TWO MONTHS LATER
“So,” Jordan said, gesturing around with a grin he hoped looked confident, “what do you guys think of it?”
“Well, it’s a lovely place, honey,” Jo said, taking in the high ceilings and the art Jordan had spent the last days hanging in the walls “But honestly, I just don’t understand why you couldn’t stay with us for a while.”
“Jay’s a grown man,” Ted cut in smoothly, lounging against the kitchen island like he owned the building, wine glass dangling casually from his fingers. “He needs his own space, Jo.”
Jo raised one perfectly arched eyebrow at her ex-husband, the look sharp enough to cut glass.
“I don’t remember you thinking he needed space when you whisked him off to Mexico for two weeks to do God knows what,” she said, voice icy sweet.
Ted threw his head back and laughed, rich and unbothered, sliding a casual arm around Jordan’s shoulders.
“That’s different,” he boasted, giving Jordan a conspiratorial squeeze. “We’re both men. We understand each other in ways you never will, darling.”
“Oh, please,” Jo shot back, rolling her eyes. “I carried that child for nine months in my womb. Don’t you dare insinuate you two share some sacred bond just because you both have cocks.”
“Oh my God,” Jordan muttered, face flaming as he buried it in one hand, mortified heat crawling up his neck. He shot a desperate glance at Walt for rescue, but his stepfather was staring fixedly at a nonexistent spot on the far wall, shoulders shaking with barely suppressed laughter, lips pressed tight to keep it in.
Suddenly, Jordan remembered exactly why he’d always had two separate birthday parties growing up, one with Mom, one with Dad. Peace treaties were temporary; war was eternal.
“He’s thirty now, Jo,” Ted said, grinning wide and infuriating. “You can’t play the pregnancy card forever.”
“Excuse me?” Jo screeched, voice pitching high enough to make the windows vibrate. “I spent seventeen hours in labor with your son, Ted. I’ll play the pregnancy card for as long as I damn well please, thank you very much.”
“Okay, you know what,” Jordan said, more to Walt than to his parents who were now fully deaf to anything but each other’s barbs. “You two keep doing whatever the hell this is right now. Come on, Walt.”
He grabbed his stepfather’s elbow lightly and steered him away from the battlefield, weaving through clusters of laughing guests clutching wine glasses and miniature quiches. Walt followed without protest, still chuckling under his breath, the sound fond as they escaped the parental crossfire.
Jordan’s new apartment was in Tribeca, the kind of neighborhood where converted warehouses rubbed shoulders with celebrity sightings and the rent could buy a small house upstate. The building was a pre-war industrial gem, red brick exterior softened by ivy in summer, but inside it felt worlds away from the exposed-brick grit of the old loft. This place was polished, intentional: soaring ceilings yes, but with sleek recessed lighting instead of dangling bulbs; wide-plank white oak floors that gleamed warm underfoot rather than scarred dark hardwood; floor-to-ceiling windows framed in black steel, offering sweeping views south toward the Financial District’s glittering towers and the harbor beyond, not the Hudson’s industrial sweep.
The open-plan living area flowed seamlessly but with defined zones, a plush sectional in pale linen facing a marble-surround fireplace (gas, clean, no soot stains), a dining table of reclaimed teak that seated ten without crowding, a kitchen island in honed black granite with bar stools upholstered in soft dove gray. Jordan had decorated it sparingly but thoughtfully: abstract canvases in muted blues and golds on the walls, bookshelves filled with art monographs and the novels he’d always meant to read, a few sculptural plants trailing green from high shelves to soften the angles.
It was his, undeniably, finally, and standing there with Walt’s quiet presence beside him, the party’s murmur rising soft behind them, Jordan felt the first real breath of ownership settle in his chest.
Jordan had closed the deal on it six weeks ago, the paperwork signed in a sleek broker’s office overlooking the park, and had finally moved in just last week. The apartment was much more expensive than anything he’d imagined for his new start, far beyond Chelsea’s comfortable grit. He’d funded it with the generous severance from Harrison & Hale, Alec Bristow had made sure of that, the package fat enough to sting Henry Harrison for years, and the rest had come, predictably, from Ted, who never missed a chance to spoil his son, and Jo, who, upon hearing her ex-husband was pitching in, immediately matched the amount with a wire transfer and a pointed text: I’m not letting him out-spoil me.
