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Chapter Twenty-Six

Nico

I woke up slowly, like someone coming out of anesthesia, or maybe a dream that didn’t want to let go. The sheets were still warm beside me, the imprint of a body still there, faint but real.

Bradley.

I rolled toward the empty side of the bed, smiling like an idiot before my brain was even fully online. My muscles ached in the best way. My hips, my thighs, even my abs, which, let’s be honest, aren’t exactly getting crunched on the regular.

But damn, it had been worth it.

We hadn’t just had sex. We’d made love. And yeah, I cringed a little, even thinking that phrase, but there wasn’t really a better way to describe it. Slow. Real. No script, no roles, just… us.

And now he was gone.

I sat up, squinting at the morning light slicing through the blinds. No sound from the bathroom. Nothing from the kitchen or living room either, though I thought I heard the faintest rattle of a radiator or maybe just the building groaning under its own weight.

“Brad?” I called, voice still raspy from sleep.

Silence.

I reached for my phone on the nightstand. A little thrill went through me when I saw his name right there on the lock screen.

Bradley: Meeting w/ parole officer. Hope I didn’t wake you up.

I stared at it for a second, smiling like a total sap. The fact that he’d even thought about not waking me? That alone was dangerously sexy.

I unlocked the phone and scrolled through my calendar. Ugh. Photo shoot at Boys On Film today for one of the websites, probably for their main landing page or something. They were always updating shit now that the branding was getting sleeker.

Also, I had a reminder about some guy named Cam. Apparently, I’d agreed to meet him about doing a scene together for my personal FantasyFans page. A solo creator collab. Leaning masc, lots of tattoos, supposedly straight-but-open. This was set up a few weeks ago before I met Bradley.

I stared at the event for a second, then deleted it.

After last night? I didn’t even want to think about touching anyone else. Not even in a work context. Not even hypothetically.

Then, because I’m apparently that guy now, I typed a reply to Bradley.

Me: Going to Boys On Film to get photos taken. Meet me there?

I hovered for a second. My thumb paused over the screen. The words “I love you” were right there on the edge of my brain, waiting, ready to launch themselves into the digital void like a kamikaze pilot.

But I didn’t type it.

Not because I didn’t mean it. I did. I was pretty fucking sure I did.

But we hadn’t said it. Not even last night, when we were tangled up in each other’s arms. It had been everything, but it hadn’t been that yet.

And I wasn’t about to rush it. Not when it was finally real.

I hit send.

Then I dragged myself out of bed, stretched until my shoulders cracked, and padded into the bathroom.

Time to shower, get semi-presentable, and figure out what the hell I was supposed to wear for these dumb promo shots. But the whole time, my brain was still humming like a lovesick idiot. My phone buzzed, and I saw a reply from Bradley.

I’ll be there as soon as possible. Let’s have lunch.

* * *

I was shirtless and sweaty under the lights, trying to smile with my eyes like I wasn’t melting from every pore.

“Chin up. Shoulders back. Give me… yes, yes, that’s the one,” the photographer said, like I was posing for Playgirl: Sad Clown Edition.

Moira stood off to the side with a powder puff in one hand and a cold iced coffee in the other. “You’re lookin’ like a sweaty slice of cheesecake, baby. I mean that in the best way.”

“Great,” I muttered. “Moist cheesecake. My dream aesthetic.”

She darted in with ninja precision and blotted my forehead. “You’re doin’ amazing, sweetie. But tilt your head a little less ‘existential dread’ and a little more ‘I’m the main character and I just discovered I’m secretly a prince.’”

“Okay, but, like… a prince with anxiety, right?”

She cackled. “Absolutely. This studio is run on trauma and cheekbones.”

Before I could respond, the door creaked open and Petyr leaned his very serious face into the room. He always looked like someone had just told him his cat was pregnant.

“Nico,” he said. “There’s… a woman here. Your mother, I think? And that guy from the other day’s with her.”

My stomach dropped, and the air got a little thicker.

“Oh,” I said, already grimacing.

Because I knew exactly what this was.

Thom. With his Walmart charm and his dumb little power plays.

He must’ve realized I found the USB stick he planted in my bathroom. Maybe he thought it’d scare me, or he thought I’d panic and offer hush money.

Idiot.

I slipped on a faded black T-shirt and handed the photographer a quick, “I’ll be right back.” Moira gave me a curious look but didn’t press. She knew not to when my shoulders stiffened like that.

I walked out to reception and there they were—my mother, smiling like a cat that’d caught a mouse, and Thom , standing like he’d just been cut from an episode of Cops: Georgia Edition.

“Nico!” she said, like we were besties meeting at brunch and not estranged blood sharing trauma in a high-traffic lobby. “You look so good, baby!”

Thom gave me a nod. “Got a minute?”

“We were just about to head back to Georgia,” my mother added, too quickly. “Thought we’d say goodbye.”

Right. A casual goodbye ambush. Totally normal behavior.

The lobby was busy. Laura floated by, scowling. Jack was down the hall talking to Nessa, who was animatedly pitching something with full hand choreography. Too many people. Too many ears.

