Page 15 of Watch Me Burn

AARON

C ontrol. Every move, every deal, every carefully chosen word—designed to keep my world untouchable. And now? Now my carefully constructed world crumbles in slow motion, like a building demolition I can’t stop.

All because of her.

The whiskey burns, but it doesn’t dull the noise in my head. Nothing does. New York City stretches below, buzzing like a circuit board, mocking me with its order. This city was supposed to be my kingdom. My reward for playing the game better than anyone else.

But what kind of king gets backed into a fucking corner? What kind of king gets forced into a marriage he doesn’t want—to a woman who’s invaded every corner of his mind?

A woman who makes every nerve in my body stand at attention whenever she’s near.

It’s been three days since the Donovan gala. Three days since Giovanni Mortelle delivered the most impossible ultimatum of my life. Three days of pure, unfiltered hell.

Draining the rest of my drink does absolutely nothing to blur the sharp edges of reality. Nothing helps anymore. Caterina’s face is burned into the back of my eyelids, I see her every time I blink. Sleep has become some mythical concept other people experience.

The engagement announcement goes live tomorrow morning. A tasteful, expensive declaration that’ll run in all the society pages:

Aaron Jackson, CEO and celebrity realtor, to wed Caterina Mortelle, daughter of business magnate Giovanni Mortelle. The couple request privacy during this joyous time.

Joyous . Fucking joke.

The penthouse elevator chimes, cutting through my spiral of self-pity. Tristan, early as always when there’s a crisis to manage. His code gets him access, no point in moving from this spot.

“You look like death warmed over in a microwave,” Tristan says, stepping inside like he owns the place. At this point, he practically does.

“You’ve been loving commenting on my looks lately.” The last drops of whiskey slide down my throat.

“How are you holding up?”

“What do you think?” I’m already reaching for the bottle again.

Alcohol has never been my weakness. Anything that compromises control usually stays far outside my orbit, but lately, that temporary numbness feels absolutely necessary.

Tristan sighs, heading straight for my bar like he belongs there. “I was hoping maybe you’d found some kind of loophole we missed.”

“No such luck.”

He pours himself scotch, neat, then leans against the marble counter. Dark circles shadow his eyes, and his shoulders carry weight that wasn’t there a week ago. “Have you slept at all since the gala?”

“Hard to rest when your entire life is imploding in real time.”

“Always so dramatic.” But there’s no bite in his words. “It’s just marriage, Aaron. People survive it every day.”

“People marry psychopaths every day?”

A shrug lifts one shoulder. “Some of them, probably.”

Despite everything, I almost crack a smile. This is what makes Tristan indispensable—defusing bombs with pitch-black humor. It’s the foundation of our friendship, our business partnership, our ability to trust each other in a world where trust can get you killed.

Well, almost everything. The drive still sits between us like a land mine.

“Zoe and Dom will be here in an hour.” I shift topics before those thoughts can take root. “We need our story straight.”

“Right. How to tell your sister you’re marrying her best friend without mentioning said friend has been stalking you on behalf of a crime family. Child’s play.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“None of this is funny, Aaron.” All traces of humor vanish from his voice. “We’re doing what we have to do to survive. Thanks for taking the bullet for both of us.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Tristan actually laughs, taking a sip of his drink. There is some truth to his words. Agreeing to marry Caterina was our only remaining move. Keep the drive secure. Stay alive. Buy time to figure out our next play.

The drive claws at my thoughts like a locked door I can’t kick open. Tristan knows its contents but refuses to let me in. The deception grates against my already raw nerves.

I need to get inside that USB before I go completely insane.

For now, I have to focus on damage control and getting my house in order. Establishing some kind of boundaries in a situation where I have zero power. The one skill that’s defined my entire existence until a nightmare in designer dresses shattered everything.

Christ, listen to me. Like I’ve already surrendered. Like I’m some powerless puppet dancing to Mortelle’s tune.