The open-house party had drawn about thirty people, the loft filled with low laughter and the clink of glasses, the faint scent of catered charcuterie and fresh lilies mingling in the warm air. His parents and Walt held court near the kitchen island, Jo and Ted’s bickering a familiar soundtrack Jordan had learned to tune out. Sarah sprawled on the pale linen sectional, deep in conversation with Skye, Ted’s girlfriend of the moment, twenty-three years old (“What a wonderful time in your life!”Jo had said when she bluntly asked the girl’s age), and effortlessly cool in a cropped leather jacket, her Gen-Z slang flying fast as she gestured animatedly about some viral sound. Damian who, as fate would have it, had only just returned to America when Jordan contacted him two months earlier, stood by the windows, debating contemporary sculpture with Bethany, their voices rising in passionate disagreement over a Koons retrospective. A handful of former H&H colleagues mingled near the bar, Ethan among them, laughing louder than necessary at someone’s joke. Jordan had even invited a few neighbors when he’d gone door-to-door introducing himself like Stella Kim, from 12B, a ballet dancer with black hair and a sharp wit who’d brought homemade macarons and the young couple in 14A, both architects, who’d arrived with a bottle of natural wine and enthusiastic compliments on the apartment’s original beams.
And then there were the guys from the new gym on Duane Street, Apex Fitness, where Jordan had signed up the week he moved in, desperate for routine, like Mateo, dark-haired and easy-smiling, a trainer who’d spotted him on his first day and offered form tips with genuine kindness; and Lucas, blond and muscular, a finance bro with a disarming laugh who was always close, catching Jordan’s eyes in the mirror, compliments on his deadlift form turning flirtatious in a way Jordan pretended not to notice. Lucas had brought a six-pack of craft IPA tonight, handing it over with a grin that lingered too long, asking if Jordan needed help “breaking in the new place.” Jordan had thanked him, deflected with a joke about the view, and moved on, but the attention registered, a small, complicated warmth he wasn’t ready to name.
The apartment hummed with life, voices overlapping in easy rhythm, the soft glow of the strategically placed lamps casting warm pools across the teak dining table laden with platters, and Jordan thought his first official party in the new place was nothing but a success.
“It really is a nice place, Jay,” Walt said as they wandered toward the windows.“I really like the black granite counters, the way the island opens everything up. But your mom is right, you could have stayed with us a little longer. We loved have you around.”
Jordan smiled, genuine this time, the expression easing something tight in his chest.
After breaking the lease on the loft, a clean, painful cut that still stung when he thought too hard about it, Jordan had nowhere immediate to go. He really hadn’t felt like drifting through hotels for God knew how long, anonymous rooms echoing with absence. So after two weeks in Mexico with Ted, it had felt only fair to give Jo her turn. He’d ended up staying in Connecticut for more than a month, and he’d loved every second of it.
The days had slipped into a cozy, privileged rhythm: mornings with strong coffee on the sun porch overlooking the snow-dusted gardens, afternoons curled by the fireplace with books or old movies, evenings of home-cooked meals, Jo’s perfect roast chicken, Walt’s surprisingly good pasta carbonara, paired with bottles from their temperature-controlled cellar. They’d taken quiet walks along the frozen shoreline, driven to local wineries for tastings in heated barns, even spent a weekend at a small ski lodge in the Berkshires, Jordan rediscovering the simple joy of fresh powder under skis while Jo and Walt cheered from the lodge with hot toddies. Jo had even gently introduced him to a few “nice young men”, the gay sons and nephews of her country-club friends, all polite and handsome and accomplished. Nothing came of it, obviously, but he’d let her try, grateful for the normalcy, the proof that life could still include possibility, even if he wasn’t ready to reach for it.
“I know,” Jordan said, voice soft against the party’s low hum. “And I needed that time with you guys too. But it was time to come back to real life. Can’t hide in Connecticut forever, right?”
Walt sighed, the sound fond and resigned, his gaze drifting over the crowd before settling back on Jordan with that quiet, steady warmth.
“No, I suppose not,” he said. “Any luck on the job front?”
“I have a couple of things going on,” Jordan replied, swirling the wine in his glass, the deep red catching the lights, “but nothing concrete yet.”
Jordan had nothing but stellar letters of recommendation, signed not only by Evan but also by Harry Hale and Henry Harrison themselves, the trio’s names carrying enough weight to make most in the art world raise eyebrows and wonder aloud why the hell Harrison & Hale had let him go. Jordan always deflected with a polite smile and a mention of NDAs, the mystery only adding to his allure in interviews. He’d had, like he decided the day he resigned, broadened his horizons a bit. There were interviews at other dealerships and galleries, Pacea and Gagosian circling with subtle interest, but he was exploring beyond that too: a consultancy role sourcing specific artworks through private sales and conducting discreet studio visits for collectors, a potential position analyzing emerging artists and tracking auction results to advise on investment potential, even an offer to coordinate authentication research and arrange conservation services for a private collection backed by tech money. Some felt safe and familiar, others thrillingly uncertain, like stepping off a ledge he hadn’t known was there.
He was taking his time deciding the next step, no rush, no desperation, just the quiet luxury of choice after years of climbing one ladder only to kick it away.
