WESLEY HUGHES

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I'll admit I freaked out a bit when I woke up the next morning—or, I guess, later that day would be more accurate—to find Manolo no longer in the bed beside me. My thoughts immediately went to worst-case scenarios: he waited until I fell asleep and left, he regretted it, he decided this was a mistake, he didn't want anything to do with me anymore.

I sat up too fast, my head still hazy from sleep, and scanned the room like I expected to find some kind of clue. His clothes were gone, which only made my stomach twist harder.

Shit.

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to ignore the way my chest ached. I shouldn't have expected anything different. Manolo wasn't the kind of guy to stick around. This was probably just a one-time thing to him. A way to blow off steam.

I told myself that, over and over, but it didn't stop the sting.

I was about to get up, to start gathering my clothes, when the door opened.

Manolo stepped inside, carrying two cups of coffee. His shirt was rumpled, his hair a mess, and for once, he looked almost—casual. I was used to the well-dressed, over-the-top luxury outfits he wore but he hadn't even bothered to do his hair today which was strange in itself.

He paused when he saw me sitting up, his brows lifting slightly. "You always wake up this paranoid?"

I exhaled, gripping the blanket a little tighter. "I thought you left."

Manolo snorted and walked over, holding out one of the cups. "I did. To get coffee."

I hesitated for half a second before taking it. My fingers brushed against his, and I tried not to focus on the way my skin still felt sensitive from last night. Or the way shifting even slightly sent a dull ache through my body.

"Thanks," I muttered, bringing the cup to my lips. I was hoping the heat would distract me, but I could still feel Manolo watching me.

His mouth twitched slightly. "You look sore."

I gave him a flat look. "No shit."

He laughed, actually laughed, and took a sip of his coffee. It was nice to hear. I was worried that after everything, he'd close up and behave differently but that clearly had been a mistake to think.

I cleared my throat, shifted under the blanket, and tried to focus on my coffee instead of the way my body protested every movement. "Didn't think you were the type to do morning-after coffee runs."

Manolo smiled over the rim of his cup. "Don't get used to it."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

He hummed, setting his cup on the nightstand before stretching, and I caught myself staring. It wasn't my fault—he was standing right there, all lean muscle and messy curls, looking way too comfortable in my space.

I forced myself to look away, focusing on my coffee like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

"So," Manolo said after a moment. "You gonna keep looking at me like you think I'm about to bolt, or are you gonna relax?"

I scowled. "I don't—" He arched a brow, and I groaned, rubbing a hand over my face. "Fine. Maybe I thought you'd be gone before I woke up."

Manolo tilted his head slightly, considering me. "If I was going to leave I'd have the decency to tell you first."

"So...are you?" I held his gaze. "Leaving still, I mean."

He sighed and leaned against the headboard. "I can't keep hiding here, Wesley. You saw the names. If I'm going to get any closer to Lionel, it'll be quite literally impossible for me to hide. People talk and it's one thing if they're talking about me. It's another if they're talking about you."

I frowned. It was the answer I expected but still...

"So, what? You pay off my debt and we just...pretend we don't know each other?"

"You move," he bluntly stated. "Start a new life and actually live. You stay out of trouble and forget about any of this."

I stared at him, fingers tightening around my coffee cup. Move. Start a new life. Forget any of this happened.

Like it was that simple.

The thought had crossed my mind multiple times over the years—of course, it had given my situation—but now it felt so...wrong. Maybe that wasn't the right word, but I knew I couldn't accept Manolo's offer so easily.

"Have you ever considered I don't want to forget you?" I asked.

"Don't go dropping a love bomb on me," he jokingly told me.

"Don't be an idiot we slept together once. You think that's enough for me to start declaring my undying devotion?" I scoffed, shaking my head. "I'm just saying, I don't want to pretend this didn't happen. That you didn't happen."

Manolo's expression flickered for just a second—something quick, something almost unsure—but it was gone before I could place it. He exhaled and leaned against the headboard, watching me with that same unreadable gaze.

"That's your choice," he finally said. "But it doesn't change mine."