I exhaled. “Fine. Let’s talk outside.”

The second the door closed behind us and the sidewalk heat hit me like a hairdryer on high, I felt it—this wasn’t just a goodbye.

Thom adjusted his belt like he was about to deliver a TED Talk on dumbassery. “We wanted to give you a chance to make things right before this got out of hand.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“You know. All this… adult material. It’s not exactly good for your future, right? Comedy clubs? Mainstream stuff?” He smiled like a car salesman. “Could get messy if the wrong people saw it.”

I actually laughed. Like a full, humorless laugh.

“You think blackmailing me with my porn is going to work?” I said. “I have a five-minute bit about a bukkake scene, Thom, and I opened with it at my last gig.”

He blinked, thrown off. My mother stayed silent.

“That’s right,” I said, voice sharper now. “You’re too dumb to even Google me before trying this stunt. Did you honestly think I had something to hide?”

Thom bristled. “You don’t have to be a little shit about it.”

“No,” I snapped. “I really do.”

And then I looked at her. My mother .

Standing there in flip-flops and dollar store sunglasses. Looking sheepish. Not sorry, just caught.

“You’re okay with this?” I asked her, quieter now. “You seriously signed off on this? You knew what he was planning?”

She didn’t answer. Just looked away like the sun was too bright.

And that—that—was worse than any slap to the face.

Because it meant yes.

It meant she wasn’t just letting him do this. She was with him.

That moment? That was the actual end of us. Not when she threw me out at seventeen. Not when she told me God didn’t make boys like me on purpose. This .

This was worse.

Because now I was an adult. Successful. Standing on my own two feet. And she looked at all that and saw an ATM with abs.

“You know what hurts the most?” I breathed. “It’s not that you tried to blackmail me. That’s honestly pathetic. What hurts the most is that my mother agreed to it. She chose to hurt me. Again.”

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

I didn’t want to look. But I did.

Bank Alert: Unusual login attempt detected from unrecognized device.

The air left my lungs like I’d been kicked in the chest.

I looked at them both. My heart pounding, and my face flushed with a rage I didn’t even know how to contain.

“You tried to get into my fucking bank account?” I said, voice shaking now.

My mother’s eyes widened. Thom looked smug for half a second before he realized what I meant.

“I have two-factor authentication, jackass. Did you think you’d just waltz into Wells Fargo and guess the password?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, too quickly.

And her?

She didn’t say a word.

Didn’t even deny it.

Mom just looked away again, like the sidewalk cracks were more interesting than the son she betrayed.

I swallowed hard, my throat raw.

The heat, the lights, the betrayal. It all swirled together until I wasn’t sure if I was going to scream, cry, or both.

“I let you back in to my life,” I whispered. “You came to my apartment. I fed you. I gave you the benefit of the doubt. And this is what you do.”

“Nicholas, baby, it’s not like that…” she started.

“No,” I said, turning away. “It’s exactly like that.”

I locked eyes with Thom and let my smirk creep up slowly, like a cat about to unalive a clueless mouse. “Seriously, Thom? If dumb was an Olympic sport, you’d win the gold and a participation trophy.”

His face flushed a deep, angry red, like he’d just sucked down a bottle of homemade moonshine. His jaw clenched. Then, without warning, his fist snapped out like a striking snake.

The punch barely grazed my shoulder, but it was enough.

Bradley came barreling down the sidewalk like a freight train, eyes blazing. His mouth set hard. Before I could even catch my breath, he was on Thom—fists flying in a blur.

“Brad, no!” I yelled, lunging to grab his arm, but adrenaline had him locked tight. His grip was iron, and his punches kept coming, pounding Thom into the cracked concrete.

Thom stumbled, trying to shield himself, but Bradley wasn’t letting up. Blood blossomed on Thom’s temple, stark against his sunburned skin.

From the open studio doors, people spilled out, eyes wide, phones whipping out to capture the madness.

“Someone call the cops!” Nessa’s sharp voice sliced through the noise, already striding toward the commotion with that fierce glare that meant business.

I tugged harder on Bradley’s arm. “Please! Stop! This isn’t worth it!” My voice cracked with panic, but it was like shouting into a storm.

Suddenly, flashing blue and red lights painted the street. Two cops jumped out of their squad car, moving fast, hands on their holsters.

The policemen separated them. Thom, grimacing, was cuffed and pushed to the ground. The other officer pulled out a handheld scanner and pointed it at Bradley’s ID.

“Bradley Mitchell?” the cop asked, his voice clipped as the device beeped.

Bradley’s face went tight. He didn’t blink.

“On parole,” the officer said.

The cuffs clicked shut around Bradley’s wrists.

“No,” I whispered, heart hammering so loud I thought it might burst out of my chest.

Bradley didn’t meet my gaze. They marched him toward the squad car, his shoulders rigid as stone.

The sidewalk felt suddenly empty—like the air had been sucked out of the world. I raced up to Bradley while they were cramming him into the backseat. “Bradley, I love you! I promise I’ll take care of this.”

Bradley’s eyes met mine, and despite the handcuffs and the cops, his face split into a smile. “You do love me?”