Jordan spent the next few minutes talking with Walt about his professional prospects, leaning against the window frame as Walt offered his measured, much-appreciated advice, the kind drawn from decades shaping academic careers and institutional legacies, thoughtful and principled. They only stopped when a loud gasp cut through the party chatter from the kitchen. Jordan turned, along with more than a few guests, heads swiveling in unison, to see Jo standing frozen by the island, mouth slack, one manicured hand pressed dramatically to her chest in shock. Ted lounged opposite her, arms crossed, grinning with that wicked, utterly proud gleam he wore whenever he knew he’d landed a perfect jab.
Jordan groaned, rubbing a hand over his face.
“I think I’m gonna have one parent dead and the other in jail by the end of the night,” he muttered.
“I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen,” Walt said, touching Jordan’s shoulder lightly before nodding toward the living room. “I think your friend wants you.”
Jordan followed his gaze and, sure enough, Sarah was waving at him from the couch, her laugh carrying over the hum of conversation. Beside her, Skye sat with arms crossed, watching Jordan with that guarded expression she’d worn all evening, furtive glances whenever she thought he wasn’t looking, quick averts when he was. He’d noticed every one. He just hadn’t had it in him to get to know his father’s latest girlfriend, knowing full well she’d be gone before the month was out, another fleeting face in Ted’s endless parade.
Resigned, Jordan sighed and waved back, starting toward them, but before he could cross the room, the melodic three-tone chime of the new doorbell echoed through the apartment. He pivoted toward the door, pausing just a second to let catching Joshua, another guy from Apex Fitness, compliment the apartment’s black-steel windows and the way they framed the city lights like living art. At the same moment, Jordan glanced toward Dr. Patel, the cardiologist from 9C, salt-and-pepper hair and impeccable posture, refilling his wine, and asked if he needed anything else from the bar. He smiled, waving him off with a gracious no, already deep in conversation with one of the H&H alums.
Evan and Michael Hargrove stood on the threshold, Evan’s face split in a grin wide and triumphant, like he’d just won the lottery, eyes crinkling with that familiar warmth. Beside him, Michael, ridiculously sexy as ever, balanced two wrapped gifts: the larger in matte midnight-blue paper with a subtle silver foil pattern, tied with thick satin ribbon; the smaller in crisp white with delicate gold embossing, a single velvet bow knotted perfectly at the top.
“Happy housewarming!” Evan practically shouted, opening his arms wide and pulling Jordan into a vice-grip hug before he could react, planting a loud, wet kiss on his cheek with theatrical enthusiasm. “This place is such a catch, Jordan! You gotta give us the grand tour!”
The sudden memory hit Jordan like lightning: New Year’s Eve at the Hargrove townhouse. Jordan sharp in a Tom Ford tuxedo. A slightly tipsy Evan rising on the tips of his toes to plant a similar kiss on a different man.
“Welcome, guys,” Jordan said, shaking his head to clear the echo, a faint smile tugging despite himself. “I can’t wait to show you around. Thanks for coming.”
“Our pleasure,” Michael said coolly, balancing both gifts in one arm to shake Jordan’s hand with the other. He nodded to the gifts. “These are for you. Where can I put them?”
“Here, I’ll put them in my bedroom. Wow, two gifts? Should I expect no birthday presents?”, Jordan joked, accepting them.
“Only the big one is from us,” Michael explained, his tone careful. “The other is from Ben.”
Jordan , who was admiring the wrapping in the smaller gifted, froze. He looked up to Michael’s apologetic expression, eyes soft with quiet sympathy, then to Evan watching him closely, as if braced for the reaction.
That was the first time he’d heard his ex’s name spoken aloud in more than a month. Everyone in his life, from Jo and Ted to Sarah and Damian, had made a point of never saying Ben’s name in front of him, tiptoeing around it like it was glass that might shatter him. Jordan didn’t think he would break, but still, he’d appreciated the tactfulness.
“Oh,” Jordan said, the word slipping out small and flat, heat rising in his cheeks as if Michael’s mention of Ben had slapped him.
“Sorry,” Michael said, sounding almost embarrassed. “He made me promise I’d give it to you.”
“Oh no, it’s fine,” Jordan replied quickly, forcing casual lightness into his tone even as his pulse thudded hard in his ears. “I’m just surprised. Didn’t know you two were friends.”
“We got together to watch the game sometimes,” Michael said with a shrug.
“Yeah,” Evan added, still looking anxious. “They’re both die-hard Steelers fans.”
Jordan nodded, another memory surging unbidden: Ben sprawled on the old loft couch in a faded black-and-gold jersey, roaring at the TV during playoff season, beard scratching Jordan’s shoulder as he pulled him close in victory or defeat, the room filled with the crackle of commentary and Ben’s infectious excitement for his homestate team.
