Pt. 1
Jordan 

The days moved quietly, without consequence. Jordan had worked, so the days didn’t feel like they passed slowly. Deadlines filled the hours. Rewrites. He wasn’t behind on anything. The apartment was clean, his inbox organized. He slept, ate, wrote, poured himself another drink when the evenings stretched too long. Everything functioned exactly as it was supposed to.

Somewhere in the middle of it, he texted Nico. Just to check. He didn’t linger on it, typed it, sent it, set the phone down, and moved on. The screen stayed quiet. 

Sophie had come by once. She worked in PR, someone he’d met through Verena at a holiday event last year. Slender, well-dressed, always on her phone. She wasn’t someone he called often, but when he did, she came without hesitation. They drank a little, talked even less. She knew better than to ask about his work or what he’d been doing lately. He liked that about her. He liked Sophie for a lot of the same reasons he didn’t think about her much. She never said no. Never asked why he’d disappeared for weeks, never questioned his excuses when he finally reached out again. She laughed when he blamed deadlines, nodded like she understood when he said he’d been “swamped.” There was a certain appeal to someone who didn’t expect more than what he felt like giving. 

When Sophie stepped into the shower, Jordan stayed where he was, propped against the headboard with the sheets still creased around his waist. Her perfume lingered in the air, a little too sweet. He didn’t love it.

He picked up his phone from the nightstand and unlocked it. The last text to Nico sat there. No read receipt, just the dull timestamp beneath it, sent two days ago. He typed a new message: 

Still ignoring me? 

Nico didn’t answer that one either.

Sophie left sometime past midnight. At the door, she smiled and told him not to wait so long to call next time. He lied when he told her he wouldn’t.

The following day Jordan sat at his desk, the soft tap of keys filling the silence as he moved between two open documents, rewrites on one and notes on the other, when the doorbell rang. 

He wasn’t expecting anyone. For the briefest second, his mind reached for a possibility he didn’t name. One that dissolved the moment he opened the door.

Disappointment settled in his chest like sediment.

His mother stood perfectly centered in the hallway, as if she’d arranged herself for a portrait. Her coat was draped over one arm, pearl earrings catching the morning light. The bun at the nape of her neck was sharp enough to slice fruit. She looked more like someone arriving for a deposition than a visit.

“Verena said you’ve been difficult to reach,” she remarked, her voice free of real concern. Without waiting for invitation, she stepped past him, heels clicking softly against the floor as she entered.

Jordan didn’t move to stop her. “I’ve been working.”

“On another one of your stories?” she said, casting a glance around the apartment. “I never understood why you chose to write under that ridiculous name. It sounds like a stage magician at a children’s party.”

“Well, that’s the fallback.” 

His mother didn’t laugh. Jordan walked past her into the kitchen, didn’t offer coffee, didn’t ask what she wanted. Just reached for the bottle on the counter and poured himself a drink.

“It’s ten in the morning,” she pointed out, eyes on the glass in his hand. 

“Noted.” Jordan didn’t bother turning around.

“I suppose some habits run in the family,” she added quietly, like a stray thought she let slip on purpose. “Denial, especially.”

Jordan drew in a slow breath, lowering himself onto the couch with the kind of practiced calm that read more like defiance. “I forgot,” he said, settling back, “self-awareness was always your strong suit.”

She followed him into the room, but didn’t sit. Instead, she stood just behind the armchair, one hand resting lightly on its back, like she was only stopping by on her way out.

“I didn’t come here to argue. There’s the charity event in two weeks. The foundation dinner. They want the whole family there.”

“No.” 

“I didn’t say it was optional.” She smoothed a crease from her coat like the entire conversation was just another chore to get through. “You don’t have to enjoy it. You just have to be seen.”

These events were everything Jordan hated. Manufactured elegance, too many cameras, conversations that weren’t really conversations. Just transactions in disguise. Everyone in tailored suits, pretending not to drink too much, pretending not to care who was watching when that was the only thing they cared about. He remembered the last one he’d attended: the heat of the lights, the dull ache behind his eyes, the fake laugh Verena gave on cue, their mother’s hand like a clamp on his arm in front of the photographers. The whispered reminders, stand straighter, smile softer, speak less. 

“Wear black. And bring someone appropriate. Or no one at all.”

Jordan didn't respond. 

“And you’re not to drink before the event,” she added, like she was reminding him to iron his shirt. “Last time, it was obvious.”

That got his attention. Jordan looked up, one brow lifting. “Obvious to who?” 

“To anyone paying attention. You don’t hide things as well as you think you do.”

She didn’t wait for a response, clearly not in the mood anymore for Jordan to argue. Already halfway to the door, she tossed the next line over her shoulder. “Seven sharp. Don’t be late.”

Then she was gone. The door shut behind her. Jordan stayed on the couch, suddenly not in the mood to work anymore.

Two weeks after Nico had knocked on his door, Jordan tried calling. He wasn’t sure why he was insisting. It wasn’t about chasing him down or making a scene. It was about being responsible, he thought. It was fine that Nico had decided he didn’t want to have anything to do with Jordan anymore. Jordan had done this before, let people fade out, let the distance do the work for him. Still, Nico was a kid. Young and inexperienced, messy in ways that weren’t entirely his fault. Jordan didn’t owe him anything, but there was no reason to make it harder on him than it already was. 

That’s what Jordan told himself when he grabbed his keys and got in the car. Not the one Alfred used to drive him around, but the silver one he liked to drive himself. 

It was a Sunday. The kind of slow, stretched-out afternoon where the city moved unhurriedly. Daylight poured over the streets, families out walking, kids kicking a football down the sidewalk, the occasional ring of a café door swinging open. 

As he kept driving, the neighborhoods shifted, trading high-rises and polished storefronts for low apartment blocks, pressed close together, narrow balconies stacked like shelves. It wasn’t run-down, just worn. Lived-in. The kind of area that functioned fine but didn’t make it onto postcards. Not somewhere he’d ever had a reason to pass through before. The only reason he even knew where to go was because Alfred had driven this route before, late at night. 

Inside the building, Jordan had to check the board by the mailboxes to know which floor. When he reached the right floor, he slowed, eyes moving along the row of doors until he found it, the name taped beside the buzzer in handwritten letters. He pressed the button and took a half-step back, hands slipping into the pockets of his coat. A woman appeared in the doorway as it opened. 

She looked younger than Jordan expected. Very short, barely reaching his chest, with dark hair pulled back in a loose braid, skin warm-toned and olive, and familiar features that clicked into place the second Jordan saw them. The resemblance was impossible to miss. 

“Hi,” Jordan said, offering a smile. “Sorry to bother you. My name is Jordan. I’ve been helping Nico with some music stuff. Recording, mostly. He left something behind the other day. I was in the area. Figured I’d drop by, save him the trip.” 

Her face lit up the second he mentioned music. “Oh! You’re helping him with that? That’s so nice of you.” She stepped back, holding the door open wider. “My Nico is really good, you know? And I don’t just say that because I’m his mom, he really is. Can I get you something to drink?” She was already moving toward the kitchen area. “Water? Coffee? We’ve got juice somewhere… I think.” She laughed lightly, brushing a hand over the counter as she spoke. Before Jordan could answer, she added, “He’s in his room. Down the hall.”

Jordan declined the offer politely, thanked her, and made his way down the hall. He knocked, knuckles tapping against the wood, before he pushed the door open without waiting for a response.