“We need a good plan. The business. Zoe’s safety. One misstep, and she lands directly in the crossfire.”

“We’ve got this,” Tristan says, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “But you can’t control everything, Aaron. You never could.”

Bullshit. Control isn’t a preference, it’s oxygen. Has been ever since I was ten years old, watching my father’s unpredictable rage tear through our house like a tornado. Ever since I started hiding Zoe in my bedroom closet while glass exploded against walls downstairs.

Someone had to protect her from them. Someone had to love her when our parents couldn’t be bothered.

I promised myself I’d never let anyone hurt her again.

“Zoe can’t know what’s really happening here.”

“How do we manage that? She’ll recognize Caterina the second she sees her. There’s no hiding the fact that Via and Caterina are the same person.”

My hands drag through my hair, frustration boiling over. “That’s the whole fucking problem.”

“So what’s your brilliant solution?”

The million-dollar question. Zoe’s been flooding my phone with texts about Via’s sudden disappearance, worry bleeding through every message. Soon she’ll discover that her vanished friend is marrying her brother under a completely different identity.

“We control the narrative,” I decide, as I pace the kitchen. “We get one shot to sell this story. If Zoe starts asking the wrong questions, everything falls apart.”

Tristan nods, leaning forward. “What angle makes sense?”

“Caterina used the name ‘Via’ to escape her family’s reputation.

She wanted normality, separation from Mortelle’s shadow.

” The pieces start clicking together in my head.

“We met independently and formed a connection before I realized who she really was. When her father found out about us, he forced the engagement. Old-world values, old-world consequences.”

Tristan stares at me, eyebrows drawn together. “And she quit Blooms and disappeared from Zoe’s life because?”

“She knew she’d have to come clean eventually but didn’t want to do it over the phone. Maybe she was trying to figure out how to explain everything without hurting Zoe. She didn’t want to mix her work life with her personal situation.”

He considers this, rotating his glass between his fingers. “It could work. But you’ll need to make Caterina’s motivations sympathetic. Something Zoe would actually understand and forgive.”

“Protection,” I say immediately. “Caterina was protecting herself from her family’s reputation. Via was her escape hatch—a chance to build something real and normal.”

“That actually fits with what we know about the real Caterina. Her whole vigilante side mission, at least.”

I shoot him a sharp look. “Which Zoe never, ever finds out about.”

“Obviously.” Tristan finishes his scotch. “But we still have another problem. Zoe knows you and Via couldn’t stand each other. She’s bitched to me about it more than once. How her brother and best friend refuse to be in the same room.”

Shit. I’d almost forgotten that detail. Zoe spent months trying to get Via and me together, finally giving up out of sheer frustration. Come to think of it, she’s been pushing that agenda since our encounter at Dom’s hockey game.

“We say that was all an act. Misdirection. We were actually meeting in secret the whole time.”

“That’s a pretty massive lie,” Tristan points out. “And it makes both of you look untrustworthy as hell.”

“You got something better?”

Silence stretches between us. He just watches me, jaw set in that way that means he’s thinking hard.

“What if we tell a version that’s closer to the truth? You and Via didn’t get along because you’d already met her as Caterina. When you saw her at Zoe’s work, you were shocked and had to process how she’d lied to you about her identity.”

That’s not terrible. “So we’re playing up the betrayal angle?”

“More believable than some secret romance spanning months. It explains the rushed engagement, too. You discovered her real identity, worked through the complications, and decided to take the risk rather than lose her forever.”

“With her father pushing the timeline,” I add, layering in another element.

“Exactly. Mortelle’s pressure requires zero creative invention.”

This could actually work—close enough to reality without exposing Zoe to genuine danger.

“But there’s one more complication,” I say, my voice dropping.

“Dominik.”

Dominik Lewis. My oldest friend, professional hockey star, and the man who somehow managed to crack my sister’s heavily armored heart and is about to become family.