“I see,” Jordan said, swallowing the sudden thickness in his throat. “Well… say thanks to him for me, okay?”
He stepped back to let them in, gesturing toward the living room’s warm glow and chatter.
“I’ll just put these in the bedroom and be right back,” he added, already turning. “Go get some drinks.”
He was gone before either could respond, pretending he hadn’t caught the knowing look Evan and Michael shared, the kind only lifetime partners could exchange, soft with shared history and quiet concern, before heading toward the staircase that swept up from the entry in a graceful curve of dark walnut, its open risers and sleek steel balustrade catching the pendant lights in sharp, modern lines as he climbed to the second floor.
There, in the safety of his bedroom, Jordan let himself feel.
Ben.
It was so weird that Michael Hargrove had a some kind of friendship with Ben, watching Steelers games, drinking beer, screaming at the TV, when Jordan, who had loved Ben with everything he had, every breath and heartbeat, had never seen him again, never heard his voice, had no idea what was happening in the life that once meant everything to him.
Missing Ben was like a tide that seemed to have receded forever, leaving Jordan parched and exposed on cracked, sun-baked sand for days at a time, long stretches where the air felt dry and breathable, the distant crash of waves a faint memory, convincing him the ocean had finally withdrawn for good, that he’d healed, moved on, that the love had quietly evaporated under relentless heat… until something small, a name, a scent of cedar, a careless mention, stirred the depths, and the wave roared back without warning, towering and ice-cold, slamming into him with the salt-sting burn in his eyes and throat, filling his lungs with briny pressure until he choked on it, drowning in the sudden, suffocating rush.
The loft’s party noise filtered up faintly through the floor, laughter, glasses clinking, Sarah’s bright voice cutting through, but it felt distant, muffled, like sounds from another life. Down there, people were celebrating his new start, the apartment full of warmth and possibility. Up here, the air was still, thick with the faint scent of fresh paint from the move-in touch-ups, the bed made up crisp with new linens he’d chosen alone. Jordan sat on the edge of the bed, the smaller gift resting in his lap, the white paper cool and crisp under his fingertips, the gold embossing catching the soft bedroom light in delicate glints.
He traced the edge of the ribbon with one finger, the velvet soft against his skin, and thought, pathetically, that Ben had touched this same wrapping, that this was the closest he’d come to Ben since that night in the loft, the words still echoing in his memory. It filled him with equal parts longing and resentment, a sharp twist in his gut that left him breathless.
Missing him didn’t feel clean or simple; it was tangled with anger at how easily Ben had moved on, or seemed to, sending gifts through friends like this was normal, like the breakup had been a pause instead of a fracture. He tried so hard to hold onto the bitterness, to convince himself he hated Ben until it felt true… and some days, he almost did.
Just that week, after days of dodging Lucas’s lingering glances at the gym and the blind dates Sarah kept trying to set up, Jordan had downloaded Grindr. He hadn’t expected much, true love wasn’t waiting on an app built for faceless hookups and quick release, but maybe someone decent, a little flirting, something to remind him he could still feel wanted. He’d opened the app with hands that shook faintly, heart thudding in his throat, and stared at the grid: torsos carved from hours in the gym, sculpted asses in tight briefs, eggplant emojis promising more than words ever could, faceless profiles blurring into a parade of anonymous hunger. Jordan had felt a flicker of excitement, real, tentative, the first in weeks, when he clicked on HungMascTopXL, the profile photo showing a muscular Black guy in white trunks, the heavy bulge straining the fabric in a way that made the username feel like understatement.
He said a simple “Hi,” attaching an old selfie from his camera roll, one from last summer, sun-kissed and smiling on the High Line, and hit send before doubt could stop him. The message hung there, delivered but unread, and before anything could happen, an ad popped up, one of those unskippable ones that locked the screen for fifteen agonizing seconds.
And suddenly he was staring at Ben.
Sunglasses on, beefy arms crossed over that broad, hairy chest, a familiar smirk playing on his lips, the one that used to make Jordan’s stomach flip with want. The image filled the screen, larger than life, Ben’s body on display like it belonged to the world now. “Meet Your Own Big Ben for Valentine’s Day with Xtra,” the bold red text screamed across the bottom. Jordan’s hand jerked, the phone slipping from his fingers and clattering to the hardwood floor like it had burned him.
The ad finally closed, the grid reappearing, HungMascTopXL’s reply there in a blue bubble, but Jordan didn’t read it. He snatched the phone up, thumb stabbing the screen to close the app, heart hammering so hard it felt it would deafen him. When that didn’t feel like enough, when Ben’s smirk still lingered behind his eyelids, he deleted Grindr entirely, the icon vanishing with a soft whoosh, the app gone like it had never existed.