I frowned, shifting slightly, wincing at the dull ache in my muscles. "So that's it, then? You're just gonna go after Lionel and hope you don't get yourself killed?"

"I don't hope, Wesley." Manolo's voice was calm, measured. "I plan."

I stared at him, searching for something—anything—that would tell me this wasn't as final as it sounded. But all I found was quiet certainty.

And it pissed me off.

I set my coffee down, gripping the sheets tighter. "You keep acting like this is just about you."

"It is just about me."

"Bullshit," I snapped. "You don't get to make decisions for me just because you think you know what's best. If you're going after Lionel, then I should—"

"No."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

Manolo sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You should get out while you still can."

"And do what?" I shot back. "Go play house somewhere else? Get a regular job and pretend I don't know what I know?"

"Yes."

The simplicity of his answer hit me harder than it should have.

I let out a hollow laugh, shaking my head. "You're unbelievable."

Manolo didn't react, just kept watching me, waiting.

I took a breath, trying to push down the frustration curling in my chest. "I'm not just going to disappear, Manolo. You can't ask me to do that."

"I can." His voice was quiet but firm. "And I am."

I clenched my jaw, looking away.

This was a losing battle, and we both knew it. But that didn't mean I had to like it.

"So, what? Was last night your way of saying goodbye then?"

"No," he spoke, lightly grabbing my wrist and placing a key in my hand. "This is my goodbye. I put all the money I promised you into a safe in your kitchen."

I stared down at the key in my palm but didn't say anything. I just inwardly sighed to myself as he finished his coffee, stood up, and moved toward the door. He wasn't wrong—this wasn't my fight and there was no logical reason for me to be trying so hard to keep him here. It wasn't like we owed each other anything. He wasn't my friend—sure as hell wasn't my boyfriend—so instead of fighting a losing battle, I watched him go. I didn't say anything, I just watched.

I don't know how long I sat there, staring at the door. It could've been minutes or hours. I did eventually get out of the bed though, because sitting around and rotting wasn't going to make him change his mind. I took a shower, washed away traces of last night from my body, detangled my blond hair, and tried to make myself look semi-presentable before I eventually had to head to work.

It felt wrong. It felt like there should be someone in my ear, talking about nothing of real importance, while I partially tuned out.

But the room was silent.

No sarcastic quips. No lazy observations. No voice dragged me back into the moment when my thoughts started spiraling. Just quiet.

I exhaled sharply and gripped the sink, staring at my reflection. My hair was still damp, curling slightly at the ends. There were faint marks on my skin—ones Manolo had left, ones I hadn't been able to completely scrub away. A reminder.

I looked away.

It was fine. I was fine. This wasn't the first time someone walked away, and it sure as hell wouldn't be the last.

I got dressed, forcing my body through the motions, and just as I was about to leave I heard the faint sound of a knock on the door. I paused and listened again to determine whether I was imagining it or not, but another low knock followed it.

Maybe he came back?

I moved to the door with more speed than usual and I unlocked it, expecting—hoping—to see Manolo standing there. However, instead of Manolo, a man with a slightly lighter complexion, similar dark brown eyes, and a more restrained posture stood in his place.

Teodoro Raymond.

I remembered him from my meeting with Boreal. Unlike Manolo, whose presence always seemed to demand attention, Teodoro carried himself with quiet control. His features were sharp but less overtly expressive, his dark brown eyes carrying a weight that didn't quite match the easy confidence his brother exuded. His hair was neatly cut, shorter than Manolo's wild curls, styled in a way that made it clear he preferred order over chaos. He was dressed in a crisp, well-fitted jacket over a simple button-up, the kind of effortless refinement that made him look more put together than he had any right to be at this hour.

His gaze flicked over me, lingering just a second too long, taking in the mess I probably looked like before settling back on my face.

"You're Wesley, right?" His voice was smooth, level, almost detached.

"Yes?" I said though it came out more like a question than anything. "What are you—"

He didn't give me a chance to finish speaking. He pushed past me, muscling his way into my house, and said one sentence without bothering to look at me.

"We need to talk."

AN: Act one is done! We still have quite a bit left of this story to get through but I hope everyone is enjoying it so far. Now we can get into the more interesting parts!