair, voice edged with bitter amusement. “You thought I was some middle-class fucker who had to swallow his boss’s bullshit to pay rent? I’m not, Henry. I don’t need this job. I do it because I love it.”
He stood tall, the office’s harsh light catching the hard line of his jaw, pride flaring hot and defiant amid the shame still simmering from the exposure, the love for his work, for the thrill of the deal, the quiet power of knowing art better than anyone in the room, burning bright even as everything else crumbled.
“So you just lost your best employee,” he continued, “and it’s gonna cost you a fortune. Congratulations, asshole.”
Henry’s bravado cracked further, eyes darting to Susan as if she might save him.
“You… you don’t have proof,” he stammered, trying for defiance but landing somewhere closer to desperation. “It’s your word against mine. And Hargrove’s.”
“And you just recorded yourself planning to commit perjury,” Evan deadpanned, rising to his feet with deliberate calm. “Just shut the fuck up, Henry. Please.”
He extended a hand to Jordan across the desk, palm open, steady.
“Let’s continue this conversation with lawyers present,” Evan said, eyes meeting Jordan’s with quiet regret. “I’m sorry it has come to this, Jordan. We will miss you.”
Jordan shook it, grip firm despite the tremor in his chest, gratitude and grief tangling sharp, love for Evan’s unwavering support aching alongside the resentment at how quickly the firm had turned on him.
“I’ll miss you too, boss,” he said, forcing a smile that felt thin and brittle on his lips.
Fuck. He really, really would miss him.
Evan smiled back, the expression tinged with sadness, eyes crinkling at the corners in that familiar way Jordan had always trusted. Jordan nodded once, turned toward the door, hand closing on the cool metal knob. He was about to leave when something Evan had said at the beginning tugged at his mind, and turned back again.
“Hey, Henry,” he said, voice casual but laced with ice. “Was all of this because you couldn’t pick Ben up at Evan’s New Year’s party?”
Jordan’s former boss’s face flushed red again, but this time it was pure embarrassment, color rising high on his cheeks, spreading to the tips of his ears as the words landed
“I… of course not,” Henry stammered, the lie obvious, voice cracking faint on the denial. “This is ridiculous.”
No one was fooled.
Jordan was still laughing when he left the building, the glass doors swinging shut behind him with a final whoosh, the January cold slapping his face as he stepped onto the sidewalk. The city noise rushed in around him, horns blaring, pedestrians brushing past, the distant rumble of a subway beneath, but for the first time in days, the weight in his chest felt lighter, almost buoyant. He’d quit. Burned the bridge himself, watched it collapse in flames, and walked away without looking back.
The day was far from over.
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