Jordan tried so hard to let it drop. To set the phone down on the black granite of the new kitchen island, take a shower or head to the gym where the clang of weights and burn in his muscles might drown everything out. Put distance between him and the temptation clawing at the edges of his resolve. In the end, he lost. When awareness caught up, he was already at his laptop on the desk by the windows, the screen’s blue glow harsh in the dim bedroom, fingers typing “@BigBenBear” into the Twitter search bar with a speed that shamed him.
Ben had more than five million followers now.
The first tweet on the feed was a retweet from OnlyFans’ official account, a glossy graphic celebrating Big Ben as the most-followed male adult performer on the platform, confetti emojis exploding across the image, nearly 100k likes already piling up beneath it. Jordan told himself to close the tab, to stop the madness while he still could, thumb hovering over the trackpad, breath shallow in his throat.
He ignored it.
He spent the next thirty minutes scrolling, eyes burning from the screen’s glare, the loft’s quiet pressing in around him like judgment.
The pinned tweet was from a party: Ben shirtless in a crowded club, strobe lights flashing purple and gold across his broad chest, two lithe twinks in tiny thongs pouring expensive Krug champagne straight into his open, grinning mouth, the caption reading: Celebrating my first million in profits! Thanks for making a bear’s dreams come true #OnlyFansKing, thousands of fire emojis and thirsty replies flooding the comments. Jordan kept scrolling, the thumbnails blurring into a relentless parade: Ben on a sun-drenched Caribbean beach, massive frame glistening with oil as he thrust into Alejo Ospina from behind, waves crashing in the background, the Colombian’s back arched in exaggerated ecstasy; Ben on a hotel bed, thick cock standing proud while the Bryant Twins knelt on either side, tongues tracing every vein in worshipful unison, their identical faces flushed and eager; Ben in a dimly lit playroom with MassiveMikeXL, another hulking top, inked and bearded, supposed to be tag-teaming an eager bottom pinned between them, but the preview frame showed Ben’s hips snapping forward as he took both men at once, Mike’s head thrown back in surrender, the bottom forgotten in the haze of sweat and muscle. Each frozen image hit like salt in a wound Jordan couldn’t stop picking, the compulsion pulling him deeper despite the nausea rising hot in his throat.
Jordan learned that the deal with Grindr wasn’t the only one. Further down the feed, a sponsored tweet announced an exclusive partnership with Andrew Christian, Ben front and center in the campaign photos, modeling a new line of underwear, thongs, and jockstraps designed for “the modern bear.” The shots were polished, professional: Ben in a studio with dramatic lighting, thick thighs straining the fabric of low-rise briefs, the pouch stretched tight over his bulge, beard groomed sharp, that trademark smirk aimed straight at the camera. A collaboration with Gun Oil lube, Ben in a series of steamy ads, shirtless and and all oiled up, bottle in hand, the tagline “Built for Big Jobs” splashed bold across his chest, the campaign racking up millions of views and affiliate sales spiking every time he posted a “review” clip. Another with TitanMen Toys, a limited-edition apparel drop, hoodies, tanks, and gym shorts emblazoned with Ben’s logo, modeled on his massive frame during “workout” videos that were anything but PG, the merch flying off virtual shelves with every thirsty retweet.
Finally, when Jordan had scrolled through almost a month of tweets, past the endless promos, fan meets, and flexing selfies, he discovered Ben had his own dildo line, molded directly from his cock. The announcement post was triumphant: high-res photos of the toy in sleek black packaging, veined and thick, the caption reading “Now you can take Big Ben home. 10 inches of me, ready when you are.”
Almost a week later, Jordan sat on the edge of his new bed, the mattress still firm and unfamiliar beneath him, the faint scent of fresh linens clinging to the duvet he’d chosen alone. The gift from Ben rested in his hands, the white paper slightly creased now from nights of idle tracing, the velvet bow loosened but not untied. He remembered how nauseated he’d gone to sleep that night, stomach churning with revulsion and self-loathing. He’d never expected Ben to break down. Ben was made of sterner stuff, of quiet endurance, the kind who suffered in silence until the pain dulled on its own, burying it under routine and work and that stubborn pride. Jordan had braced for that: Ben moving on steadily, healing in private, maybe even relieved in some buried way.
But he hadn’t expected to see Ben thriving.
The party photo haunted him, the one he celebrated becoming a millionaire. He looked handsome, alive. Happy. Truly happy, in a way that twisted something sharp in Jordan’s gut. He kept circling the thought: maybe this was what Ben had always been destined for: the fame, the money, the endless validation lighting him up like nothing else could. Their relationship just a pitstop on the way to greatness, a temporary harbor before Ben launched into the life waiting for him. Now that Jordan was gone, Ben could finally be who he was supposed to be, shining for the world.