“Yeah. He won’t be as easy to convince as Zoe. He’s protective as hell when it comes to her. He’ll smell crap from a mile away if we’re not careful.”

“Then we need to get him on our side first,” I decide. “Give him enough truth that he backs our story.”

“How much truth are we talking about?”

“That Caterina’s father is dangerous. That this marriage protects our business interests and keeps everyone safe. That Zoe’s well-being depends on her staying in the dark about the details.”

Tristan nods, setting down his empty glass. “He’ll understand protecting Zoe. But we’ll need to swear him to secrecy, and I’m not sure he’ll be up for lying to her. We both know what happened the last time he kept something from her.”

“I’ll handle Dom,” I say with confidence I don’t actually feel. “But we need Caterina completely on board with this version. She has to sell it to Zoe convincingly.”

As if summoned by my thoughts, my phone buzzes. Caterina’s name on the screen.

Little Nightmare

Dress fitting tomorrow, 2pm. Bring your best fake smile. Father will be watching.

My jaw locks. Control’s already gone. No say in the timeline, the guest list, the fucking narrative. My world rewritten without permission.

I type back quickly:

Me

We need to talk about Zoe. I came up with a game plan.

Little Nightmare

Already handled. I’m on my way up. Let me do the talking.

Of course she already has a strategy. She’s been ten moves ahead of me since this fuckfest began.

“Everything okay?” Tristan asks, reading my expression.

“Caterina’s coming up and apparently wants to take point on the Zoe situation.”

“Do you trust her judgment on this?”

“Hell no, but I’m out of options and running out of time.”

Tristan studies me with that too-perceptive look that makes me want to punch something. “You know, for what it’s worth, I think you and Caterina might actually be well-matched.”

I snort. “A control freak and a psychopath? Match made in hell.”

“I’m not joking,” he says, which surprises me. “She matches your strategic thinking. Your stubborn determination. And from what I’ve seen, she doesn’t back down from a fight.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better about this situation?”

“She might turn out to be a better ally than you expect.”

I shake my head, rejecting the entire concept. The moment I start thinking of Caterina as anything other than an adversary, the last threads of my control will snap completely.

“Let’s focus on getting through tonight first,” I say, effectively shutting down that line of conversation. “One catastrophe at a time.”

Tristan doesn’t push, just pours himself another drink and raises his glass in a mock toast. “To your upcoming nuptials. May they be significantly less deadly than they appear.”

I don’t laugh. Can’t. The weight of what’s coming feels like it’s crushing my chest.

My phone buzzes again.

Zoe

On our way! Can’t wait to hear your big news. Dom says it better involve food.

Guilt slices deep. Previous lies to Zoe were minor, necessary. Things justified as protection.

This isn’t small. This isn’t necessary. This is dragging her into a nightmare she can’t comprehend.

The last time control slipped through my fingers, her tiny body crumpled down a flight of stairs, arm bending at angles no limb should ever form.

Our parents continued the abuse, withholding the love she deserved.

I was twelve. She was ten. My promise to keep her safe shattered along with her innocence.

Never again.

“Aaron.” Tristan’s voice cuts through the memory spiral. “Where’d you go just now?”

I blink. “Just thinking about what to tell Zoe.”

He doesn’t believe me, but lets it slide. Small victories.

“It’s going to be okay. We’ve all survived worse than this.”

The penthouse elevator chimes and my heart slams into overdrive. My sister is about to walk through those doors and discover I’m marrying her missing best friend. A woman living a double life. A woman whose father has threatened everyone I care about.

Tristan moves toward the foyer to greet them, but my feet stay rooted to the kitchen floor.

I catch my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows—a stranger stares back at me. Hollow-eyed. Beaten down. A man who’s been backed into a corner with no way out.

But still breathing.

And as long as I’m still breathing, we have time to find an escape route.

I throw back the rest of my drink just as the elevator doors slide open.

Showtime, Jackson. Don’t fuck this up.