But now, sitting with the gift in his hands, the old question clawed its way back: why now? Why a gift at all? Was Ben thinking of him too? Missing him in the quiet moments between shoots and parties, the way Jordan still caught himself reaching for a body that wasn’t there? Damn Michael Hargrove to hell for agreeing to deliver it, for shattering the fragile peace Jordan had pieced together.
Before Jordan could decide what to do, open the gift, hurl it across the room, or bury it in a drawer forever, a soft knock sounded at the door. Evan’s head crept in, his smile warm and careful, eyes scanning Jordan’s face with that quiet concern he’d worn the day Jordan quit.
“Hey,” he said gently. “Can I come in?”
Jordan looked at him for a second, then nodded.
Evan entered and sat beside him on the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight, close enough that Jordan caught the faint citrus of his cologne, a scent that had always meant safety in the gallery’s chaos.
“Thought I should come check on you,” Evan said. “You doing okay?”
“Yeah,” Jordan said, the word thin, unconvincing even to himself. He sighed, gesturing to the gift with a small, weary flick of his wrist. “Just caught me by surprise, you know?”
“Yeah, I get that,” Evan said, gaze dropping to the white package, the velvet bow slightly askew from Jordan’s restless fingers. “Want me to open it?”
Jordan shrugged, the motion small and defeated, and handed it over without a word. Evan took it carefully, untying the bow with deliberate slowness, the velvet whispering free. He peeled back the crisp paper, the rustle soft in the quiet room, and lifted the lid. Inside rested a beautiful purple succulent, plump leaves in deep violet fading to dusty rose at the tips, nestled in a simple matte-black pot, healthy and vibrant, the kind of plant that thrived on neglect yet somehow looked tenderly cared for. Tucked beside it was a small white card, the handwriting so familiar, bold loops, slight slant, the B with its distinctive curl, that Jordan’s felt the words could have been written by his own hand.
“Good luck on the new place - B”
“Is it pathetic,” Jordan asked, voice barely above a whisper, eyes fixed on the purple succulent, its leaves plump and vivid in the soft bedroom light, “that after two months he still has this much power over me?”
Evan’s hand rested warm on his knee, warm and reassuring.
“Two months is nothing. It would take me much longer than that to get over Mike if we broke up.” Evan said gently, the words carrying the weight of someone who’d loved deeply and knew the cost. “You still love him?”
“I don’t know,” Jordan answered, the admission scraping his throat. “Most of the time I think I don’t. Sometimes I even think I hate him a bit.” He paused, staring at the plant, Ben’s careful handwriting burned behind his eyes. “Right now… I really, really fucking do, boss.”
Evan snorted softly, affectionate and understanding, squeezing Jordan’s knee once before letting his hand rest there, grounding.
“It’ll take time, but you’ll get over him.”, he promised. After a moment, he added, eyes soft on Jordan’s profile. ““Or not. It’s okay to love him. It’s okay to take him back if that’s what you both want.”
Jordan let the words settle, heavy as river stones in his chest. He stared at the succulent, and for a moment he allowed himself the dangerous luxury of imagining it: Ben at the door downstairs, massive frame filling the threshold, hazel eyes stripped of every defense. Asking to be let back in. Begging, maybe. Saying he’d made a mistake, that the lights and the cameras and bodies had turned hollow without Jordan there to ground him.
Would he forgive him? Could he? Could they scrape the shards of what they’d been back together, or had the fracture gone too deep, the edges too jagged now to ever fit again without bleeding?
He exhaled, slow and ragged, the sound scraping his throat. None of it mattered. He’d seen the proof with his own eyes, Ben laughing in strobe-lit clubs, champagne pouring over that broad chest, strangers’ hands on skin that used to be sacred. Ben had everything he’d ever claimed not to want, and he looked, God help him, radiant.
“He doesn’t want that. So…” Jordan said at last, the words tasting like ash. He shrugged, the motion small but impossibly heavy. He pushed himself up from the edge of the bed. “Come on. Let’s find Michael. I’ll give you two the a tour before my parents declare outright war downstairs and destroy everything.”
“Wait, wait” Evan’s hand closed around his wrist, stopping him mid-step. “There’s something I want to show you first.”
Jordan turned, brow creasing in confusion. Evan was scrolling through his phone again, thumbs flying across the screen, but the gentle concern on his face had vanished, replaced by something lighter, almost impish, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was holding back a secret too delicious to keep. A second later, Jordan’s phone buzzed in his pocket, a low vibration against his thigh. He fished it out, frowning at the notification: a new email from Evan, subject line blank. Attached was a single link.
“You got your iPad?” Evan asked, voice pitched with that conspiratorial lilt he used when he’d pulled off a coup at an auction. “Trust me, this is better on a bigger screen.”
Curious now, wary, but curious, Jordan crossed to the nightstand, a sleek Minotti piece in black walnut that he’d splurged on because it felt like a clean break from the scarred oak he had in the loft. His iPad lay there where he’d tossed it last night, screen still faintly smudged from idle scrolling before sleep had finally claimed him. He woke it with a swipe, opened the mail app, and tapped the link Evan had sent.
It was PDF file.
The first page loaded with a subtle fade-in: HUDSON HORIZON FINE ARTS centered in bold, modern serif, beneath a stylized New York skyline rendered in sleek graphite lines, the Empire State Building’s elegant spire and One World Trade Center’s sharp facets unmistakable against a faint gradient horizon. Jordan swiped to the next page.
Hudson Horizon Fine Arts exists at the intersection of permanence and flux, where the storied legacy of the Hudson River meets the restless energy of contemporary vision. We are not simply a dealership; we are a cultural anchor for artists who refuse easy categories, who work at the edge of what’s familiar and what’s yet to be named.
Our mission is threefold: to elevate mid-career and emerging artists whose work interrogates light, landscape, memory, and the psychology of place; to build a collector community rooted in curiosity rather than trend; and to transform our West Side location into a destination where art and environment are inseparable.
The river is our co-curator. Its shifting moods - mercurial at dawn, golden at dusk, silent in winter - will inform our programming and remind our visitors that great art, like great water, cannot be held still. We believe in the power of context: that a painting seen against the Hudson at twilight is not the same painting seen under white walls alone.
We commit to accessibility through education, transparency in our dealings, and integrity in our curation. Hudson Horizon will be a gallery where emerging collectors feel welcomed, where established patrons are continually challenged, and where artists are treated, not as commodities, but as essential voices in the cultural conversation.
This is more than a business. It is a belief that art, place, and community can converge to create something enduring.
Jordan glanced up from the iPad, the screen’s soft glow casting faint shadows across his face. “What’s this?” he asked.
Evan’s grin widened, bright and unrepentant. He was practically vibrating now, leaning forward on the bed, elbows on his knees. “Keep reading,” he said, eyes sparkling with barely contained excitement.
Jordan hesitated, thumb hovering, then swiped.
The next pages unfolded like a private viewing: crisp photographs of a vast, empty gallery space, high ceilings, pristine white walls washed in natural light, wide-plank floors waiting for footprints. Through floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall, the Hudson glittered in the distance, a ribbon of silver-gray under a winter sky, the river’s slow current visible even in still images. It was pure potential, the kind of space that breathed. West Chelsea, maybe, or edging into Hudson Yards, close enough to the High Line to draw foot traffic but secluded enough for discretion.
Then came the data slides, clean infographics, digestible at a glance. Market snapshots: New York’s contemporary art sales up 18% year-over-year despite economic headwinds; Chelsea and Hudson Yards now hosting over forty galleries within a ten-block radius. Projections on emerging talent pipelines from Yale and RISD, resale velocity for provenance-strong works, even a subtle nod to the growing demand for gay and underrepresented voices in curation.
Jordan’s pulse quickened as he scrolled deeper: Program & Curation Directions. The Business Model. Financial Overview. He knew what he was reading.
“You’re opening your own firm,” he said, the words half-question, half-realization, shock loosening his voice.
“Yup,” Evan said, grin softening into something prouder “Resigned from H&H this morning. Clean break. Just like you.”
Jordan’s chest tightened. He sat back on the edge of the bed and set the iPad aside, facing “Evan… please tell me you didn’t do this because of me.”
Evan’s expression gentled, the mischief bleeding away into something quieter, more earnest. “Not because of you. With you in mind, maybe. But this…” He hesitated, gaze dropping to the duvet for a beat, as if weighing whether the truth would land soft or sharp.
“What?” Jordan pressed.
“Mike and I… we’re open.” The words came out blunt, almost blurted, like ripping off a bandage. “In our marriage. We play around sometimes. Discreetly. You know how it is.”
Jordan blinked, caught off guard. “Okay,” he said slowly, the syllable hanging there, neutral but edged with surprise. That wasn’t the confession he’d braced for.
Evan pushed on, cheeks flushing faintly under the bedroom’s warm glow. “We keep it private, obviously. We don’t film each other in bed with other people and post it online.” He winced the instant the words left his mouth, eyes flicking to Jordan’s face in quick apology.
Jordan barked out a laugh.
“Sorry, that came out wrong”, Evan muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, chagrin softening his features. “What I meant is… we’re careful. But New York’s gay scene… it’s a fishbowl. People talk. Gossip travel. One loose-lipped hookup, one blurry photo from a bar bathroom, and suddenly it’s everywhere. The risk is always there, even when you play it safe.
He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping, earnest now.
“When I saw how Henry handled the whole Big Ben thing with you, acting like it was some scandal that tainted the firm, like your personal life was a liability he could weaponize… I just… I couldn’t stomach staying. Not after that hypocrisy. Not when I know damn well the partners have their own secrets tucked away.”
Jordan nodded slowly, the motion small but heavy with recognition. He understood it completely, the sour twist in his gut that afternoon in Henry’s office, the cold dismissal reducing years of flawless work to a footnote overshadowed by something as irrelevant as who he loved, how he loved. It had felt like a betrayal of everything the art world pretended to stand for: openness, passion, the celebration of the human in all its messy forms. Not judgment from sterile boardrooms.
His gaze drifted back to the iPad, settling on the photograph of the empty space. In the stillness of the image, he could already see it alive, humming with quiet electricity: warm light falling across museum-grade paintings and bronze that seemed to hold its own gravity, velvet silence broken only by footsteps and considered whispers, a São Paulo collector alone with a triptych while daylight dissolved into the river's indigo, evenings of five around weathered oak where conversation about lineage and light gave way to quiet affirmation, password-protected viewing rooms for clients three time zones away making seven-figure decisions in silk pajamas, carefully orchestrated visits from studio to white cube that transformed potential into prestige. All of it calibrated, consecrated, a temple where passion and profit no longer contradicted one another.
“You’re offering me a job, boss?” Jordan asked, one eyebrow arching.
Evan’s grin tilted, fond and a little exasperated. “No, slowpoke. I want you as partner. Fifty-fifty. Work with me, not for me.”
Jordan let out a soft huff, half-laugh, half-disbelief, shaking his head as he glanced back at the iPad, the empty space glowing with quiet promise. “What? Come on. You don’t need me for this.”
“I don’t need you,” Evan said, eyes locking on Jordan’s with that unflinching sincerity he’d always wielded like a scalpel in negotiations. “I want you. You’ve got the eye, the instincts, the work ethic. And, well…” his mouth quirked, acknowledging the unspoken “... you’d open doors we’d have to knock on for years.”
“My dad.”
Evan didn’t deny it. “If Edward Cartwright wants to throw his millions our way, I’m not saying no. But it’s bigger than that. You live in circles Mike and I only visit. We’re gonna need that to make this work.”
“Come on. It’s not like you and Michael are scraping the barrel.”
“We’re not,” Evan agreed. “We clawed our way into the one percent, sure. But you…” He paused, gaze softening, not envious but honest. “You were born inside it. You’ve got a way-in with those people I can only dream of.”
The room’s quiet pressed in again, the party’s distant laughter a faint underscore, like applause from another life. Jordan stared at the skyline logo, the sleek lines of the Empire State and One World Trade rising clean against the digital horizon.
Partner.
Not employee, not assistant climbing someone else’s ladder. Partner. Building something from the ground up, on terms that felt… clean. Honest.
His.
Jordan’s mind scrambled for reasons to refuse, solid, selfless ones he could hand Evan like a shield. Evan was more than capable. He’d earned his success through sheer grit, and dragging Jordan in might dilute the vision he’d nurtured alone. And Jordan he was still raw, still half-lost in the wreckage of the loft and Ben’s absence, so how could he trust himself to commit to something this big when his focus fractured at the slightest trigger?
But even as the objections formed, polite and protective, his thoughts were already racing ahead, betraying him with vivid, electric possibilities.
Private sales in that sunlit Hudson-view space: guiding ultra-high-net-worth collectors toward mid-career gems they’d never find at auction, sourcing overlooked masterpieces from estates in Europe, building portfolios that appreciated quietly over decades. Intimate advisory dinners in the back room, just eight chairs around a reclaimed-wood table, where provenance unfolded like a trusted secret. Studio visits upstate or in Brooklyn lofts, nurturing emerging artists whose work spoke in whispers rather than shouts. Maybe a digital arm too, curated virtual viewings for international clients, encrypted and exclusive. It all felt… right. Just right.
“Think about it,” Evan said, as if he could read the storm behind Jordan’s eyes and knew better than to push. “Talk to your fancy lawyers at Bristow, Fairfax & Lowe. There’s no rush.”
Jordan nodded, distracted, the motion slow as the ideas settled deeper. He glanced at Evan and felt a small, genuine smile tug at his lips, the first unforced ever since Evan had joined in his bedroom.
“Let’s get back. We stayed hidden for too long.”
They both rose. Jordan’s gaze drifted back to the succulent still resting on the duvet, its violet leaves plump and defiant in the lamplight, the little black pot a quiet accusation and invitation all at once.
“Want me to burn that?” Evan asked, half-teasing, nodding toward it with a gentleness that belied the offer.
Jordan hesitated just for a second.
“No. I think I’ll keep it.”
He picked up the succulent carefully, cradling the cool pot in his palms, and carried it to the nightstand, placing it beside the lamp, where the morning light would find it first.
Then he drew a slow breath, turned off the light, and headed downstairs to rejoin the living.
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